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