Funny Times

Slaughter in Tunisia.

The brink of Greek economic collapse.

Janner to be prosecuted for child sex abuse after the DPPs incompetence.

Looking forward to 'It's Been A Funny Old Week' with Jason Manford.

Afternotes

It's been 10 weeks since my final shift as a Police Doctor.

I was taking a break from some computer work and as the evening brightened I decided to walk the 10 minutes to the nearby fair.
It was 6pm on an increasingly warm Friday evening. The Hoppings is advertised as the largest in Europe and in writing this down I had to remind myself of how it got its unusual name.

There are a number of hypotheses. Perhaps it was that the travellers wore old sack-like tops and pants, or it was a dance of merry old England, or clothing infested with fleas that make people hop about itching from the bites.

I walked around for half an hour. But with nobody between my legs on the log flume, and nobody pinned to the wall with me on the Rotor, or rolling their eyes with me at the possibility of an unlikely win in the amusement arcade, or joining me in rueing the absence of the horseracing machine, I soon made my way back.

I crossed a well trodden dog-ear diagonal back across the moor.

But I was complacent.
I was thinking of other stuff.

I barely noticed someone in an old sack-like top and pants jumping and hopping in my peripheral vision, like a dance from Merrie Olde England. By the time I had lifted my head, my attention was drawn to someone in dirty sweats who was perhaps was going to ask me the way to the fair or the hour of day or something. If I realised there was a fair amount of gurgle at the bottom of this chest, then perhaps I briefly wondered how I might help. But this was all time wasted. The spit rose in his chest and delivered itself with laser accuracy to my left eye, with plenty left over for my cheek and chin. It was an admirable level of precision for someone struggling to walk in a straight line. A tall boy-man of 17, both aggressive and aggressively ginger had decided to reward my casual stroll with what is traditionally known as a large gob.

He then invited me for a fight in the traditional way by drawing his arms behind his shoulders, as though pushing his tits out.
Goading. Inviting. Requesting.
But his physique rather looked like that of wiry boxer stroke fighting machine.
I weighed up his chances as I stood my ground.
There were two of them (did I mention that?). I more than had then covered in terms of 'years on the planet' but I decided that wasn't a great parameter to inform my decision.

His friend goaded me repeatedly and called me a 'little shit'. Which was as odd as it was mildly amusing because I was a foot taller than him, and I wasn't wearing my heels. It was clearly a phrase with which he was decidedly familiar. And not least.... I am actually not a little shit. Many things I am, but a little shit is very much not one of them. And you can quote me on that.
So his observation was, let's say, disappointing...but which I mean not one I could take to the bank. Not a blog cue, let's leave it at that.

I considered a free punch. It's not often you get one, is it? But I realised that the only moves I really knew were from The Karate Kid. I'd already used 'Wax Off' to get the spit off my face and I felt uncertain whether 'The Crane' would really deliver when I needed it to.
I stood my ground for a while, but I quickly bored of their act.

A little push on my left shoulder tried vainly to draw me into a duel.
Not that he retreated and not that he tired or retired. Far from it. He was getting closer. But curiously I felt 'inner ginger' didn't seem to really "want" to start a fight. He wanted me to start it.  You'd never guess it but I just felt his heart wasn't in it.

Normally I'd happily oblige but, if he wasn't truly up for it, why should I make the effort to meet him halfway?
When I do fight, it would be for a purpose.
I couldn't think of one.
Put it down to a failure of imagination.

I decided to walk away, although a Kenny Rogers song, or two, gnawed at my soul.
And neither was 'Ruby, Don't Take Your Love To Town'.

He careered from side to side as he made his way towards the fair.
Should I report him? Should I go home? If I complain, isn't that just causing everybody an awful lot of work for very little purpose?
What exactly are you supposed to do? Just wash and go?

While I thought about it for a couple of minutes, I talked to 2 girls who'd seen the whole thing.
I even asked to borrow their mobile phone as I thought of reporting to the police. But they didn't seem to notice that I'd asked.
They did point out that the pair, clearly drunk and likely intoxicated on legal highs, started approaching a couple of children. I looked up and saw him fist pump a small child in front of his parents/guardians who might well have thought of him as an amiable drunk.
And if the parents felt differently, they wouldn't have given Kenny Rogers a second thought.

But they were not amiable drunks.

I decided to go home. Take it on the chin. Walk away.

I got 4 yards.
Maybe 5 in the direction of home.
Each step felt a little muddier, a little slower, a little deeper, a little worse. More wrong.

I turned.
I decided to finish him.
Two minutes buys you a lot of strategy.
The next 5 yards were easier. I was getting greener.

The task in play was to follow him and get him arrested.
I walked past the girls I'd just left and told them of my new plan.
'Good luck', they wished.
OK ...where, I thought, are Dick, Ann, George and Timmy the dog? No matter.

I followed, keeping a safe-ish distance. I was pretty confident I could do that. I never missed an episode of The Equalizer.
As they waited to cross the main road, I ducked behind a tree. I was pretty confident I could do that too. I never missed an episode of Secret Squirrel....or Inch High Private Eye.
They met up with 8 equally uncouth friends, at least one of whom had a tattoo so I knew I had the right people.

If I crossed the main road before them I could snitch to the cops whose location I'd previously clocked on leaving the fair and point out the 6 foot ginger streak. Then they could choose whether to break his face or politely request an interview.
Either was fine with me.

It worked pretty well. Only by the time I reached the police, they had him on the floor. His short friend was goading the boys in black and challenging them, so they poured his cider away. He was mouthing off so much he managed to get himself an unnecessary arrest for the ride.
I was ready with all the evidence required to send them to the Gulag. They'd be so sick of mining salt after this, I knew.

The ginger fella was on the floor getting cuffed (and stuffed). The police had their hand down his trousers recovering a thinly concealed bottle of cider, while he complained about them touching his bollocks, before falling asleep waiting for the paddy wagon.
I have got to be honest.
It was a trip down memory lane.

I left my address to give a statement and offered to go to court so that he could be sent away away for 30 or 40 years, I wasn't  sure what was customary for these offences.

Apparently a counsellor will call me tomorrow, to see how distressed I am.
It's an initiative by Vera Baird the Police Commissioner who blocked the access of vulnerable people in custody to trained physicians and was recently accused of corruption for donating a large sum of money to a charity which she co-directs along with the Chief Constable who left the force this year following bullying allegations. These ladies are both completely innocent of course, I thought, as someone flung a hog bap over the lost child station.

The police as ever did a fantastic job. An officer came round to take a statement from me at home half an hour later. And my Crane material really landed.

The lesson of the day? I've become soft in my old age.
I realise that after years of seeing patients in cells, spitting, shitting, sniffing and tripping, I'd always been able to hide behind a uniform as I studiously avoided a twatting. The police have made me soft.
But in civvy street I was bumping into the same people, unprotected.

The visiting police officer asked me if I was going to be traumatised by the event.
The fact is I don't think I gained an extra point on my pulse during the whole thing. Perhaps I should have, but I don't control my autonomic nervous system. That's why it's autonomic. If the Pointer Sisters taught us nothing else, they taught us that.
It was just bewilderingly stupid.

Tomorrow, Victim Support will phone me
I'll try not to keep them too long.

Addendum: At the magistrates court on 2 Jul 2015, he pleaded guilty to threatening behaviour and assault by beating which earned him an Absolute Discharge. "This indicated that the court considered the most important issue was the appearance that the defendant at the court, the conviction and the formal recording that the defendant had committed a criminal offence"

Review of Seussical at Joseph Rowntree Theatre, York

It's been 30 years since I've been to the Joseph Rowntree Theatre, and it really hasn't changed. It's an airy space with a wide stage and the sort of rake which keeps every seat leaf-free and with a great view of a primarily colourful and professional set. Welcome to Whoville.

As an almost middle-aged man with the vaguest of awareness of the complex or possibly just slightly bonkers work of Dr Seuss, I was most relieved to dodge an earful of gnarled American accidents. (A visit to the same theatre to see a production of South Pacific in the early 80s still occasionally wakes me up in a cold sweat).

Here, the man with the plan is a cat with a hat. Or to give him his full title, The Cat In The Hat. He is played with the sort of charisma that no 8-year-old boy has the right to have, charmingly overseeing proceedings with a mix of Willy Wonka and a young Alan Cumming, but with added (and impressive) treble range.

The staging delivers a coherence to the Pratchett-esque plot, and permits the audient to let a lot of the many words slip by and just enjoy the ride and the simple underlying message.

Seussical is a show that keeps the attention with its psychedelic set and gutsy performances, all supported by a live orchestra, or at least a bobbing head in the orchestra pit, depending on where you are sitting. It is a musical with a relentless musical drive. There is no pausing for chit-chat as an enthused cast appears and disappears, crowds and congregates to support the capable cat. Dancers who could actually dance, singers who could actually sing, and adult actors who could actually grow wacky facial hair. People (genuinely) of all ages.

The cat with the scat purs his links as Whoville showcases its array of performers - I really enjoyed the clarity of the punchy six-strong front- of-stage chorus who were right on the money to help knock things merrily along.

Seussical is a speedboat that you ride to the end of a show that doesn't overstay its welcome (as they might say in theatrical reviews).

It will most likely leave people of all ages with a smile on their face and at least one earworm and possibly two, for their troubles.

And hats off to the gentleman with the dickie bows at the door. 

Someday all theatregoers will be greeted that way once more.

Beating the traffic

I started listening to movie soundtrack in the 1980s. I really should do it more.

Orchestral music designed to conjure emotion at point-blank and deliver excitement on the head of a pin was much more accessible to me than classical tosh.

So I started looking at who was writing the soundtracks.

And I felt at the time as though James Horner wrote every single one of them.

His was the name that always came back.

It won't hurt that he scored Star Trek II and III, Cocoon and Commando (although it didn't fill me with joy today when I saw on Wikipedia that the Star Trek II director couldn't afford him by the time Star Trek VI came around). And I am surprised that having written that Titanic nonsense that he was only worth £15 million. But that's Hollywood. Actors rule.

I didn't realise he'd done the score to The Mask of Zorro, but I could hum it for you. (I really wanted to spell hum with two emms there -  what's happening to me?)

Horner just 'died himself' in a plane crash at the age of 61.

He joined a happy long list of 2 seater-plane pilots. 

It's a cliche. In his case a recurring theme.

I say "died himself" because there is no suggestion of suicide but he did it to himself.

I read these small plane crashes always with a "Yep..what did you expect?". 

Not everyone is Harrison Ford. 

It takes Indiana Jones to survive them.

So you can tell everybody you're thinking about his loved ones

You can tell everybody your thoughts are with his family.

You can reel off as many of those lies as make you feel better.

They are cliches too. I don't know if he has loved ones. I don't know if he has family.

For me my thoughts are with my discovery of him. 

And how his profession enhanced our lives.

61 - one score and ten left in him unsung. 

And for what?

Night Terrors

Why are people so frightened of expressing opinions nowadays.

It seems such a shame. Life is so much more interesting when somebody does take a position. It's even been made into a type of therapy - dialectical therapy. 

The concept of duel and debate has defined our constitution with two sides of Parliament and the argument that results. Three's a crowd after all. 

But people are scared to express opinions nowadays. It is not just social media - where somebody can be crucified anonymously on Twitter. It is not just Trip Advisor when cowards pretend  attack buildings or enterprises as they plunge knives into real hearts, real souls and drain the lifeblood from an individual. They have that blood on their hands.

These are all interfaces where people can be cruel without thinking of themselves as cruel people. But it reaches beyond this into friends and families. If you can't talk about everything, then you suppress. 

Suppression, it can be argued, is never really any good.  

Expression on the other hand means we can turn an argument round if it appears faulty. Or catch a paedophile if he turns up to a sting organised through the dark net. Guilty by expression is proper guilty. Guilty by thought - well as far as I am concerned that is what innocent is. I planned a jewel heist this evening. What are you going to do about it? 

With expression comes clarity and when you are dealing in words alone expression is everything.

I'm not 100% about every opinion I may articulate. I may articulate it simply to be playful or provocative or funny. Who are you to assume I mean what I say? Who the bloody hell are you? Get over yourself. Grow up!

You can sign pretty much any controversial comment off with a smile. 

That smile may not appear on Twitter or Facebook or even in this written word. But it might well be there. What's the crime - Omitting an emoticon?

I love Hitler. Are you offended? Did you see the smile? Did you see the wink? Get over it.

I eat small babies for breakfast on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Do I really need to add on..."not really". Do I really need to hear you say back..."well it wasn't funny anyway". 

Why is this all about you? 

The fact is I could make both those lines appropriate in quite a few contexts. But I am not here to teach. Well, here maybe, but not outside this weblog. Not when I am off the clock.

People need to explore their own reactions,  not be overworried about somebody else's. So that's the point isn't it? People don't express themselves because they are so worried what somebody not just might think but may well articulate. 

That person may be a neighbour, an employer, a potential employer or somebody you might want to call you racist or sexist or some other *ist they haven't come up with yet. 

So what do you do? Don't express yourself.  Just choose to be fearful and reach for the anxiolytic.

I don't love Hitler. His domination scared millions of people into not expressing themselves.

People were terrorised into silence, even denial of their own seed. But it occurred to me to write this not just as a general point but as a specific point.

I was thinking that nobody could really say something that I would find offensive.

I've given you a couple of examples there, with the shoe on the other foot. The idea of me finding you offensive saying such things would be slightly offensive. But in fact it is so odd, I would find it funny that you thought it of me.

An argument you offer on the other hand that I disagree with is an interesting conversation waiting to be had. As long as neither of us get angry or upset or  "become too judgemental. 

And there's another word - judgemental. 

As I make my judgement of the situation (because we are all 'judgemental' - nice definition) it is much more likely to be the potential offendee who is going to be 'judgemental' - nasty definition. 

In the traditional way - the way I am required to fear. 

The thing is that I'm just not one of those people who has ever come up with the phrases "Guess what he said" "Guess what she said", "You know what she said next?", "You know what he did then?".

I wonder if you could speculate as to the gender of the people who might say things like that. I leave that to you. 

I am not a sexist. There are very few words that you can say to me that I won't look upon or consider with a mild amusement,  even if they're not funny. Amusement is the interrogative process I generally use, either to generate a creative counter-argument or something else. 

So what I'm getting at is I suppose is this. 

Say what you like. 

Say what you think. 

Talk to me. You have nothing to fear from me. 

If you have just killed a man, I will tend your wounds. 

If you've just punched a dog, I will try and work out why you were angry. 

If you want to harm yourself, I will tell you I care and mean it. 

When you're in the same room as me, you are safe.

(This entry was a 7 minute stream of consciousness before I turned out the light last night, transcribed verbatim by software with only punctuation added manually).

Fashioned

There's nothing wrong with being a little bit old-fashioned.

I'm a little bit old-fashioned myself.

But the difference with me is I'm 'retrospective chic'.

Those other idiots are just out of date.

In praise of newspapers

I'm not saying take a newspaper every day. 

But the brain is about inputs and outputs.

We need fresh inputs to stimulate us.

And we need them delivered in a reasonably random way that is relevant to modern life.

You're not necessarily going to get that from the feeds you select on your mobile phone. Because you selected them.

(Although I'd accept Twitter may well be a pretty useful signposter of stuff you'd never have found).

You will get to a large extent from books but not with the serrated edge edge of what's going on in the world. (And that may be no bad thing).

You will get it from conversations with other people but not the people who spend more time looking at their phone than they do listening. They can only repeat for you...relay. 

That may be handy but they don't add value. 

They don't work out the subtext, the process, the points of light, flair and subtlety. The art of life. They offer a triumph of comms but a failure of communication.

They are people who are not with people but have people located nearby, accessorized..annexed. Ghosts.

Why not take a newspaper? 

Don't waste too much time reading it for god's sake. I am not recommending more than one weekend paper per week to flick through so you can interrogate yourself on your opinion of the day. 

Work something out.

Ask yourself what a story means to you, what it tells you about what's going on outside your front door or outside your shores, inform what you feel about life. Your life perhaps or modern life in general.

Few things do that as well as a newspaper and a paper paper facilitates you kicking back, looking up and away, tapping your pencil on your teeth and wondering what it all means....in the brief moments you would otherwise have clicked on a cat video.

Then when you are done, get it in the blue bin as soon as you can.

Timedrops - a poem

When did our fortress fall?

I don't remember our last chance

Was it at that Winter ball

When we first forgot to dance?

And I sat on Martin's knee

And kissed him on the tongue 

And I let him run his hand up

Had our discontent begun?

And I saw a look I'd never seen

Was it then my song was sung?

Or did it start much earlier?

Was it what the stork had brung?

Friends would see the joy in us

Before the real came knocking

Before we signed away our youth

And sent our sparkle packing

What happened to the giddiness

When we could barely breathe?

When moving up was settling down

Was it then it took our leave?

And all we thought and felt and held 

Toppled to the ground.

How was it all so different then?

Before we learned to frown.

Double standards

I don't care for people who parade around in Lycra and do half-marathons.
Or full marathons for that matter.

To be honest, I don't really like people who do the 100 metres or even the 200 metres.

But it's just a personal preference.
I'm not a racist.



Thank you very much.

Passover

I'm not going to pretend I'm pleased about missing out on the Queen's Honours list.

Again.

And yes, I know there's always New Year.

But... Van Morrison and Lenny Henry??

Really?

Van effing Morrison. What did he get it for? Services to being a miserable bastard?

Okay, I like Brown Eyed Girl. 

But Lenny effing Henry. 

What was that award? ABC? Anything but Comedy?

Talk about salt to the wound.

The sooner I complete my 50 years as a selfless, lovable, lollipop lady the better.

I think the community will agree. 

It can't come soon enough.

This is an appeal on behalf of Bernard Hill

Bernard's mouth is very dry. He's been walking miles to voice-over studios in every corner of the land for over 70 years.

Bernard Hill has done every single voice-over for every dubious cause. Ever.

If there's a starving child in Africa that a camera crew is keen to film rather than feed, Bernard will be all over it. He  does not let the tens of thousands of pounds spent on the advert which would feed a village for months worry him.

If there's a nice looking animal you can pretend to "adopt", stop.
Don't do it without calling Bernard Hill first.

Flies around an African child? Bernard Hill

Children with some make-up around their eyes? Bernard Hill.

For God's sake everybody, look very sad! It's Bernard Hill.

For a mixture of Merseyside monotony and highly saleable melancholy, for pity's sake... Call Bernard Hill.

Please.. 

Call Bernard Hill now.

You may remember him in full vigour in Shirley Valentine or Boys from the Blackstuff.

But now Bernard is thirsty.

Very thirsty indeed.

Bernard hasn't had a drink of water since he came into the studio four minutes ago.

He's worked intensively for almost 40 seconds, and he's got at least another 30 to go.

Please help.

£1.50 will buy him a Fruit Shoot.

Just a pound will get him a branded bottled water from the Coca-Cola company.

For £3 a month, we can keep Bernard fully hydrated.

Don't tell him to drink tap water.

It's Bernard Hill.

Please.

Call now.

[Remember....Hill, not Cribbins. 

They look a bit similar. But sound totally different].

Tim's Shoe Fiddle

I had a brief dream last night featuring Tim Rice and Elton John (towards the end of last night I believe).

I can't think of anything immediately punchy related to the Circle of Life so pay attention and I will bring this baby home as soon as I can.

He was opposite me at a big oak table, as though we were in a library (Elton was off to the right and not really involved). He told me in that calm Countdown way of his...

"I bought a new pair of shoes recently. They cost $848".

"Wow, OK", I probably said.

"Yes, they were nice though", he continued. "I think they was worth blowing the departmental budget on".

That's odd I thought.... and then I thought... actually Tim that is quite droll.

(And this from a guy who wrote "although I'm dressed up to the nines, at sixes and sevens with you". So you can see my expectations were not high).

So I told him.

And he agreed.

Knock It Off

aRRGH.

dON'T YOU HATE IT WHEN YOU LEAVE CAPS lOCK ON

aNNOYING.

vERY ANNOYING 

iNDEED

Hi, Cal!

​

...and Justice for all

I think we need to combine Springwatch and Crimewatch.

The sooner we get some of those magpies,cuckoos and sticklebacks behind bars the better.

Come on, general public, there must be a few eagle-eyed hawks out there.

Don't make us wait for the Channel 5 dramatisation .... When Thrushes Attack

Or some BBC3 Stacey Dooley Presents Pigeon Porn effort.

I know a seagull who once nicked my chips.

He's going to be first up against the wall.

Part 2 - The Gender Agenda

And she replied....

There may well be many reasons that woman might want to lead or a guy want to follow. They may prefer to dance the non-traditional role, or they may want to improve their dance by understanding the dance from the other role. I dance both roles, which has really improved my dancing. Leading and following feels very different and I get that variety during an evening of dancing. And it means I can always get up and dance, be it lead, follow or solo.


Perfectly reasonable reply.
It even took me a while to realise that it totally misses the point.
And I'm not as stupid as you are.

There's no mention of gender.
I'm perfectly happy to follow. You'll often find me 10 yards behind the old ball and chain on a Saturday afternoon, or standing outside Dorothy Perkins, rolling my eyes at the other poor unfortunate morons.

It's not about showing women respect. That's why we have Christmas.
That is why the baby Jesus gave us Milk Tray. And Fry's Chocolate Cream. I could go on.

It's not about gender at all.
It's about communication.

So I communicated...back

It's not the lead-follow. There is no problem getting everybody to lead or to follow.  You could set that up with a bingo ticket of who is doing what.

I do improv. We follow all the time. We lead all the time. Gender has no issue. There is no ego, sexism or racism but this is partner dance. The instructor calls the shots. An extreme would be to get the men dancing together and just the women together - why not do that? 

There are many reasons why.

It makes it look more about agenda than gender. 
It maybe wasn't but it needed a tweak to ensure everybody's comfort. That's job number one. The Blues can hang till that's done.


My Mum gets sick of having to dance with women. I'll ask her what she thinks of pairing the men up... and then retire from the phone by a few inches...

I got away with it. When it was my turn to dance with smelly old man, I pretended my ingrowing toenail was playing up and sat out for 30 seconds while somebody else took one for the team. 
(There was a slight license there. The men weren't smelly as far as I could smell from my distance. Just an alcoholic woman who made your eyes burn with fumes of vodka and an unidentified mixer).

I continued... (I'm just including this for information now about what I've learnt)
The flexibility of lead-follow is definitely a cardinal..the cardinal... difference to understand in Blues, without precedent for me (and maybe others). Good, the men have carried that one for too long. Its hard work. In fact it's largely the way it needs to be for flow. I reckon it's not chance that that's the way most dances play out. Not sexist, just the best way to finally get women to do as they are bloody well told.


She'd informed me there was solo dancing in the blues too.......

I responded.

Hmm...so there's solo as well ! .. I can't find anyone on youtube making that look good...
I have found three categories, 70s disco sidesteppers, excruciating posers, and hardcore African junglers.
Frequently accompanied by a hysterical baying crowd. Many of whom may possibly benefit from a punch. And not a fruity one. One with a base of chin where someone arrives with ice.

Its OK-ish but defining fusion even at its most generous, it gets pretty scrappy and loses its identity, for me. 
Where identity leads....charm, grace and impact follow.

Incorporation of solo moves must be the way to go..but breaking into solos the way some American youtube instructors do it is like introducing divorce half way through a marriage. Then trying to patch it up to get to the end of the song so you can complete the contract with the minimum of bloodshed and retain whatever dignity is musterable. 
It doesn't scan. 
It breaks mood. 
It's a failure of communication.
Pretty much like using a word like 'musterable'. Although technically correct, it's hardly acceptable.

That's not to say intensity doesn't need punctuation, just that we Brits need to show 'em how.


Then I realised what you've just realised. I'd spent so much time writing the e-mail, that I had to call it a blog to justify it, stop drinking Rioja, and go to bed.

Goodnight.

Part 1 - Blue Nights

I'm a blues dancer.

Okay, I've been to one lesson.
Get lost.
Who made you Bruno Toniolo?

It was a small firm crowd on top of a pub I used to frequent as a student in a regular Friday evening which followed a weekly faculty meeting, the sort sponsored by somebody puts on a barrel of Fed special, King of Beers (ahem).
And there was an American instructor, guesting from the West Coast.
As she had a strange accent that I hadn't heard on the Anglesey Ferry, and she didn't look as though she'd just stolen my hubcaps (credit to Ken Dodd), or taking a photograph of some fucking rainbow on the Isle of Skye, I assumed it wasn't the British West Coast she was originating from. But, to be honest with you I didn't give a monkeys. I wasn't there to make friends. I'm not social.  I can prove it. Even my friends don't like me.
I was there to learn how to learn a task.
And acquit in a semi-adequate manner.
Are you happy now, Craig Revel fucking Horwood?

(Note to self: no Rioja after midnight)

So I went to the class,

Blues .... not the modern stuff in this clip which I rather like..

Apparently this too counts as modern blues dancing.
(I'm just learning that modern blues dancing doesn't need the blues.. and that ain't no bad thing, mama! The dog will certainly be relieved and it really makes me feel as though don't absolutely have to paint that porch swing this year.)

I did find one thing that was very odd..(apart from an instructor who covered her feet with trousers that look like two floaty fabric bags, so it was hard to see her feet).

This is what happened.... and I can't explain it unless it was some American Politically Correct thing.

"Who wants to lead?" she said.
At this point there's just a few more women than there was men.
And a few of the women put their hand up.
So the women started dancing with the women.
Leaving some of the men to dance with the men.

I have to say I wondered if I walked into some sort of lesbian birthing-pool surrogate-mother men-hating annual night out or menstrual get-together , and three or four pussy-whipped geriatric men had been sent out of the house, because the girls were coming round to watch Dirty Dancing.
Actually...swap out Dirty Dancing for... I don't know... what movies did chicks like.... something with cancer in.... Beaches? I haven't seen it but it's almost certainly features something as entertaining as terminal disease.

But it turns out that it wasn't some sort of "Why men are bastards and always will be!" workshop.
I had in fact got the right night after all and it was a Blues class above a local pub.

There is always a slight gender imbalance in every class in every genre, sometimes one way sometimes the other. It doesn't matter. Nobody comes in pairs. But to create one by pairing up women unnecessarily was very strange, you might say antisocial even. (Which would normally suit me just fine).

But it became obvious to me that this is a male led partner dance.
It is really. But also it's not really. It's complicated.
But whether you're leading or following, you might as well do it with somebody of the opposite gender if they happen to be in the same room, Rather than with grandad Geordie from down the road.

I was perplexed. It made me feel like the instructor thought traditional dancing was 'sexist'.
The random reader (there aren't any) may have speculated that political correctness is not my "thing".

So I e-mailed the boss. (The boss of the event. Not of me).

And she replied .....

but good night for now.....

Threesomes

As a nation we can seemingly overlook the overt guilt of the central
banking system and FIFA. (Powww...take that!).

But we British must be experts at finding inner guilt.
It is the only way of explaining the pangs I get if I don't have three
mustards on the go.

The Cosmos beat this into me recently when I open my pantry doors.
It's hard to talk about but it all came to a head with an event that
happens slightly more frequently than the passing of Hayley's Comet
but considerably less frequently than a total solar eclipse.

I was coming to the end of my English mustard and I was already on the
last dregs of my Dijon. A double whammy you might think.
But no!
It was a particularly poignant triple whammy as I'd been out of
wholegrain for over a month.

What had I become?
I've been living with the guilt for some weeks of only having two
mustards on the go. And while I barely use the tip of a knifeful every
two months, it was getting to me. I was almost down to one jar.

Who was I?
Who had I become?
What if somebody found out?
What if they checked my CV and found that I've never actually been to
school, and I was born a poor Mexican boy who went on to either find
some magic beans or steal passports depending on how charitable you're
feeling?

And where was this guilt coming from anyway? Direct from 1975?
Was I subconsciously craving the acceptance of Audrey Forbes-Hamilton?
What the bloody hell is the matter with me?

It was with some considerable relief today that I corrected the
universe by adding a Wholegrain to my shopping basket and delivered it
to what can only be described as my "collection", this being a number
of items with very little practical use.

And while I was at it I thought "hang the 59p", I'll just throw a Dijon in.
Having recently purchased an English I now had a full triumvirate.
Natural order restored. These yellowish stars won't align again until
three kings have ruled these lands.

The three jars stand in my cupboard each in their rightful place.
English. Dijon. Wholegrain.
Proud, upright monoliths.
Testaments to the passing of the ages.
Each correct in a duty fulfilled and yet each quietly sneering at even
the possibility of emptiness.

It's times like these we should all take stock.
I certainly do.

But why I honestly need to have chicken, beef and vegetable cubes in
play is beyond me.

Man Walks into a Steam Room

On walking into a steam room or sauna, there is a dilemma about whether or not to say 'hello' to the other residents.

I do it on maybe slightly more than half the occasions that I appear depending on my fettle.

And the word 'appear' appears apt as you are likely coming through a doorway of rolling steam.

"Tonight, Matthew, I'm going to be in my trunks looking for a hot place to sit down"

The dilemma is enhanced on entry to the steam room because you don't necessarily know if there is anybody in there.

The steam tends to rise so faces will be more obliterated than legs, but it still may be hard to make out anything at all.

Now, of course nothing is lost if you risk a 'hello' and there's nobody there. It's unlikely that you'll be picked up on it by a casual bystander who thinks you are a nut, having a conversation with himself. Although the 'being on bluetooth' excuse that is currently concealing a generation of schizophrenics simply will not hold at the pool.

If you offer your greeting and you do indeed have an invisible audience, you are in the game, at least halfway towards an empty victory.

Because of course they can't see you either.

All they've heard is a disembodied voice.

They will undoubtedly have been aware that somebody was entering the steam room.

They may well have wondered whether to expect a greeting.

They may even grunt a steamy response out of politeness.

Or more likely....

Not.

Today I walked into the steam room and noticed the legs of somebody and offered a brief "Hi".

There wasn't any response but it was only when I advanced further effectively reducing the opacity of the water vapour (I am picking myself up on my sloppy use of the word 'steam' earlier) that I realised she was Japanese. Probably.

Now I'm not fluent in Japanese but I do know my Shogun.

I know my 'Hai' from my 'Sayonara' (even if she didn't know my Hai from my Hi). 

OK those are the only two things I can say Japanese - yes and goodbye. 

Two words incidentally when spaced over an 11 minute period which can serve you remarkably well in the ruby district of the Dutch capital.

Well I am linguistically underselling myself. Yes, I know... again.... stoppit...you're embarrassing me! 

Richard Chamberlain taught me a little more than that.

In fact, if there's one thing you can say about me it is that I know my 'konnichiwa' from my 'wakarimasen'.

So here's a big "Yes, hello, I understand", straight from somebody who only otherwise knows Osaka from Karate Kid 2.

I even thought 'petacetera' was a Japanese pleasantry until I realised that he was the one who performed 'The Glory of Love' in Karate Kid 3 .

In the 70s, I would have walked into a sauna and perhaps opened with a couple of minutes of my 'Three puffs walk into a bar routine', but towards the end of the decade it wasn't hitting quite as reliably as it had been. 

In the 80s, I walked onto the pine stage with a bit of politics and some Thatcher-bashing material. You should have seen the rosy cheeks of appreciation lined up from the stalls to the gallery. Again, as the decade wore on the act became dated and there were a lot of empty benches. I took a couple of years away from the sauna scene, but returned in the 90s with a gentler rehash of old concepts and mixed quite a lot of pathos to reflect how meaningful we were all becoming then. Unfortunately 9/11 took a lot of my edge and I found it hard to deal with any environment where I can't permanently stare at a mobile phone. So much so that I am thinking of going on a lesbian walking holiday so I can sing folk songs and start a long-delayed macrame project.

Anyway... I walked into the steam room and said "Hi".

In retrospect I can understand the confusion on the face of the Japanese woman.

If a long sexy Englishman walks into a steam room that you have carefully occupied, (and ancient culture demands that you commit harikari due to the enduring shame such an event would bring on your family for generations), then you have a right to be perplexed.

Especially if he comes in and says 'yes' at you.