I like judgemental people.
I don't like pejorative people
I like noisy people.
I don't like loud people.
I like quiet people.
I don't like passive-aggressive people.
I don't mind people being deluded but it is tiring to always give
equal weight to argumentative positions that are immature or remedial.
Unless we are talking to kids or patients, there just isn't time to
keep going back to 101. We must press on.
Time is short.
It only encourages them anyway, and not in the right way ...not in
wiping the slate clean and starting again.
Not every argument has to be won round. Some can simply be offered a
known solution. A new version. An iteration. That's the way computer
software does it and our brains have been compared to those many
times.
(They don't always get it right. The latest version of Google Chrome
is driving me nuts).
If you have a puncture, I will change your tire.
I won't give you a scrapbook filled with pictures of other people with
punctures and ask you to write a poem about them.
Strategies require improvisation.
I don't like being called disillusioned when I have worked so hard to
successfully de-illusion myself. Particularly if it is by people who
haven't even realised that that is a journey to be made.
It is derogatory and frankly tedious.
I don't like people questioning my path so far as though they are some
geological arbiter. My life so far does not require an endorsement
from them, particularly if it sprouts as a too eagerly offered opinion
from a relative stranger during that novel awkward form known as
'social chit chat'.
If I discover a problem in my chosen specialised subject then it is up
to me to find a hack. That's (fairly) easy if it is a question of how
to get all the toothpaste out of a tube.
But if it is solving the faulty damaged poorly-performing interface of
frontline primary care, or world famine, then it is trickier. But
giving some of my energy and thoughts to such tasks is not
disillusionment.
Far from it.
People are quick to offer words they know.
They don't think about the meaning.
They don't really understand it.
They offer them because they've heard other people use them in ways
that they thought were similar.
But they weren't.
My rose-tinted contact lenses are Polaroid, and I control their opacity.
I like my roses exactly where they are, thank you.
I water them regularly and yet they never get diluted.
Don't tell me that's impossible.
Because I don't care.
Friday 31 July 2015
Monday 27 July 2015
On Being Pathetic
"Why bother?"
"A blog nobody reads...what's the point, loser?"
"Don't you have anything better to do?"
"Give it up."
"I suppose it's up to you, it's your life you are wasting"
To those who've expressed the like...
Sunday 26 July 2015
Party for One
You know when they write 'Sharing Pack' on the front of a big pack of crisps?
Well...what does that mean?
Thursday 23 July 2015
Spin
I've been thinking about cheese for a while.
There was a good guy on the block in the 70s.
In the cheese triangle battle I mean.
While you were stocking up on Dairylea, there was a contender to the dismissive brand leader in the shadows.
A rival to Dairylea.
A challenger.
It presented itself as an equal and rock-steady offering to take on the might of the Kraft Empire.
A Dandy to your Beano.
And I've finally tracked it down.
St Ivel Gold Spinners.
It even had a tagline created by the king of advertising, John Webster who has been credited as creating a soundtrack to many a childhood, in this case, mine.
"Gold Spinners, delicious cheese spread from St. Ivel. If you can peel it you can eat it, if you can eat it you'll love it…if you can peel it."
Now my favourite way of eating it was to actually nip off the top of the triangle and squeeze it out like an icing sugar piping bag.
Yes, there was a little cheese left in afterwards, but not so much that it would harm the environment or damage society.
Eventually Gold Spinners were swept aside by the almighty blue and yellow branding and slightly different taste of Dairylea.
Educated at St Peter's School in York, Webster created the Smash Martians and the Honey Monster.
And he even did Cresta pop - It's Frothy Man.
Loved Cresta. And it was damn frothy!
If Gold Spinners did nothing else today, they introduced me to a timeless catalogue.
Tuesday 21 July 2015
Tuesday, Sundae
I just fancy an Mr Kipling's Apple Sundae.
The one with the delicious 'cream' on the top.
For licking.
I know what you're thinking.
But it's only Tuuuesday! Don't be a James Ha(y)ter.
Alas, as I suspected and to my dismay they are no longer in production.
I had cast a loose eye in recent visits to bigger supermarkets, and been exceedingly surprised.
So, of course, I just phoned Mr Kipling.
And he said they stop making them in the early 1990s.
The early 1990s!
Not just the 1990s.
But the early 1990s
You could have knocked me down with a feather.
Where am I going to get my deliciously hydrogenated transfats now?
I can't even find the original ad, so the apple pie ad where an old man attracts two young boys into his kitchen with sugary treats, will have to do.
I wonder why that isn't on anymore.
Monday 20 July 2015
Better Meta
I suppose that one of the problems in any sort of writing is people reading into it.
You might bother to put some words onto a page.
But is it to read...that is, to be read?
Or to "read into"?
I'm excluding this blog because this really is neither, and I'm not going to draw attention to the liberties I may choose to take in this exercise, but in general...
Facts, I suppose, are to be read.
Then keep people can read into what the facts tell them. Or try to think about where the facts offered might not tell the full story.
Fiction may also be read at face value.
But good fiction may well have echoes of larger themes.
You might read it for the story. You might read it for the meaning.
But the meaning should surely really be what it means to you as the star of your own life.
Men and women have different takes as well.
Go meta on your own.
You might bother to put some words onto a page.
But is it to read...that is, to be read?
Or to "read into"?
I'm excluding this blog because this really is neither, and I'm not going to draw attention to the liberties I may choose to take in this exercise, but in general...
Facts, I suppose, are to be read.
Then keep people can read into what the facts tell them. Or try to think about where the facts offered might not tell the full story.
Fiction may also be read at face value.
But good fiction may well have echoes of larger themes.
You might read it for the story. You might read it for the meaning.
But the meaning should surely really be what it means to you as the star of your own life.
Men and women have different takes as well.
Women enjoy movies about sweeping family turmoil and people dying of cancer, for reasons I don't fully understand. Men like adventure and super heroes. I would speculate that analysis of both these types of story would find exactly the same themes.
But one is obvious. One is abstract.
Abstract is generally more interesting than obvious.
But one is obvious. One is abstract.
Abstract is generally more interesting than obvious.
I'd take Batman over Beaches anyday.
If of course you know the person who's writing the text, you might start guessing what it means to them. And that may not be so useful.
You don't know what licence has been taken with the facts.
There is no contract with the reader.
You don't know where there is embellishment, where a turn of phrase that might accentuate a peak or trough, for the sake of readability or dramatic or comic effect.
But then you never need to understand any author's reason for writing. It's just not the point. You'd probably be wrong anyway.
There's a tendency nowadays for authors to parade themselves for six months of the year at festivals, but perhaps the ones with the most integrity for their work will not discuss it, never mind agonisingly read it in public. Let it live or die on its own.
So if you read Pride and Prejudice, you might wonder how those themes and memes play into your own romantic life.
Or you might just enjoy the story. I don't know. I've never read it.
Reading and writing is a probably a good thing to do.
'Reading into' however, takes more care.
An emotional response to a piece of writing might indicate good work.
But only if the reader is reading into it from the point of view of their own life.
Not the author's.
To put it another way, don't go meta on the author's ass. (I am from America. Howdy!).
If of course you know the person who's writing the text, you might start guessing what it means to them. And that may not be so useful.
You don't know what licence has been taken with the facts.
There is no contract with the reader.
You don't know where there is embellishment, where a turn of phrase that might accentuate a peak or trough, for the sake of readability or dramatic or comic effect.
But then you never need to understand any author's reason for writing. It's just not the point. You'd probably be wrong anyway.
There's a tendency nowadays for authors to parade themselves for six months of the year at festivals, but perhaps the ones with the most integrity for their work will not discuss it, never mind agonisingly read it in public. Let it live or die on its own.
So if you read Pride and Prejudice, you might wonder how those themes and memes play into your own romantic life.
Or you might just enjoy the story. I don't know. I've never read it.
Reading and writing is a probably a good thing to do.
'Reading into' however, takes more care.
An emotional response to a piece of writing might indicate good work.
But only if the reader is reading into it from the point of view of their own life.
Not the author's.
To put it another way, don't go meta on the author's ass. (I am from America. Howdy!).
Go meta on your own.
Sunday 19 July 2015
The Scope
The good thing about the NHS is that if you push the right buttons, you get a VIP seat in secondary care within 2 weeks.
Of course you may have to sign away some consent to something. It's bound to mention mortality and follow it with a dotted line.
I always thought it was a flat, straightish line that followed mortality. But no..it's dotted.
For my procedure, the mortality was pleasingly low. Not low enough. But low.
But you have to pay it some due thought, don't you? That's what it is there for.
Sod's Law being what it is.
The 1 in 15,000 that it affects gets an experience that is 1:1.
Full..as it were... On.
Lies, damned lies, statistics. But true lies, nevertheless.
I knew I had written a will.
I knew it would be found in the event of my death, either from the procedure or its findings.
And I allowed myself a few moments to recall the contents of it, and let the irony of the fact that there are names in it that would have no interest in contacting me in life. I possibly allowed myself a sigh at that point.
But looking on the bright side, at least they would be informed of my death so they wouldn't need to worry about their poor behaviour anymore.
As if! I'd speculatively re-contacted two of my oldest 'friends' in the same month, as I allowed such issues of mortality to play upon me, and the action had played out to familiar, predictable silence.
I was told the procedure was uncomfortable but straightforward.
I would be able to go home immediately afterwards. I would be given a piece of paper authorising 'activities as normal', and those of us on the dole should go home and watch any "straight-to-Channel 5" movie being screened.
Being screened.
I have to report though that as I lay naked from the waist down gripping the stainless steel and dancing to command for a roomful of uniformed women (not for the first time), it actually was somewhat painful.
It definitely graduated from the discomfort advertised, to actual pain because I remember making a mental note of it. On several occasions. I definitely thought at some point, this is worse than the dentist's drill.
Now I pride myself on being a hard man. A 'hardo', as we said at school. Looks so wrong now.
I prefer to go without anaesthetic.(Not that they were pushing it)
I like the idea of the people operating on me to join me in a few sibilant choruses of "what a brave little soldier he is!".
Call it vanity if you want. But really it's about not being any trouble to anyone.
And because I could see my pulse rate (and waveform), I could see it didn't rise.
The sympathetic nervous system demands that your pulse and blood pressure rise with pain. But mine didn't.
But I suspected as much.
I don't respond to any sort of pressure, to any sort of argument with a rise in my pulse.
I don't do things in that way.
Never have.
I've always known it.
I compartmentalise, deconstruct and reconstruct. I haven't spent 25 years in an orange cassock at the top of the Tibetan mountain, saving on the cost of Vosene for nothing.
I was thinking about this as the telescope approached my right eyeball.
You can't get a rise out of me, I thought.
Maybe that's what 'a rise' means.A rise in the pulse... What say you Google?
Oh well...apparently the expression alludes to the angler dangling his bait in the hope that the fish will rise. I think I prefer my own updated 'origins story'.
I pursed my lips a little, and did some regular panting, similar to a soon-to-be-unpregnant woman who is pretending that delivering a baby causes horrible pain.
While this has been claimed, it has been dismissed by research. Nobody has managed to find any other situation where people volunteer so readily for the same so-called "pain" again and again so easily. It therefore fails the repeatability test so vital in all research.
That childbirth is actually painful has thus been largely discredited. In fact, the evidence base suggests quite the reverse. Early work on the attention-seeking hypothesis is showing promising results.
My very real pain on the other hand continued intermittently for an hour or two.
I couldn't stay in the car park forever. I did the drive, grateful for the automatic shift as my gear-free hand went unconsciously to 'rub-it-better' position.
At home I could have a lie down. So it was an unwelcome telephone call 15 minutes later that started asking me about my accident in my previous career in industry.
The one I've never had.
In the job I've never had.
But that is modern life in England, isn't it?
We don't have a castle with a duvet anymore.
We have advertising space.
Of course you may have to sign away some consent to something. It's bound to mention mortality and follow it with a dotted line.
I always thought it was a flat, straightish line that followed mortality. But no..it's dotted.
For my procedure, the mortality was pleasingly low. Not low enough. But low.
But you have to pay it some due thought, don't you? That's what it is there for.
Sod's Law being what it is.
The 1 in 15,000 that it affects gets an experience that is 1:1.
Full..as it were... On.
Lies, damned lies, statistics. But true lies, nevertheless.
I knew I had written a will.
I knew it would be found in the event of my death, either from the procedure or its findings.
And I allowed myself a few moments to recall the contents of it, and let the irony of the fact that there are names in it that would have no interest in contacting me in life. I possibly allowed myself a sigh at that point.
But looking on the bright side, at least they would be informed of my death so they wouldn't need to worry about their poor behaviour anymore.
As if! I'd speculatively re-contacted two of my oldest 'friends' in the same month, as I allowed such issues of mortality to play upon me, and the action had played out to familiar, predictable silence.
I was told the procedure was uncomfortable but straightforward.
I would be able to go home immediately afterwards. I would be given a piece of paper authorising 'activities as normal', and those of us on the dole should go home and watch any "straight-to-Channel 5" movie being screened.
Being screened.
I have to report though that as I lay naked from the waist down gripping the stainless steel and dancing to command for a roomful of uniformed women (not for the first time), it actually was somewhat painful.
It definitely graduated from the discomfort advertised, to actual pain because I remember making a mental note of it. On several occasions. I definitely thought at some point, this is worse than the dentist's drill.
Now I pride myself on being a hard man. A 'hardo', as we said at school. Looks so wrong now.
I prefer to go without anaesthetic.(Not that they were pushing it)
I like the idea of the people operating on me to join me in a few sibilant choruses of "what a brave little soldier he is!".
Call it vanity if you want. But really it's about not being any trouble to anyone.
And because I could see my pulse rate (and waveform), I could see it didn't rise.
The sympathetic nervous system demands that your pulse and blood pressure rise with pain. But mine didn't.
But I suspected as much.
I don't respond to any sort of pressure, to any sort of argument with a rise in my pulse.
I don't do things in that way.
Never have.
I've always known it.
I compartmentalise, deconstruct and reconstruct. I haven't spent 25 years in an orange cassock at the top of the Tibetan mountain, saving on the cost of Vosene for nothing.
I was thinking about this as the telescope approached my right eyeball.
You can't get a rise out of me, I thought.
Maybe that's what 'a rise' means.A rise in the pulse... What say you Google?
Oh well...apparently the expression alludes to the angler dangling his bait in the hope that the fish will rise. I think I prefer my own updated 'origins story'.
I pursed my lips a little, and did some regular panting, similar to a soon-to-be-unpregnant woman who is pretending that delivering a baby causes horrible pain.
While this has been claimed, it has been dismissed by research. Nobody has managed to find any other situation where people volunteer so readily for the same so-called "pain" again and again so easily. It therefore fails the repeatability test so vital in all research.
That childbirth is actually painful has thus been largely discredited. In fact, the evidence base suggests quite the reverse. Early work on the attention-seeking hypothesis is showing promising results.
My very real pain on the other hand continued intermittently for an hour or two.
I couldn't stay in the car park forever. I did the drive, grateful for the automatic shift as my gear-free hand went unconsciously to 'rub-it-better' position.
At home I could have a lie down. So it was an unwelcome telephone call 15 minutes later that started asking me about my accident in my previous career in industry.
The one I've never had.
In the job I've never had.
But that is modern life in England, isn't it?
We don't have a castle with a duvet anymore.
We have advertising space.
Saturday 18 July 2015
Tuesday 14 July 2015
On the Radio
I just caught a bit of Steve Wright on the wireless.
He asked me to call in and tell him what I was upto.
Feeling encouraged, I did.
I was filling up my stapler and I was thinking of putting some washing in if it picked up later.
So there was a lot to tell.
I am just waiting for him to get back to me to continue the dialogue so am holding off on putting the washing in.
Quite excited!
Feel as though we could be real friends.
Sunday 12 July 2015
Rock Me Awake
I've always liked Falco.
I can't lie.
There was a time when I couldn't get out of bed until Terry Wogan had played Rock me Amadeus.
As soon as the punchy rhythms started I was energised.
I bought a few of his cassettes.
I auditioned them, and found a few discoveries, but the singles that you may know are the songs worth knowing. Vienna Calling and the fantastic 'Jeanny' completing the trio.
But...
I'd always remembered an introduction. Spoken in English prior to the beginning of the song.
It wasn't on any of my recordings.
So I just checked it out.
The song being a big international hit, it has its own Wikipedia page.
And it has a chapter on this voice-over.
It closes with the words
"1791: Mozart composes The Magic Flute.
On December 5 of that same year, Mozart dies.
1985: Austrian rock singer Falco records....
those words lead to the opening bars tearing out of the traps.....
"Rock Me Amadeus.... Amadeus....Amadeus"
Apparently it was called the (short) Salieri mix and appeared on the US release.
And then, modern times being what they are, I found it on the Internet.
Within seconds I'm listening to it again.
Amazing.
These times we're living in.
Falco remains the biggest selling Austrian singer of all time.
He died in a motorbike crash aged 40 in 1998 after a few drinks, (enough to cause impairment), a bit of marijuana and a lot of cocaine.
I can't lie.
There was a time when I couldn't get out of bed until Terry Wogan had played Rock me Amadeus.
As soon as the punchy rhythms started I was energised.
I bought a few of his cassettes.
I auditioned them, and found a few discoveries, but the singles that you may know are the songs worth knowing. Vienna Calling and the fantastic 'Jeanny' completing the trio.
But...
I'd always remembered an introduction. Spoken in English prior to the beginning of the song.
It wasn't on any of my recordings.
So I just checked it out.
The song being a big international hit, it has its own Wikipedia page.
And it has a chapter on this voice-over.
It closes with the words
"1791: Mozart composes The Magic Flute.
On December 5 of that same year, Mozart dies.
1985: Austrian rock singer Falco records....
those words lead to the opening bars tearing out of the traps.....
"Rock Me Amadeus.... Amadeus....Amadeus"
Apparently it was called the (short) Salieri mix and appeared on the US release.
And then, modern times being what they are, I found it on the Internet.
Within seconds I'm listening to it again.
Amazing.
These times we're living in.
Falco remains the biggest selling Austrian singer of all time.
He died in a motorbike crash aged 40 in 1998 after a few drinks, (enough to cause impairment), a bit of marijuana and a lot of cocaine.
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