Riffing on a theme started back on the ‘Big Issues’ blog, I’m slightly concerned that the longer I live the life of the (slightly) gay bachelor (well, mildly camp at least) - the more singularly eccentric I’ll become - and the longer I’ll live the life of… You get the picture.
Oh, hello - by the way.
Not that I’m in any way resembling a Susan Boyles-Kittens-In-A-Bag slightly sinister singleton. Yet…
However my life; creative projects, work & kids schedule etc. dictates that I’m more often spread thinner than Homer Simpson’s hair gel. Which is fine for me, but isn’t all that conducive with encountering a prospective (very patient) partner. And being an utterly hopeless romantic, I don’t buy-in to the mail order ‘love’ of dating sites etc. much in the same way I’d be wary of anything recommended in Exchange & Mart, lest after a few miles of trouble-free fun - bits start smoking, falling off, making a troubling & unidentifiable grinding noise or growing hair… Or all four.
Please don’t take that to mean I objectify or belittle women. I certainly don’t. Just ask any of my many be-atches! (kidding!).
So I put my hands ever patiently in the hands of fate, optimistic that one fine day I’ll receive that sucker punch to the gut and fall utterly and irretrievably in love. But seeing as Audrey Tautou won’t return my calls, what’s a garcon to do?…
Trouble is, being comfortable with one’s own company and forever thankful of the perks of independence is just a recipe for the rather unrealistic aspiration to perfection. And in that I don’t mean the demeaning nomenclature/ pursuit of the ‘Perfect 10’ / ‘Perfect Body’… I mean finding someone to fit perfectly into every trifling little ludicrous criteria one concocts for their mythical soul-mate. Let’s call it - the Seinfeld clause.
Anyone who’s experienced one of the best sitcoms ever will be well acquainted with Seinfeld’s shallow and superficial way in frightening himself off women. Whether they be a ‘low talker’, have ‘man hands’, a weird laugh or opposing views on a jeans commercial - there’s always some little niggle that brings fly and ointment together forever.
Now of course I know that such proclivities in pernicketiness say more about Jerry Seinfeld (and me) than any undeserving ‘subject’ - and that ironically - this is likely to prove a major bug-bear for anyone remotely interested. Self awareness is a cruel but truthful mistress.
The uber wonderful Lucy Porter (she won’t return my calls either) has a lovely piece of material along these lines:
“I’m at that stage in life where I think it would be nice (to have a boyfriend) but I’m not sure I can be bothered to train anyone for the position”.
Wouldn’t it be nice to trip over someone who ’gets’ you? Isn’t there some kind of club we could all go? Isn’t there some kind of online community we could all join? Oh… Yes… I see…
Even in my old fashioned romanticism I’m just a tad misguided / ’eccentric’ (read ’howling at all the wrong trees). Back during my phase of hoarding Converse trainers (before realisation dawned on what evil scumbags they were/are) - I was mucho ecstatico upon clawing up an off-white pair with beguilingly unusual red and blue piping (and a clutch of other neat motifs). Some time and many miles underfoot later, I realised that my ’pair’ of trainers didn’t quite match - and that I’d been given a completely separate design for each foot - in the same size.
This of course meant that somewhere an identical pair of non-identical trainers languished awaiting an owner. This became my glass slipper. This was sure to be an indicator - a shining Bat-signal to my true soul mate. Albeit one with scary-assed man-sized feet... Yes, I’ve come to see the folly…
So fate, over to you. I await your undeserved benevolence.
Until then, I can press warmly to my breast the knowledge that it’s better to have loved and lost than never loved at all. This I do believe. But if anyone tells you it’s better to see Queen with Paul Rodgers, than never have seen Queen at all - they are frankly my friend - quite full of it.
Stay positive!
x
Thursday 11 June 2009
Sunday 31 May 2009
Britain's Got ADD
Rare is it that I board the flight of popular fancy, but in the case of Britain’s Got Talent over the past couple of evenings I’ve had my passport stamped - in danger of sounding like a heather brandishing gypsy here - “for the sake of the children”.
Outside of my charge, my kids are exposed to all manner of questionable ‘entertainment’ - BGT being one such example. And just as stand-up comedy became the new rock n’roll and football became the new religion, Idol/Factor/Talent shows have morphed into latest swinish fever to polarise and galvanise public opinion. The next ‘new’. And if you don’t have an opinion or a favourite on these shows, you’re somehow regarded with the kind of suspicion/revile usually reserved for alleged kiddie-fiddlers.
What makes such lazy programming abhorrent to me is not the child labour ‘camp’ pressures that the moral majority will be frothing over with sexual fervour since poor little Hollie‘s near meltdown in the Semi‘s of BGT. Yes, absolutely, the parents of such talented little creatures should be stringently profiled as to their true motivation for sacrificing anything approaching a normal childhood for their offspring, for I’m sure that many have failed to do the math: prize money minus rehab + lifetime of parental resentment = one glummy Mummy and/or Daddy. But if the prodigy really does have a dream & a passion (and some talent) to perform - each to their own destiny.
I’d be more on-side if such shows were to see a true return to gladiatorial entertainment - i.e. the reinstalling of chucking Right Wing Christians (and Big Brother Contestants/WAGS etc.) - to actual lions. Please - just tell me where to sign…
But ‘Britain’s Got Faux Sincerity’ has already become a battery farm of the weird and the wonderful. Much like the Factor’s/Idol’s of past/present - it’s merely churning out future fayre in the perpetual cycle of I Was A Tentative Celebrity At Best, Please Remember Me parent shows.
Lately I’ve learnt to forgive the cynical pantomime judging that makes so-called ‘good TV’. The target demographic may on the whole be duller than a box of accountants put through a hot wash, so in a way I’m sure SCowell grifts a perverse pleasure from their adverse reactionary numptitude. Fair play.
I do question the validity of armchair ’judges’ that sit in every Saturday (or Monday through Saturday in some cases) night to watch lite-entertainment instead of frequenting the theatre or a real gig. That’s like having Right Wing Christians reviewing porn.
It irks me upon hearing the herded Great Idiot Public/studio audience, who bray and boo at the merest hint of constructive criticism. Left to these morons we’d have close to a million people jostling on stage at the Finals…
Then before Warhol’s sanctioned time is up, the celebrity Alzheimer’s kicks in. Joe & Josephine Public idly cast aside their hero(es) of choice as soon as a fresh batch of meat is paraded for their prime-time viewing pleasure, their fleeting favourite suddenly languishing in the career bargain bin of fickle feckwits. To paraphrase the words of Laureate Noel Gallgher; “please don’t put your life in the hands, of suburban Mum’s and Gran’s - they’ll piss it all away…”
Which, despite all my fear and loathing of such manipulative media - is a real shame.
For what I experienced from my TV these past two evenings wasn’t some tribal need to ‘vote for my favourite - or die!’ bully complex.
It wasn’t discovering some new Act that I’m likely to follow beyond the weekend.
It was to be introduced to a surprising and refreshing array of role models.
Here I saw the humble, the nerdy, the awkward - ordinary people with a passion and heart and just enough self belief to grasp at their dreams whilst others sit on their Domino‘s sponsored assess and revel in someone else‘s living life.
I witnessed people who lived and would clearly die (or die trying) for their family. Folk from all colours, creeds and across the spectrum of age, gelling and dancing/singing/gooning about in the face of what’s ‘cool’.
I hope that it inspires kids in desperate situations to realise there are alternatives to drugs, knife crime, superficial status etc. (Do seek out the superb documentary Favela Rising about Brazil’s inspirational Afro Reggae, which is a wonderful depiction of this).
I hope that it reminds people that our families are worth more than trophies and all the shiny prizes that the media would have us covet.
And I hope that those millions tuning in - were really and truly entertained.
For the most insightful piece of commentary that came out of the whole BGT Final was this:
SCowell remarking (of high-brow criticism of the likes of Stavros) how it should be about “how it makes you feel”.
It’s entertainment. It’s an art form (as tenuous as the form allows). It embraces that punk ethos that - you might not be qualified in the traditional sense - but no-one’s going to stop you but yourself. Battle lines have not been drawn. Settle down. Relax. Set aside your daily woes. Escape. Enjoy.
So whilst I despair at the easily led legions of such lazy programming, I have nothing but respect for those brave souls that suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous prejudice to follow their dream, brightening the lives of dullards & quitters in their brief wake.
It’s all end of the Pier stuff granted, but isn’t a harking back to the heyday of British Variety what BGT’s all about? Maybe it’s that eccentric, indefatigable spirit that once made us Great (invasion, exploitation and colonisation notwithstanding) and maybe recapturing and embracing that can drag us back out of these ‘noughties’ doldrums.
Wouldn’t it be nice therefore if BGT put it’s money where it’s arse is and looks into pumping some of the funds from phone-ins & cash cows like the national tour and ubiquitous cd releases - back into music halls and theatres in depressed sub-urban areas and struggling seaside resorts? The kind of no-hope communities that breed many of the hopefuls paraded for our BGT pleasure? It could provide a heckuva showcase for the plentiful unsung talent that these fair shores have to offer. All it takes is the cash and the brand. Better that surely than a soulless proliferation of Super Casinos and Bingo Halls?
Remember - it should be about how it “makes us feel”. Wouldn’t it be nice for Britain to feel Great again. And not just for Saturday.
Stay positve!
x
Outside of my charge, my kids are exposed to all manner of questionable ‘entertainment’ - BGT being one such example. And just as stand-up comedy became the new rock n’roll and football became the new religion, Idol/Factor/Talent shows have morphed into latest swinish fever to polarise and galvanise public opinion. The next ‘new’. And if you don’t have an opinion or a favourite on these shows, you’re somehow regarded with the kind of suspicion/revile usually reserved for alleged kiddie-fiddlers.
What makes such lazy programming abhorrent to me is not the child labour ‘camp’ pressures that the moral majority will be frothing over with sexual fervour since poor little Hollie‘s near meltdown in the Semi‘s of BGT. Yes, absolutely, the parents of such talented little creatures should be stringently profiled as to their true motivation for sacrificing anything approaching a normal childhood for their offspring, for I’m sure that many have failed to do the math: prize money minus rehab + lifetime of parental resentment = one glummy Mummy and/or Daddy. But if the prodigy really does have a dream & a passion (and some talent) to perform - each to their own destiny.
I’d be more on-side if such shows were to see a true return to gladiatorial entertainment - i.e. the reinstalling of chucking Right Wing Christians (and Big Brother Contestants/WAGS etc.) - to actual lions. Please - just tell me where to sign…
But ‘Britain’s Got Faux Sincerity’ has already become a battery farm of the weird and the wonderful. Much like the Factor’s/Idol’s of past/present - it’s merely churning out future fayre in the perpetual cycle of I Was A Tentative Celebrity At Best, Please Remember Me parent shows.
Lately I’ve learnt to forgive the cynical pantomime judging that makes so-called ‘good TV’. The target demographic may on the whole be duller than a box of accountants put through a hot wash, so in a way I’m sure SCowell grifts a perverse pleasure from their adverse reactionary numptitude. Fair play.
I do question the validity of armchair ’judges’ that sit in every Saturday (or Monday through Saturday in some cases) night to watch lite-entertainment instead of frequenting the theatre or a real gig. That’s like having Right Wing Christians reviewing porn.
It irks me upon hearing the herded Great Idiot Public/studio audience, who bray and boo at the merest hint of constructive criticism. Left to these morons we’d have close to a million people jostling on stage at the Finals…
Then before Warhol’s sanctioned time is up, the celebrity Alzheimer’s kicks in. Joe & Josephine Public idly cast aside their hero(es) of choice as soon as a fresh batch of meat is paraded for their prime-time viewing pleasure, their fleeting favourite suddenly languishing in the career bargain bin of fickle feckwits. To paraphrase the words of Laureate Noel Gallgher; “please don’t put your life in the hands, of suburban Mum’s and Gran’s - they’ll piss it all away…”
Which, despite all my fear and loathing of such manipulative media - is a real shame.
For what I experienced from my TV these past two evenings wasn’t some tribal need to ‘vote for my favourite - or die!’ bully complex.
It wasn’t discovering some new Act that I’m likely to follow beyond the weekend.
It was to be introduced to a surprising and refreshing array of role models.
Here I saw the humble, the nerdy, the awkward - ordinary people with a passion and heart and just enough self belief to grasp at their dreams whilst others sit on their Domino‘s sponsored assess and revel in someone else‘s living life.
I witnessed people who lived and would clearly die (or die trying) for their family. Folk from all colours, creeds and across the spectrum of age, gelling and dancing/singing/gooning about in the face of what’s ‘cool’.
I hope that it inspires kids in desperate situations to realise there are alternatives to drugs, knife crime, superficial status etc. (Do seek out the superb documentary Favela Rising about Brazil’s inspirational Afro Reggae, which is a wonderful depiction of this).
I hope that it reminds people that our families are worth more than trophies and all the shiny prizes that the media would have us covet.
And I hope that those millions tuning in - were really and truly entertained.
For the most insightful piece of commentary that came out of the whole BGT Final was this:
SCowell remarking (of high-brow criticism of the likes of Stavros) how it should be about “how it makes you feel”.
It’s entertainment. It’s an art form (as tenuous as the form allows). It embraces that punk ethos that - you might not be qualified in the traditional sense - but no-one’s going to stop you but yourself. Battle lines have not been drawn. Settle down. Relax. Set aside your daily woes. Escape. Enjoy.
So whilst I despair at the easily led legions of such lazy programming, I have nothing but respect for those brave souls that suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous prejudice to follow their dream, brightening the lives of dullards & quitters in their brief wake.
It’s all end of the Pier stuff granted, but isn’t a harking back to the heyday of British Variety what BGT’s all about? Maybe it’s that eccentric, indefatigable spirit that once made us Great (invasion, exploitation and colonisation notwithstanding) and maybe recapturing and embracing that can drag us back out of these ‘noughties’ doldrums.
Wouldn’t it be nice therefore if BGT put it’s money where it’s arse is and looks into pumping some of the funds from phone-ins & cash cows like the national tour and ubiquitous cd releases - back into music halls and theatres in depressed sub-urban areas and struggling seaside resorts? The kind of no-hope communities that breed many of the hopefuls paraded for our BGT pleasure? It could provide a heckuva showcase for the plentiful unsung talent that these fair shores have to offer. All it takes is the cash and the brand. Better that surely than a soulless proliferation of Super Casinos and Bingo Halls?
Remember - it should be about how it “makes us feel”. Wouldn’t it be nice for Britain to feel Great again. And not just for Saturday.
Stay positve!
x
Friday 22 May 2009
Big Issues… Or - Why Does Every Woman I Go Out With Turn Into A Homeless Person?…
…because there comes that time in a relationship where the demand for ‘change’ becomes like the mantra of a zombie hobo. And it’s kinda driving me nuts.
Oh, hello, by the way…
Once was a time where I’d get so giddy over the affections of a lovely lady that I’d invariably wake up married. Then dawned an age where the slightest hint at relationship earnestness had me spinning for the hills like a gyroscope on acid. Recently on a boozy night out with a great chum, I joked about remedying this by proposing to a random passer-by and was swiftly bundled into a cab by said friend and promptly frog-marched onto my train.
So I find myself caught between a rock and - at times - a lonely place. And partially I put this down to the aforementioned overriding desire for change.
What is it about human nature that drives us to take something we’re perfectly happy with only to stamp one’s mark all over it in some nihilistic customisation job, f***ing up beyond recognition what attracted us in the first place?
Whether it be partners, office space, cars, mobile phones - we seem to have this primal need to spray our ‘territory’ with taint; activity that purports to be driven by individuality to the point that the only true individuals are the ones shunning such pressurised rituals.
‘Change’ is a relationship black hole, sucking in all individualism so that all those things that drew you together - the things that once made all the cheesy & trite love songs on the radio ’so true’ / the things that now somehow through a bizarre twist in physics - physically repel one from the other …so that all those traits, quirks & foibles have to go, or you do.
There was a musical comedy playing a few years back with the wonderful title; ‘I love you, you’re perfect, now change!’ Now I’ll hold my hand up to some personal qualities that I’m not too proud to have as the tombstones of my past that I’ve since cast into the abyss. We all have the capacity to self improve for the better, this I don’t deny. But beyond that, to entertain demands for the retraction from personal tastes, wants and likes to make you more ‘easier to live with’ - like some anaesthetised Stepford Spouse? Surely if you truly love someone, you wouldn’t ask them such a thing?
See, my fear now, with a few long term relationships/marriages under my belt, is not of commitment but of seeing someone I love turning in on their self, devolving into some succubus of banality - and expecting me to follow suit.
I’m just not wired that way. I don’t see that as being selfish - more as ‘self’ preservation.
Now I just need to find someone of a similar mindset - and force them not to change…
Stay unique.
x
Oh, hello, by the way…
Once was a time where I’d get so giddy over the affections of a lovely lady that I’d invariably wake up married. Then dawned an age where the slightest hint at relationship earnestness had me spinning for the hills like a gyroscope on acid. Recently on a boozy night out with a great chum, I joked about remedying this by proposing to a random passer-by and was swiftly bundled into a cab by said friend and promptly frog-marched onto my train.
So I find myself caught between a rock and - at times - a lonely place. And partially I put this down to the aforementioned overriding desire for change.
What is it about human nature that drives us to take something we’re perfectly happy with only to stamp one’s mark all over it in some nihilistic customisation job, f***ing up beyond recognition what attracted us in the first place?
Whether it be partners, office space, cars, mobile phones - we seem to have this primal need to spray our ‘territory’ with taint; activity that purports to be driven by individuality to the point that the only true individuals are the ones shunning such pressurised rituals.
‘Change’ is a relationship black hole, sucking in all individualism so that all those things that drew you together - the things that once made all the cheesy & trite love songs on the radio ’so true’ / the things that now somehow through a bizarre twist in physics - physically repel one from the other …so that all those traits, quirks & foibles have to go, or you do.
There was a musical comedy playing a few years back with the wonderful title; ‘I love you, you’re perfect, now change!’ Now I’ll hold my hand up to some personal qualities that I’m not too proud to have as the tombstones of my past that I’ve since cast into the abyss. We all have the capacity to self improve for the better, this I don’t deny. But beyond that, to entertain demands for the retraction from personal tastes, wants and likes to make you more ‘easier to live with’ - like some anaesthetised Stepford Spouse? Surely if you truly love someone, you wouldn’t ask them such a thing?
See, my fear now, with a few long term relationships/marriages under my belt, is not of commitment but of seeing someone I love turning in on their self, devolving into some succubus of banality - and expecting me to follow suit.
I’m just not wired that way. I don’t see that as being selfish - more as ‘self’ preservation.
Now I just need to find someone of a similar mindset - and force them not to change…
Stay unique.
x
Thursday 14 May 2009
Carpe per diem (or - What Would Howard Beale Say?)
21 years to the day - nearly half my existence ago - unbeknownst to me at the time, was the eve of one of the most momentous - er - moments - of my life. For 21 years ago tomorrow saw the birth of my first born and my life changed forever for the better.
Characteristic of any new parent, I took this as a cue to save the world by pledging my (un)wavering penmanship and a monthly standing order to a smattering of worthy causes. For at the time, those with science and conscience on their side were trying to make the world listen to their cries of ‘global warming’. Whilst the world went back to spraying it’s collectively impressive hair, to the soundtrack of Nero’s fiddling…
My how a lot has changed (hasn’t it?).
But I’m glad to say, whilst I was but a mere boy back then (albeit with a slightly more impressive crop of follicles) - I’m still very much a boy at heart to this day. Not (or so I kid myself) in some commitment-phobic/embarrassing Dad arrested development, but an adventure seeking, life embracing, challenge seeking individual.
And to a larger degree I have my wonderful kids to thank for this. Whilst it’s broken my heart to be relegated to weekend Dad, it’s commonly regarded that this has made our relationships stronger (although my overdraft weaker). I’m very lucky to count my kids among my best friends and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them.
Thankfully for all parties concerned, their mother’s do a grand job in planning for their future’s, whilst we suck the marrow out of celebrating the here & now. Living in a fractured family unit has taken the pressure of conformity from me and allowed me to stay true to myself, an implicit lesson and one I hope my offspring absorb through their genes.
I’ve not fallen foul to the trappings of my former spouses - the caravans, holiday villas, property moguldom etc. Regardless of my lacking the means - lead me not into middle class Hell…
By not ticking my way down this List I’ve also avoided the cynical networking of folly such as Golf Club membership; the fabricating of hollow friendships built on the prevarication that you’ve both dreamt since boyhood to spend weekend mornings following a tiny white ball across the countryside like a confused stalker in pimps clothing.
There may be some of you out there that truly enjoy what some laughingly describe as a ‘sport’. But seriously. Take a good hard look at yourself… Hitting a ball as far away as possible, so you can catch up to it only to hit it far away again. That’s like a dog throwing it’s own stick…
Okay, each to their own and tastes/needs change over time, but for me - I’d still rather lay in a meadow watching the industry of ants than fall into building my own decking upon which to host the sub-swingers cult of forced neighbourly barbecues. Maybe I’m just a bit simple. And anti-social.
I’m not sure who wrote the unwritten rules of life, but I’ll always give favour to doing things I ‘like’ as opposed to those I’m ‘obliged’. Not to the point of tardiness or poor personal hygiene, but to secure a quality of life that doesn’t have me constantly looking to the horizon of an annual summer holiday as my one ‘break from it all’.
It’s not that I refuse to ‘grow up’. I do credit myself with a certain amount of personal growth and introspection over the years. But I do refuse to disconnect with that sense of wonder and excitement, the limitless possibility that each day held when we were kids. Life should be filled with things that set you all a-tingle, not ‘Oh, I suppose I’d better’.
My eldest finds herself at an exciting crossroads and I hope that any worries of becoming ‘an adult’ are fleeting. That age equals responsibility to a degree is true. That age equals banality and routine doesn’t have to be founded.
Sometimes we set ourselves mountains to climb, which is fine if you happen to be a mountain enthusiast, otherwise a rather futile exercise for an existence that in cosmic significance is but a gnats sigh.
Let’s not let our enjoyment of our time here be dictated by fragile scratchings across a calendar.
Even if only in some small way, let’s make each day an adventure.
Stay positive.
x
Characteristic of any new parent, I took this as a cue to save the world by pledging my (un)wavering penmanship and a monthly standing order to a smattering of worthy causes. For at the time, those with science and conscience on their side were trying to make the world listen to their cries of ‘global warming’. Whilst the world went back to spraying it’s collectively impressive hair, to the soundtrack of Nero’s fiddling…
My how a lot has changed (hasn’t it?).
But I’m glad to say, whilst I was but a mere boy back then (albeit with a slightly more impressive crop of follicles) - I’m still very much a boy at heart to this day. Not (or so I kid myself) in some commitment-phobic/embarrassing Dad arrested development, but an adventure seeking, life embracing, challenge seeking individual.
And to a larger degree I have my wonderful kids to thank for this. Whilst it’s broken my heart to be relegated to weekend Dad, it’s commonly regarded that this has made our relationships stronger (although my overdraft weaker). I’m very lucky to count my kids among my best friends and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them.
Thankfully for all parties concerned, their mother’s do a grand job in planning for their future’s, whilst we suck the marrow out of celebrating the here & now. Living in a fractured family unit has taken the pressure of conformity from me and allowed me to stay true to myself, an implicit lesson and one I hope my offspring absorb through their genes.
I’ve not fallen foul to the trappings of my former spouses - the caravans, holiday villas, property moguldom etc. Regardless of my lacking the means - lead me not into middle class Hell…
By not ticking my way down this List I’ve also avoided the cynical networking of folly such as Golf Club membership; the fabricating of hollow friendships built on the prevarication that you’ve both dreamt since boyhood to spend weekend mornings following a tiny white ball across the countryside like a confused stalker in pimps clothing.
There may be some of you out there that truly enjoy what some laughingly describe as a ‘sport’. But seriously. Take a good hard look at yourself… Hitting a ball as far away as possible, so you can catch up to it only to hit it far away again. That’s like a dog throwing it’s own stick…
Okay, each to their own and tastes/needs change over time, but for me - I’d still rather lay in a meadow watching the industry of ants than fall into building my own decking upon which to host the sub-swingers cult of forced neighbourly barbecues. Maybe I’m just a bit simple. And anti-social.
I’m not sure who wrote the unwritten rules of life, but I’ll always give favour to doing things I ‘like’ as opposed to those I’m ‘obliged’. Not to the point of tardiness or poor personal hygiene, but to secure a quality of life that doesn’t have me constantly looking to the horizon of an annual summer holiday as my one ‘break from it all’.
It’s not that I refuse to ‘grow up’. I do credit myself with a certain amount of personal growth and introspection over the years. But I do refuse to disconnect with that sense of wonder and excitement, the limitless possibility that each day held when we were kids. Life should be filled with things that set you all a-tingle, not ‘Oh, I suppose I’d better’.
My eldest finds herself at an exciting crossroads and I hope that any worries of becoming ‘an adult’ are fleeting. That age equals responsibility to a degree is true. That age equals banality and routine doesn’t have to be founded.
Sometimes we set ourselves mountains to climb, which is fine if you happen to be a mountain enthusiast, otherwise a rather futile exercise for an existence that in cosmic significance is but a gnats sigh.
Let’s not let our enjoyment of our time here be dictated by fragile scratchings across a calendar.
Even if only in some small way, let’s make each day an adventure.
Stay positive.
x
Saturday 25 April 2009
Waving, Not Drowning
Hello. Sorry. Where’s April gone?…
I can’t use the excuse of constantly being on the road with work as reason for the lengthy hiatus in blogging - I mean, I’m not the Rolling Stones… But the highway has been long, the miles many and my car is feeling worrying shagged because of this.
Now I don’t know whether it’s just the way my brain is wired, if it’s brought on by sleep deprivation, or maybe everyone has such a mental playfulness on long journeys, but I’m supremely thankful of the ability to amuse myself in the car (stop making up your own jokes in the back!).
Wednesday saw me rise early to head to Cardiff, followed - after a full day talking at people - by another long haul to Blackpool. The morning jaunt (apologies to anyone who follows my Twitters - as I’m about to recycle) saw me playing motorway tag with a nondescript 4x4. Nondescript that is aside from the legend emblazoned on the rear - ‘Fencer to the Gentry’. What a wonderful slogan! How often do you see that?
My mind regarded this as golden currency to conjure with. My immediate summation was that the driver of said vehicle was some kind of on-call sparring partner to the aristocracy. 4am and some clattered old Duke has an insatiable need to duel - who ya gonna call?…
This scenario played out for some time until finally I passed the vehicle and supplementary text down the side of the car made it clear the driver was merely in the business of erecting posh fences. Shame, that.
Anyway, that digression is merely a long preamble to this blog’s topic; setting expectations and boundaries (groan!).
Once I’d finally arrived - later that day - in Britain’s laughable comparison with Las Vegas, Blackpool, I checked into the hotel and met my boss in the bar. Now whilst it takes up an inordinate amount of my time managing my manager, he is fundamentally an entertaining drinking companion and not slow in getting the beers in. Much later into the evening than my day’s exploits should have permitted, my boss glanced at his phone and lamented the amount of emails that had been churning through all night. And yet he’d not switched modes himself by having his work and personal means of communication one and the same.
Being a staunch family man and very protective of my own personal space and time, I’ve set very clear expectations with any job I’ve taken. When workload requires long hours I will do them (very occasionally under duress), but I make damn sure I claw back some ‘me’ time when it suits my personal life and schedule. I have rarely found the need to work into the weekend, when all around me colleagues have made great show of the sacrifices they’ve been making. Often I see that coming down to a shaky moral code and lack of organisational skills rather than business so grave that it should eat into drinking time.
Or maybe I’m just lazy.
But in my line of work it’s not like we’re curing cancer. If your line of work is curing cancer, please disregard all of the above and get your skates on. You knew what you were getting into and when the job is done, take the rest of your life off…
Colleagues have scoffed at the personal expense of my running two mobile phones, but when I switch off that business mobile at a time of my choosing and my life begins anew without fear of corporate stupidity infringing, well - I fail to put a price on that.
And whether by design or pure luck (and I’ll jinx my good fortune now by writing it, I’m sure) I lead a healthy life both physically and for the most part mentally. Years and years have slipped past without my taking a sick day. Those who toil into the night and across weekends are rarely able to say this - and the sad fact is it usually takes someone in their forties dropping dead in front of them before they temporarily reassess their priorities.
I may yet drop down dead in my forties, but it won’t be from corporate slavery.
Okay, maybe some folk love their jobs and careers far more than me. If I were a porn star or a cake taster, perhaps I’d have more commitment. Then there’s the danger of being so totally absorbed by your job that you lose your ‘self’. I went to an ‘Evening With’ - supremely lucid into his 70’s - master raconteur Clive James last night, where he recalled what a perfect mimic Peter Sellers was, to the point where Sellers had no voice or personality of his own. And look at the train wrecks he left behind. An extreme and very specific case, but a cautionary tale nonetheless.
And I know in these current economically terrifying times that it’s deemed more important than ever to tow the line and keep one’s head down - and maybe my ethos is seen as awkward and baffling by my employers; but I’ve yet (and here comes the jinxing again) to be fired for it.
Now who’s the boss of you?
Stay independent.
x
I can’t use the excuse of constantly being on the road with work as reason for the lengthy hiatus in blogging - I mean, I’m not the Rolling Stones… But the highway has been long, the miles many and my car is feeling worrying shagged because of this.
Now I don’t know whether it’s just the way my brain is wired, if it’s brought on by sleep deprivation, or maybe everyone has such a mental playfulness on long journeys, but I’m supremely thankful of the ability to amuse myself in the car (stop making up your own jokes in the back!).
Wednesday saw me rise early to head to Cardiff, followed - after a full day talking at people - by another long haul to Blackpool. The morning jaunt (apologies to anyone who follows my Twitters - as I’m about to recycle) saw me playing motorway tag with a nondescript 4x4. Nondescript that is aside from the legend emblazoned on the rear - ‘Fencer to the Gentry’. What a wonderful slogan! How often do you see that?
My mind regarded this as golden currency to conjure with. My immediate summation was that the driver of said vehicle was some kind of on-call sparring partner to the aristocracy. 4am and some clattered old Duke has an insatiable need to duel - who ya gonna call?…
This scenario played out for some time until finally I passed the vehicle and supplementary text down the side of the car made it clear the driver was merely in the business of erecting posh fences. Shame, that.
Anyway, that digression is merely a long preamble to this blog’s topic; setting expectations and boundaries (groan!).
Once I’d finally arrived - later that day - in Britain’s laughable comparison with Las Vegas, Blackpool, I checked into the hotel and met my boss in the bar. Now whilst it takes up an inordinate amount of my time managing my manager, he is fundamentally an entertaining drinking companion and not slow in getting the beers in. Much later into the evening than my day’s exploits should have permitted, my boss glanced at his phone and lamented the amount of emails that had been churning through all night. And yet he’d not switched modes himself by having his work and personal means of communication one and the same.
Being a staunch family man and very protective of my own personal space and time, I’ve set very clear expectations with any job I’ve taken. When workload requires long hours I will do them (very occasionally under duress), but I make damn sure I claw back some ‘me’ time when it suits my personal life and schedule. I have rarely found the need to work into the weekend, when all around me colleagues have made great show of the sacrifices they’ve been making. Often I see that coming down to a shaky moral code and lack of organisational skills rather than business so grave that it should eat into drinking time.
Or maybe I’m just lazy.
But in my line of work it’s not like we’re curing cancer. If your line of work is curing cancer, please disregard all of the above and get your skates on. You knew what you were getting into and when the job is done, take the rest of your life off…
Colleagues have scoffed at the personal expense of my running two mobile phones, but when I switch off that business mobile at a time of my choosing and my life begins anew without fear of corporate stupidity infringing, well - I fail to put a price on that.
And whether by design or pure luck (and I’ll jinx my good fortune now by writing it, I’m sure) I lead a healthy life both physically and for the most part mentally. Years and years have slipped past without my taking a sick day. Those who toil into the night and across weekends are rarely able to say this - and the sad fact is it usually takes someone in their forties dropping dead in front of them before they temporarily reassess their priorities.
I may yet drop down dead in my forties, but it won’t be from corporate slavery.
Okay, maybe some folk love their jobs and careers far more than me. If I were a porn star or a cake taster, perhaps I’d have more commitment. Then there’s the danger of being so totally absorbed by your job that you lose your ‘self’. I went to an ‘Evening With’ - supremely lucid into his 70’s - master raconteur Clive James last night, where he recalled what a perfect mimic Peter Sellers was, to the point where Sellers had no voice or personality of his own. And look at the train wrecks he left behind. An extreme and very specific case, but a cautionary tale nonetheless.
And I know in these current economically terrifying times that it’s deemed more important than ever to tow the line and keep one’s head down - and maybe my ethos is seen as awkward and baffling by my employers; but I’ve yet (and here comes the jinxing again) to be fired for it.
Now who’s the boss of you?
Stay independent.
x
Saturday 28 March 2009
The Selfish Jean Genie
So, sorry for the hiatus. Had a little interlude of self absorption. Apologies. I hope you’ve stayed true to your six year old self in my absence.
Now whilst up for mischief this weekend as always, it’s also traditionally a time for chores. And of course anyone who’s attended the Super-Nanny schools of either Mary Poppins or Snow White knows that the job is done in half the time - if you let a little Disney into your life.
By this I don’t mean sitting in front of interminable re-runs of that human personification of a rape alarm - Hannah Montana - which is chore enough in itself.
What you may like to try however, whether it be hanging out the washing, wielding a broom, or slaving over a loom, if you have one - is joining your imaginary animated helpers is a rousing verse of Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo as you brush away those cobwebs, actually & metaphorically. I find it leads to enormous well-being and very occasionally a swift short Sectioning.
Another thing I like to do when I’m in a bind - particularly when I feel the red mist of road rage broiling into dark storm clouds - is to misappropriate names of Disney characters to use as curses. It’s a great way to check unreasonable stresses and give cause to laugh at oneself and the ridiculousness of the situation you find yourself in.
For example - some of my favourite disses: Mufasa, Kuzco, Mushu, Pumbaa and of course the redoubtable Lady Kluck. I’m sure you can come up with many others to suit a multitude of scenarios. Please try it.
Such toying & frivolity, whilst amusing me personally no end, is of course foundation on which to stand firm the basic tenet of Why So Serious? You can analyse it way down to the chemical emissions that support well being and optimism, whatever, but the way I see it - to coin a recent phrase - is ‘survival of the nicest’.
Okay, so ’nice’ is one of those terms many now balk at. It’s been overused to the point of devolution - meaning on the whole ‘bland’ or ‘innocuous‘. The Collins English dictionary warns us to ’use sparingly’. “Nice Guys Finish Last” Green Day once warned us. This from the nicest (but subsequently the most influential) guys in punk.
And so for a while ’altruistic’ was coined as reward for those ’nice’ people with commendable social responsibility towards others. Many have been lauded for their trailblazing in altruism; Mother Teresa, Bob Geldof, Geri Halliwell (kidding) - all acting to help others above themselves - in periods when they didn’t have a book coming out.
But then someone managed to get a Grant to investigate the nature of altruism as some believed altruism didn’t fit the template for Evolution as laid down by Darwin. It couldn’t be as simple as just being ‘nice’. There had to be a more sinister, selfish agenda. Thus, amoebae forming cellular slime moulds, it was discovered, are verging on the sociopathic until starved, at which point some will sacrifice themselves - but then only for the good of the greater organism - so they may live on in essence.
For as the philosopher Spock once said; “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few (or one).” ...Star Trek II - The Wrath of Khan.
Human (and Vulcan) altruistic behaviour has been likened to the martyrdom of the amoeba - citing the example of a patriarch/matriarch giving their own life to save that of their family as simply safeguarding the propagation of hereditary genes. Putting the selfish into selflessness.
Which kind of over-eggs the pudding somewhat. Altruism seems to have mutated as a concept into something where the perpetrator of a kind act has to somehow suffer as a consequence, there-by throwing up the argument that they’re either certifiable - or that there must be (longer term) something in it for them.
But the pure definition of altruism hinges around ‘selflessness’ not ‘self sacrifice’. Being hyper-analytical about it is fine if you’re funding a theses, but to the majority of us, can’t we just be a little bit - dare I say it - ‘nice’?
My mother is a shining example. Through her life she has been a true altruist. Okay so she’s getting a bit outspoken and militant in her old age, but this does not denigrate any of the wonderful community support she has enacted over the years. And whilst still possessing a modicum of Faith, it hasn’t been through religious motivation that she’s ‘loved thy neighbour’. She’s been pure selflessness in action.
Now whilst genetically I understand how involuntarily our brains and bodies may drive us to certain behaviours, as super-evolved sentient beings, we also have the power to exact choice in following certain moral codes. And whether it be from charitable donations, volunteer work, or just a human ‘niceness’ in the way we interact with others, true altruists - and I firmly believe they exist - have no hidden agendas.
It’s easy to be browbeaten into inaction. Global Warming - to cite an example - has effected a triptych of camps. The devout non-believers, the passionate activists and the passive defeatists. But even in such a massive, global issue - we all have a part to play. We can all influence a change for good - or if you will - a change for ‘nice’. So a little bit of altruism ought to be a piece of cake (quite literally, if you are technically proficient at baked goods with acquaintances of a sweet tooth).
I’ve hinted at Random Acts of Kindness (RAK) before - and whilst I’ve been shabby in my practicing these of late, I’m a firm believer in the positive ripple effect they have - once you get past the initial suspicion of the recipient. Danny Wallace’s excellent life-affirming Join Me book is a good document in the power of RAK (I’m not on commission before you question my altruism) if you haven‘t already thumbed it.
We can all play a part in performing RAK - and I’m sure some of you already do. There is however a danger to try and incite such activity, much in the way that having an organised ‘spontaneity hour’ every day is overshadowed in irony, in that it should be from the heart and not product of a pointy stick.
In the States (where-else) there is a Random Acts of Kindness Foundation - promoting RAK week in February and World Kindness week in November (so make sure you start storing up your goodwill in readiness!).
Nice idea, but maybe a little questionable in the execution.
So all I’d say - to those true altruists out there - is give it some thought. Think what it means to you and how you could make a difference to those around you. If you really wanted to go to town, you could have some kind of RAK anthem on your mp3 music playing device - a timely prompt that literally plays on ‘random’.
Remember - RAK don’t have to cost money. And hopefully in time will - if they are not already - become second nature.
Leading by example, we can only hope that others follow.
And whilst some might say it’s a selfish motivation, I think it’s ‘nice’ to have your ripples felt.
Stay positive
x
Now whilst up for mischief this weekend as always, it’s also traditionally a time for chores. And of course anyone who’s attended the Super-Nanny schools of either Mary Poppins or Snow White knows that the job is done in half the time - if you let a little Disney into your life.
By this I don’t mean sitting in front of interminable re-runs of that human personification of a rape alarm - Hannah Montana - which is chore enough in itself.
What you may like to try however, whether it be hanging out the washing, wielding a broom, or slaving over a loom, if you have one - is joining your imaginary animated helpers is a rousing verse of Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo as you brush away those cobwebs, actually & metaphorically. I find it leads to enormous well-being and very occasionally a swift short Sectioning.
Another thing I like to do when I’m in a bind - particularly when I feel the red mist of road rage broiling into dark storm clouds - is to misappropriate names of Disney characters to use as curses. It’s a great way to check unreasonable stresses and give cause to laugh at oneself and the ridiculousness of the situation you find yourself in.
For example - some of my favourite disses: Mufasa, Kuzco, Mushu, Pumbaa and of course the redoubtable Lady Kluck. I’m sure you can come up with many others to suit a multitude of scenarios. Please try it.
Such toying & frivolity, whilst amusing me personally no end, is of course foundation on which to stand firm the basic tenet of Why So Serious? You can analyse it way down to the chemical emissions that support well being and optimism, whatever, but the way I see it - to coin a recent phrase - is ‘survival of the nicest’.
Okay, so ’nice’ is one of those terms many now balk at. It’s been overused to the point of devolution - meaning on the whole ‘bland’ or ‘innocuous‘. The Collins English dictionary warns us to ’use sparingly’. “Nice Guys Finish Last” Green Day once warned us. This from the nicest (but subsequently the most influential) guys in punk.
And so for a while ’altruistic’ was coined as reward for those ’nice’ people with commendable social responsibility towards others. Many have been lauded for their trailblazing in altruism; Mother Teresa, Bob Geldof, Geri Halliwell (kidding) - all acting to help others above themselves - in periods when they didn’t have a book coming out.
But then someone managed to get a Grant to investigate the nature of altruism as some believed altruism didn’t fit the template for Evolution as laid down by Darwin. It couldn’t be as simple as just being ‘nice’. There had to be a more sinister, selfish agenda. Thus, amoebae forming cellular slime moulds, it was discovered, are verging on the sociopathic until starved, at which point some will sacrifice themselves - but then only for the good of the greater organism - so they may live on in essence.
For as the philosopher Spock once said; “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few (or one).” ...Star Trek II - The Wrath of Khan.
Human (and Vulcan) altruistic behaviour has been likened to the martyrdom of the amoeba - citing the example of a patriarch/matriarch giving their own life to save that of their family as simply safeguarding the propagation of hereditary genes. Putting the selfish into selflessness.
Which kind of over-eggs the pudding somewhat. Altruism seems to have mutated as a concept into something where the perpetrator of a kind act has to somehow suffer as a consequence, there-by throwing up the argument that they’re either certifiable - or that there must be (longer term) something in it for them.
But the pure definition of altruism hinges around ‘selflessness’ not ‘self sacrifice’. Being hyper-analytical about it is fine if you’re funding a theses, but to the majority of us, can’t we just be a little bit - dare I say it - ‘nice’?
My mother is a shining example. Through her life she has been a true altruist. Okay so she’s getting a bit outspoken and militant in her old age, but this does not denigrate any of the wonderful community support she has enacted over the years. And whilst still possessing a modicum of Faith, it hasn’t been through religious motivation that she’s ‘loved thy neighbour’. She’s been pure selflessness in action.
Now whilst genetically I understand how involuntarily our brains and bodies may drive us to certain behaviours, as super-evolved sentient beings, we also have the power to exact choice in following certain moral codes. And whether it be from charitable donations, volunteer work, or just a human ‘niceness’ in the way we interact with others, true altruists - and I firmly believe they exist - have no hidden agendas.
It’s easy to be browbeaten into inaction. Global Warming - to cite an example - has effected a triptych of camps. The devout non-believers, the passionate activists and the passive defeatists. But even in such a massive, global issue - we all have a part to play. We can all influence a change for good - or if you will - a change for ‘nice’. So a little bit of altruism ought to be a piece of cake (quite literally, if you are technically proficient at baked goods with acquaintances of a sweet tooth).
I’ve hinted at Random Acts of Kindness (RAK) before - and whilst I’ve been shabby in my practicing these of late, I’m a firm believer in the positive ripple effect they have - once you get past the initial suspicion of the recipient. Danny Wallace’s excellent life-affirming Join Me book is a good document in the power of RAK (I’m not on commission before you question my altruism) if you haven‘t already thumbed it.
We can all play a part in performing RAK - and I’m sure some of you already do. There is however a danger to try and incite such activity, much in the way that having an organised ‘spontaneity hour’ every day is overshadowed in irony, in that it should be from the heart and not product of a pointy stick.
In the States (where-else) there is a Random Acts of Kindness Foundation - promoting RAK week in February and World Kindness week in November (so make sure you start storing up your goodwill in readiness!).
Nice idea, but maybe a little questionable in the execution.
So all I’d say - to those true altruists out there - is give it some thought. Think what it means to you and how you could make a difference to those around you. If you really wanted to go to town, you could have some kind of RAK anthem on your mp3 music playing device - a timely prompt that literally plays on ‘random’.
Remember - RAK don’t have to cost money. And hopefully in time will - if they are not already - become second nature.
Leading by example, we can only hope that others follow.
And whilst some might say it’s a selfish motivation, I think it’s ‘nice’ to have your ripples felt.
Stay positive
x
Monday 9 March 2009
Difficult First Album Syndrome
Gone is the time when record company Exec’s demanded: ‘where is the Hit Single?’. More pressing in these days of chart decline is the questionable question: ’which song would be great for Sky Sports’ ident’s?’ or ’which is the new Morrison’s ad?’
I was recently quizzed by a friend (I’m not permitted to use ’chum’ in this instance) on why I’d be happy to rest on my laurels and accept a ’created by’ and/or ’executive producer’ credit on my own sitcom (here’s hoping! March 25th is rapidly approaching…) rather than write the whole darn thing myself. My rather shaky justification was that - rather than me being a sole shining beacon for quality control, to ensure the quality I’d at least like to muck in with a pool of writers. On my head alone be it?… Are you mad?!!…
Rather eloquently (I thought - although I think the wine had been flowing freely (if not free) for some time at this point (it was mid-afternoon, after all)) I pontificated - I had moulded all my best work into a really solid Pilot episode. Surely that was like a band putting their tried and road tested bestest material onto the debut album before struggling with all subsequent follow ups - never living up to all that hype and potential.
I’d sculpted my great first album, I reasoned. I’d lit the torch for others to then run with. Perfectly reasonable, no? No.
My friend - with characteristic laser like logic - pointed out that by writing a Pilot episode, I had merely written a single for the album. Nothing more. Surely nothing less than an entire series equates to that debut album? Yes? Yes. Arse.
And so I’ve knuckled down. I do have plotlines and character arcs for a first series and am about to throw down episode three, which effectively brings me to a close on side one. At this rate side two may be mostly instrumental…
With friends like this, who needs Agents?
But it’s friends like this that keep us grounded and distanced from the delusional excuses we can occasional be prone to propping up our inactivity.
After all, it would be nice to realise that potential.
A few days after this revelation my attention was drawn to another piece of neglected writing, a children’s book with a Green theme that I’d written when the Green Agenda wasn’t even considered worthy a post-it note.
Spurred by ’trim your bin’ week at school, my youngest asked if she could take to school the book I’d written and illustrated for her big sister when she was nought but a wee little lady, a lifetime ago from the savvy independent woman she’s grown into and who I’m so immensely proud of. Absolutely not a problem. We shoehorned the leaves into protective wallets and off it went to be read in class. Collecting my youngest from school last Friday, she instructed me to wait whilst she fetched her teacher to heap praise upon me (modesty be damned - her teacher is hot!) ‘Teach’ spoke my thoughts in that the book is more topical now than ever - and thus there is a ready made audience out there.
So today, along with a more recent effort of my writing & illustrating a children’s story, I’ve bundled up my labour of love and despatched to a worthy (and ethical) publisher, in the hope of future glories (and animated series royalties).
Consider backside kicked.
Hopefully you’ve got people like this in your life, people to spur you into action. Because we’ve all got stuff in mothballs in the closet or under the bed. And providing they’re not monsters or sexual depravities, perhaps it’s time to dust them down?…
Stay creative.
x
I was recently quizzed by a friend (I’m not permitted to use ’chum’ in this instance) on why I’d be happy to rest on my laurels and accept a ’created by’ and/or ’executive producer’ credit on my own sitcom (here’s hoping! March 25th is rapidly approaching…) rather than write the whole darn thing myself. My rather shaky justification was that - rather than me being a sole shining beacon for quality control, to ensure the quality I’d at least like to muck in with a pool of writers. On my head alone be it?… Are you mad?!!…
Rather eloquently (I thought - although I think the wine had been flowing freely (if not free) for some time at this point (it was mid-afternoon, after all)) I pontificated - I had moulded all my best work into a really solid Pilot episode. Surely that was like a band putting their tried and road tested bestest material onto the debut album before struggling with all subsequent follow ups - never living up to all that hype and potential.
I’d sculpted my great first album, I reasoned. I’d lit the torch for others to then run with. Perfectly reasonable, no? No.
My friend - with characteristic laser like logic - pointed out that by writing a Pilot episode, I had merely written a single for the album. Nothing more. Surely nothing less than an entire series equates to that debut album? Yes? Yes. Arse.
And so I’ve knuckled down. I do have plotlines and character arcs for a first series and am about to throw down episode three, which effectively brings me to a close on side one. At this rate side two may be mostly instrumental…
With friends like this, who needs Agents?
But it’s friends like this that keep us grounded and distanced from the delusional excuses we can occasional be prone to propping up our inactivity.
After all, it would be nice to realise that potential.
A few days after this revelation my attention was drawn to another piece of neglected writing, a children’s book with a Green theme that I’d written when the Green Agenda wasn’t even considered worthy a post-it note.
Spurred by ’trim your bin’ week at school, my youngest asked if she could take to school the book I’d written and illustrated for her big sister when she was nought but a wee little lady, a lifetime ago from the savvy independent woman she’s grown into and who I’m so immensely proud of. Absolutely not a problem. We shoehorned the leaves into protective wallets and off it went to be read in class. Collecting my youngest from school last Friday, she instructed me to wait whilst she fetched her teacher to heap praise upon me (modesty be damned - her teacher is hot!) ‘Teach’ spoke my thoughts in that the book is more topical now than ever - and thus there is a ready made audience out there.
So today, along with a more recent effort of my writing & illustrating a children’s story, I’ve bundled up my labour of love and despatched to a worthy (and ethical) publisher, in the hope of future glories (and animated series royalties).
Consider backside kicked.
Hopefully you’ve got people like this in your life, people to spur you into action. Because we’ve all got stuff in mothballs in the closet or under the bed. And providing they’re not monsters or sexual depravities, perhaps it’s time to dust them down?…
Stay creative.
x
Thursday 5 March 2009
Director's Commentary
Who do you think would win in a fight between the stylists of each Coldplay, U2 & the Killers? Answer: who cares? As long as they’re preoccupied with fighting they won’t be able to dress up our rock stars as utter twats…
Just thought I’d throw that in.
Hello.
So another week bouncing around the UK as a lone voice for the TMFA (Too Many F’ing Acronyms) this week made all the better from the fleeting presence of Sol (that’s the fiery mass, not the lager). Because whilst as we’ve previously learnt - everything is better with bubblegum (barring soup and oral sex) - the same can of course be said about a good dose of sunshine (barring funeral scenes in gritty dramas and waking up next to Gordon Ramsay).
But even that sometimes isn’t enough to buoy me through endless meetings that seem to exist for the sole purpose of talking about what we are going to be talking about. I heard recently about an organisation where meetings all lasted no longer than 15 minutes. Genius! It would certainly cut down on the amount of people furiously agreeing in their own words - on an endless loop. It’s got to the stage now where inside my head I have playing the works of Oasis as transformed into elevator muzak in a bid to stop my blood from boiling.
You might not pick Oasis, but try the same principle with your own band of choice should you have the need.
Failing that - try this…
In the past I’ve been asked - and in turn asked others - ‘who would play you in the movie of your life?’ Recently I’ve gone beyond that and asked myself ’who would narrate the movie of your life?’ My number one go-to guy would have to be Morgan Freeman, in the vague hope that he would add gravitas to the tomfoolery that fluffs up my existence:
‘Little did Steve Rosier know on that fateful Tuesday morning, that the events about to unfold would have a profound impact upon his life - and resonate with a determined purpose throughout the rest of his days…’
More fitting would be the vocal stylings of Brian Blessed:
‘WHAT?!! WHAT IN THE NAME OF SATAN’S BALLS IS ROSIER DOING?!! THE MAN’S A BLETHERING IDIOT!!! WUHAHAHAHAHA!!!…’
How about you?
Stay positive.
x
Just thought I’d throw that in.
Hello.
So another week bouncing around the UK as a lone voice for the TMFA (Too Many F’ing Acronyms) this week made all the better from the fleeting presence of Sol (that’s the fiery mass, not the lager). Because whilst as we’ve previously learnt - everything is better with bubblegum (barring soup and oral sex) - the same can of course be said about a good dose of sunshine (barring funeral scenes in gritty dramas and waking up next to Gordon Ramsay).
But even that sometimes isn’t enough to buoy me through endless meetings that seem to exist for the sole purpose of talking about what we are going to be talking about. I heard recently about an organisation where meetings all lasted no longer than 15 minutes. Genius! It would certainly cut down on the amount of people furiously agreeing in their own words - on an endless loop. It’s got to the stage now where inside my head I have playing the works of Oasis as transformed into elevator muzak in a bid to stop my blood from boiling.
You might not pick Oasis, but try the same principle with your own band of choice should you have the need.
Failing that - try this…
In the past I’ve been asked - and in turn asked others - ‘who would play you in the movie of your life?’ Recently I’ve gone beyond that and asked myself ’who would narrate the movie of your life?’ My number one go-to guy would have to be Morgan Freeman, in the vague hope that he would add gravitas to the tomfoolery that fluffs up my existence:
‘Little did Steve Rosier know on that fateful Tuesday morning, that the events about to unfold would have a profound impact upon his life - and resonate with a determined purpose throughout the rest of his days…’
More fitting would be the vocal stylings of Brian Blessed:
‘WHAT?!! WHAT IN THE NAME OF SATAN’S BALLS IS ROSIER DOING?!! THE MAN’S A BLETHERING IDIOT!!! WUHAHAHAHAHA!!!…’
How about you?
Stay positive.
x
Friday 20 February 2009
Water Fools
I’ve racked up some miles again this week and the insufferable 6 hour plus lift I was gifted between Cardiff and Newcastle in no way reflected the childlike exuberance of fellow traveller Billy Connolly as he laughed heartily through his Journey to the Edge of the World (last night’s TV). Really, they should make that man available on the NHS. Joyful! Chin chin, Big Yin!
The previous week’s journey commenced with a heart warming sight in sub-zero conditions. Hitting the North by means of the A14, I encountered a stretch of highway that had clearly held prisoner motorists in the recent unexpectedly high snowfall. For there colonising the central reservation were families of snowfolk of all shapes, sizes and activities – and in some places mud and surface colouration even led to a variety of race.
If I was in charge of the media this would have been the lead story all day long, but I had to make do with the scene playing out in my mind, a wintry version of REM’s Everybody Hurts video, with motorists vacating their steely tombs en masse to revel in the snow and create this joyous community of powdery people. Why So Serious? Salutes you, playful, gentle folk.
Another prime example of what & who this blog is all about (‘so far’, but more of that in a minute) featured on a drive time national radio station (under the omnipresent ‘V’ brand – you know it) where listeners are encouraged to phone in with their slightly eccentric quirks; things that instantly cheer them up/ get them through the day (akin to my ‘List’ blog Trains, Planes & Agutter).
The example that had me clapping with delight on the interminable road hike from Stockport to Cardiff this week, was a lady that swans around her house wearing imaginary flippers of different colours. The image that this conjures is fantastic in itself, but that she includes the detail of different colour flippers, these are the things that soul mates are made of!
I’m going to try it, I bet it feels utterly wonderful.
I pay homage to these lovely souls as they are truly exuding the spirit of what I’d like to breed here. Just hearing and seeing such triumphs over the daily grind enriches my life. We need more just like them.
Which is kind of the point of my blah-ging here. We need an army of like-minded folk to take the baton and run screaming like loons over the mental constraints of the Matrix. And once we swell in numbers, we’ll set to thinking about some real positive action we can all spur (Random Acts of Kindness are coming up – come on, you were expecting that…)
To this end I’ve been looking to gift you with some new brothers and sisters. I’ve had postcards printed to spread the word and am currently strategically placing these in discreet areas that I think kindred spirits will haunt. Welcome aboard if you’re one of the random. Thanks for making the leap.
Because whilst the frivolous and the downright bloody silly is food for the soul, from time to time I will set aside my raison d’etre – and just for a moment – get serious… (sorry!)
For the power for change is within us all.
In my day job, I bounce around the UK supporting the application of certain software (zzz), banging on in my own words to ensure it’s used as ‘a force for Good – and not Evil’. Which is also – without the slightest subterfuge – what Why So Serious is about.
Consider this. Ribbed as I was for happening upon such a TV travesty in the first place, travel weary and confined to room serviced barracks earlier this week, I found my dulled senses entertained by ‘Celebrity’ Family Fortunes. One of the posers feeding the ‘Survey Says!’ rankings was; ‘Name something you drink out of a bottle’…
Got one?... Ashamed as I am to admit it, without hesitation I snapped “wine!” My thinking was that the substance whilst presented in a bottle, is extracted into a more socially acceptable receptacle prior to consumption. I wasn’t entirely envisaging drinking from the bottle…
Anyway, the top answer?... Water.
Fortunate as we are in Western civilisation (with the exception of the more ‘backward’ regions of Europe) – it wasn’t all that long ago that purchasing water in cancerous plastic bottles was the folly of madfolk. Why pay for something that comes free and plentiful from the tap or ‘faucet’? How long until we start paying a premium for air? (the same chum who mocked my televisual proclivities that very eve, swears blind that she saw a news report where some poor citizens in the world are already coughing up to avoid coughing up – though I maintain she was drunk and unwittingly watching Total Recall at the time…)
Now my beef isn’t around all the romantic BS wrapped around pure springs ideals in a screw cap (seriously – if you’ve ever followed the course of a real mountain stream, you’d certainly expect a sheep’s poop float with your H2O at the very least) – more so the evil scumbags profiteering in its proliferation.
Drum roll for our Survey Says top offenders – Coca Cola and the ‘number one bottled water company worldwide’ - Nestle.
For you have to be a clued up consumer or a lover of tiny tiny text to often realise that Buxton, Vittel, Perrier, Pellegrino, Malvern and many many regional variations (most of us are at least aware of Coke’s Desani debacle) are the product of ‘those who cast no shadow’.
The corporate atrocities perpetrated by each of these evil empire’s, knowingly or by supposed ignorance of sinning through franchised association, number in their ranks: child labour, extortion, bribery, death threats to union members and their families, criminal oversights in health & safety practices and without a tinge of irony - local damming and poisoning of local water supplies with the expulsion of waste by-products.
Nestle are of course world denounced for past marketing their formula milk in developing countries by way of bullying and scare mongering of mothers, leading them to believe that their essential and life preserving breast milk is far inferior to Nestle’s mass produced alternative. Ker-ching!
I used to be a mid-high consumer of Coke products. Then there came a day that with the benefit of knowledge and the realisation that my lipsmackingthirstquenching tipple of choice hardly need bear the allergy warning: ‘may contain water’. So I decided to do the decent thing. Which is hard, for just as Coke & Nestle have cornered the fizzy pop, confectionery and soul-sapping-scumbag markets, it’s really difficult to buy water bottled by ethical companies.
My own solution to the problem is that the bottle(s) I have most constant at my side, are recycled receptacles containing nothing but the produce freely flowing forth from my faucet. Take that - corporate greed!
I’m also planning to start up my stand-up again and take this message on the road (more travel! – deep joy!) and am currently scrawling down ‘ethical’ jokes which I hope don’t come across as preachy.
Of course should you adopt such an ethic of abstinence, it always helps to write/email your target of choice so they don’t misinterpret such market forces as recession and the like as the sole contributor to a blip in their humungous profits. Thus, together as one, this force for Good can start to get noticed.
Oh, and should you commit to all this – please make sure you’re wearing your odd coloured flippers whilst you do so, please.
Fantastic!
Further reading:
Mark Thomas – Belching Out the Devil: Global Adventures With Coca-Cola
Duncan Clark – The Rough Guide To Ethical Living
Fred Pearce – Confessions of an Eco Sinner
Mark Pendergrast – For God, Country and Coca-Cola
The previous week’s journey commenced with a heart warming sight in sub-zero conditions. Hitting the North by means of the A14, I encountered a stretch of highway that had clearly held prisoner motorists in the recent unexpectedly high snowfall. For there colonising the central reservation were families of snowfolk of all shapes, sizes and activities – and in some places mud and surface colouration even led to a variety of race.
If I was in charge of the media this would have been the lead story all day long, but I had to make do with the scene playing out in my mind, a wintry version of REM’s Everybody Hurts video, with motorists vacating their steely tombs en masse to revel in the snow and create this joyous community of powdery people. Why So Serious? Salutes you, playful, gentle folk.
Another prime example of what & who this blog is all about (‘so far’, but more of that in a minute) featured on a drive time national radio station (under the omnipresent ‘V’ brand – you know it) where listeners are encouraged to phone in with their slightly eccentric quirks; things that instantly cheer them up/ get them through the day (akin to my ‘List’ blog Trains, Planes & Agutter).
The example that had me clapping with delight on the interminable road hike from Stockport to Cardiff this week, was a lady that swans around her house wearing imaginary flippers of different colours. The image that this conjures is fantastic in itself, but that she includes the detail of different colour flippers, these are the things that soul mates are made of!
I’m going to try it, I bet it feels utterly wonderful.
I pay homage to these lovely souls as they are truly exuding the spirit of what I’d like to breed here. Just hearing and seeing such triumphs over the daily grind enriches my life. We need more just like them.
Which is kind of the point of my blah-ging here. We need an army of like-minded folk to take the baton and run screaming like loons over the mental constraints of the Matrix. And once we swell in numbers, we’ll set to thinking about some real positive action we can all spur (Random Acts of Kindness are coming up – come on, you were expecting that…)
To this end I’ve been looking to gift you with some new brothers and sisters. I’ve had postcards printed to spread the word and am currently strategically placing these in discreet areas that I think kindred spirits will haunt. Welcome aboard if you’re one of the random. Thanks for making the leap.
Because whilst the frivolous and the downright bloody silly is food for the soul, from time to time I will set aside my raison d’etre – and just for a moment – get serious… (sorry!)
For the power for change is within us all.
In my day job, I bounce around the UK supporting the application of certain software (zzz), banging on in my own words to ensure it’s used as ‘a force for Good – and not Evil’. Which is also – without the slightest subterfuge – what Why So Serious is about.
Consider this. Ribbed as I was for happening upon such a TV travesty in the first place, travel weary and confined to room serviced barracks earlier this week, I found my dulled senses entertained by ‘Celebrity’ Family Fortunes. One of the posers feeding the ‘Survey Says!’ rankings was; ‘Name something you drink out of a bottle’…
Got one?... Ashamed as I am to admit it, without hesitation I snapped “wine!” My thinking was that the substance whilst presented in a bottle, is extracted into a more socially acceptable receptacle prior to consumption. I wasn’t entirely envisaging drinking from the bottle…
Anyway, the top answer?... Water.
Fortunate as we are in Western civilisation (with the exception of the more ‘backward’ regions of Europe) – it wasn’t all that long ago that purchasing water in cancerous plastic bottles was the folly of madfolk. Why pay for something that comes free and plentiful from the tap or ‘faucet’? How long until we start paying a premium for air? (the same chum who mocked my televisual proclivities that very eve, swears blind that she saw a news report where some poor citizens in the world are already coughing up to avoid coughing up – though I maintain she was drunk and unwittingly watching Total Recall at the time…)
Now my beef isn’t around all the romantic BS wrapped around pure springs ideals in a screw cap (seriously – if you’ve ever followed the course of a real mountain stream, you’d certainly expect a sheep’s poop float with your H2O at the very least) – more so the evil scumbags profiteering in its proliferation.
Drum roll for our Survey Says top offenders – Coca Cola and the ‘number one bottled water company worldwide’ - Nestle.
For you have to be a clued up consumer or a lover of tiny tiny text to often realise that Buxton, Vittel, Perrier, Pellegrino, Malvern and many many regional variations (most of us are at least aware of Coke’s Desani debacle) are the product of ‘those who cast no shadow’.
The corporate atrocities perpetrated by each of these evil empire’s, knowingly or by supposed ignorance of sinning through franchised association, number in their ranks: child labour, extortion, bribery, death threats to union members and their families, criminal oversights in health & safety practices and without a tinge of irony - local damming and poisoning of local water supplies with the expulsion of waste by-products.
Nestle are of course world denounced for past marketing their formula milk in developing countries by way of bullying and scare mongering of mothers, leading them to believe that their essential and life preserving breast milk is far inferior to Nestle’s mass produced alternative. Ker-ching!
I used to be a mid-high consumer of Coke products. Then there came a day that with the benefit of knowledge and the realisation that my lipsmackingthirstquenching tipple of choice hardly need bear the allergy warning: ‘may contain water’. So I decided to do the decent thing. Which is hard, for just as Coke & Nestle have cornered the fizzy pop, confectionery and soul-sapping-scumbag markets, it’s really difficult to buy water bottled by ethical companies.
My own solution to the problem is that the bottle(s) I have most constant at my side, are recycled receptacles containing nothing but the produce freely flowing forth from my faucet. Take that - corporate greed!
I’m also planning to start up my stand-up again and take this message on the road (more travel! – deep joy!) and am currently scrawling down ‘ethical’ jokes which I hope don’t come across as preachy.
Of course should you adopt such an ethic of abstinence, it always helps to write/email your target of choice so they don’t misinterpret such market forces as recession and the like as the sole contributor to a blip in their humungous profits. Thus, together as one, this force for Good can start to get noticed.
Oh, and should you commit to all this – please make sure you’re wearing your odd coloured flippers whilst you do so, please.
Fantastic!
Further reading:
Mark Thomas – Belching Out the Devil: Global Adventures With Coca-Cola
Duncan Clark – The Rough Guide To Ethical Living
Fred Pearce – Confessions of an Eco Sinner
Mark Pendergrast – For God, Country and Coca-Cola
Sunday 15 February 2009
What Happens If You Lay Down Under A Cow?...
“Life moves pretty fast…” once intoned a certain Ferris Bueller. “If you don’t stop and look around once in a while - you could miss it!”
One hopes that Ferris, where-ever he is and whatever he’s up to in middle-age, has stayed true to himself. Because upon reaching a certain age, excuses as to why one is unable to do the things they truly long to, become rife.
I’m constantly reminded that the reason I have so much fun and explore so much with my kids is my uniquely being able to devote them my entire attention for the 2.3 days a fortnight we spend together. An utterly fair assessment by their labour-saving-device-heavy full-time parents; for the uber benevolent ‘domestic chore’ fairies that favour me whilst working away from home 5 days a week, do indeed lavish unto me favouritism in extremis...
Do not blight me with excuses.
Just one example. For whilst it would be easy to rake over the common sense prevailing/dispensed by associates and either never venture out, or adhere to a strict bedtime on a ’school night’ - in the spirit of Ferris I say: ‘to hell with excuses and consequences‘.
Life moves pretty fast, don’t you know?…
So it was as Tuesday fumbled into Wednesday, with freezing cold pebbles nuzzling my back, as I traced constellations gazing down upon Brighton beach, the waves running laps and the almost full-moon open mouthed at the showy athleticism from a brace of comets. This on the back of inadvertently gate crashing a private function and excelling at some mutated form of basketball utilising the type of oversized handbag that could easily harbour several generations of illegal immigrants (a sport which has subsequently been copywrit as 'basketbag' I believe) I resisted the urge to berate myself too harshly, nudging away thoughts of sensible curfews and the anaesthesia of routine. My job, my home, my accumulated items of cloth and plastic - these could all dissolve with a second’s notice (and frequently threaten to do so). But it’s moments like that on the beach, completely off the timetable and gloriously without contrivance, that stokes the fire of my existence and feeds the warmth of wonderful memories.
We’re taught from an early age that modesty and humility are desirable bedfellows should we wish to become well adjusted, unremarkable members of polite society. And whilst no-one loves a bighead - aside from themselves (and most probably - big hat salesfolk) - should we be so overly mindful of celebrating our minor triumphs against such rigid, unimaginative conformity? I’m not saying that my frivolous detours are life changing or holding them up as any template by which others should live (I mean - who the f**k am I to set any kind of example?), but to reflect upon such moments and hold one’s head high having yet again resisted the succubus of excuse, I feel is some cause celebre.
As I’m sure you’ve surmised - the answer to my pun-baiting title is; ‘a great big pat on the back’... And if you are already one to spurn the allure of the rock-steady, please give yourself one right now(!) I mean it. Personally, there are times - whether it be from single status or the autonomy of my work regime, that without a self congratulatory moment, I’d just be bouncing from one minor triumph to another with nary a cursory ‘well done‘. And so sometimes, physically - and if not metaphorically, I will give myself a well deserved pat on the back. As ridiculous as this sounds and initially feels, I find it works wonders.
Now whilst far from being a quintessential ‘Yes Man’ - and although much of my exuberance is sprung from the haphazard nature of life’s little trinkets, I’ve decided this year to supplement my randomness in order to absolutely stave off apathetic bad habits. My birthday happens to fall on the 24th day of a month and as is customary when I have a glass/bottle of wine in my hand, I recently spewed out a barely conceived idea that has since passed into Law. That is, on the 24th day of every month, I’m going to experience something entirely new.
I’m not trying to franchise fun in some lame & witless ‘Spontaneity Day - Same Time, Same Place - Every Month’ irony. The off-piste moments I’m confident will continue to tug at my sleeve. The 24th is - as I say - in one way supplementary to this and in another - a mini-celebration, a nice big pat on the back - for staying true to one’s self. A once in a while reminder to stop and look - and not miss life as it whizzes past.
I feel like I owe it to me and my six year old self. Don’t you?
Stay true.
x
One hopes that Ferris, where-ever he is and whatever he’s up to in middle-age, has stayed true to himself. Because upon reaching a certain age, excuses as to why one is unable to do the things they truly long to, become rife.
I’m constantly reminded that the reason I have so much fun and explore so much with my kids is my uniquely being able to devote them my entire attention for the 2.3 days a fortnight we spend together. An utterly fair assessment by their labour-saving-device-heavy full-time parents; for the uber benevolent ‘domestic chore’ fairies that favour me whilst working away from home 5 days a week, do indeed lavish unto me favouritism in extremis...
Do not blight me with excuses.
Just one example. For whilst it would be easy to rake over the common sense prevailing/dispensed by associates and either never venture out, or adhere to a strict bedtime on a ’school night’ - in the spirit of Ferris I say: ‘to hell with excuses and consequences‘.
Life moves pretty fast, don’t you know?…
So it was as Tuesday fumbled into Wednesday, with freezing cold pebbles nuzzling my back, as I traced constellations gazing down upon Brighton beach, the waves running laps and the almost full-moon open mouthed at the showy athleticism from a brace of comets. This on the back of inadvertently gate crashing a private function and excelling at some mutated form of basketball utilising the type of oversized handbag that could easily harbour several generations of illegal immigrants (a sport which has subsequently been copywrit as 'basketbag' I believe) I resisted the urge to berate myself too harshly, nudging away thoughts of sensible curfews and the anaesthesia of routine. My job, my home, my accumulated items of cloth and plastic - these could all dissolve with a second’s notice (and frequently threaten to do so). But it’s moments like that on the beach, completely off the timetable and gloriously without contrivance, that stokes the fire of my existence and feeds the warmth of wonderful memories.
We’re taught from an early age that modesty and humility are desirable bedfellows should we wish to become well adjusted, unremarkable members of polite society. And whilst no-one loves a bighead - aside from themselves (and most probably - big hat salesfolk) - should we be so overly mindful of celebrating our minor triumphs against such rigid, unimaginative conformity? I’m not saying that my frivolous detours are life changing or holding them up as any template by which others should live (I mean - who the f**k am I to set any kind of example?), but to reflect upon such moments and hold one’s head high having yet again resisted the succubus of excuse, I feel is some cause celebre.
As I’m sure you’ve surmised - the answer to my pun-baiting title is; ‘a great big pat on the back’... And if you are already one to spurn the allure of the rock-steady, please give yourself one right now(!) I mean it. Personally, there are times - whether it be from single status or the autonomy of my work regime, that without a self congratulatory moment, I’d just be bouncing from one minor triumph to another with nary a cursory ‘well done‘. And so sometimes, physically - and if not metaphorically, I will give myself a well deserved pat on the back. As ridiculous as this sounds and initially feels, I find it works wonders.
Now whilst far from being a quintessential ‘Yes Man’ - and although much of my exuberance is sprung from the haphazard nature of life’s little trinkets, I’ve decided this year to supplement my randomness in order to absolutely stave off apathetic bad habits. My birthday happens to fall on the 24th day of a month and as is customary when I have a glass/bottle of wine in my hand, I recently spewed out a barely conceived idea that has since passed into Law. That is, on the 24th day of every month, I’m going to experience something entirely new.
I’m not trying to franchise fun in some lame & witless ‘Spontaneity Day - Same Time, Same Place - Every Month’ irony. The off-piste moments I’m confident will continue to tug at my sleeve. The 24th is - as I say - in one way supplementary to this and in another - a mini-celebration, a nice big pat on the back - for staying true to one’s self. A once in a while reminder to stop and look - and not miss life as it whizzes past.
I feel like I owe it to me and my six year old self. Don’t you?
Stay true.
x
Sunday 8 February 2009
What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love & Understanding?...
So. “What the f**k have you done lately?…”
The question posed in the last line of semi-recent uber-sexy, ultra-violent, turbo-actioner Wanted -and one I feel we should all ask the mirror once in a while.
For once over the hills of childish exuberance and teenage naivety and prior to what is sneered at by sensible little citizens as ’mid-life crises’ or senile recklessness, the allure of a safe, sanitised middle-life can become overwhelming.
We put ourselves in convenient little boxes well within ’comfort zones’. We let roles and labels and certified ‘skills’ define us. And deep inside us, another little bit of our 6 year old selves whimpers and dies.
One of the reasons I believe that so many people become painfully addicted to the likes of televised X-Factor auditions, is their utter relief at watching others fail, so as to make themselves feel ’normal’. It’s also why most observational comedy goes down so well. Such X-Factor/ Got Talent never-gonna-be’s are trotted out as a permissible freakshow in our pc world to massage the regrettable human need to feel superior. And that’s even before Joe & Josephine Public are granted the ’lines are now open’ god-like power to make and grow bored of careers.
And okay, whilst many of the desperately passionate (or should that be the other way around?) warbling wanna-be’s would be better off seeking professional help other than that of a voice coach, I say - more power to them!
Because here are folk embodying the true spirit of punk. Disregard for a moment their delusions of grandeur, here are a band of souls so set on a dream that they thumb their noses at having the honed skills and impeccable credentials (okay - and in many cases - even a jot of talent) that they are willing to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous ribbing. And to this end, I have far more time for such perceived ‘failures’ than those armchair pundits taking mean-spirited pleasure from atop idling high horses.
For those who can (or wish they could) - do. Those who can’t - become critics.
This was all brought to mind yesterday. Improvising in the snow with my children, misappropriating their summertime ‘wave boards’ as makeshift snow boards (incidentally, the most hilarious fun I’ve ever had in the snow) my son quizzed me in readiness for his forthcoming skiing holiday with his mother.
Now my one foray onto the slopes was short and woeful and saw me drawing the kind of tear stained hilarity befitting an X-Factor drop-out, so although my counsel is likely to prove unworthy in many respects, my advice to my son was simple: “Don’t be afraid to make a complete tit of yourself.”
Being shy by nature but playful by heart, I’ve embraced my shortcomings and plunged wholeheartedly into such pursuits as performing comedy, creating music and attempting sporting feats that my body and brain have no real inclination or ability to. Now whilst most ’sensible’ people would probably rather run into a burning building than confront assured humiliation, do you know what? - in the process of exploring my many ineptitudes - man, I’ve had some fun!
My youngest had a homework assignment this weekend to write a couple of lines that could be used as a radio jingle for her school. Always an advocate of putting in some extra effort (well, admittedly more so of others homework that I ever was my own) I suggested that we compose a simple backing track, throw in a couple of sound effects and record it. Which we duly did. Playing it back, my youngest was pleased with the result but not her singing. Fearing embarrassment in class, she suggested that this was a project best kept between the two of us. I told her that it was entirely her call, but that by showing such imagination and initiative, she had in her hands a CD to be proud of - and even if she only plays it to Mummy and her Teacher, didn’t we have huge fun pulling it all together?
Because outside of certain governing Laws - and if you’re of a slavish religious bent, dubious doctrines - we fortunates in the Western World pretty much have an open playing field to do and try as we please. What a gift! And surely one not to be squandered? So what if a few unenlightened braggarts mock and sneer, gape and jeer? Fie on them!
Even if you’re unwilling, unready or unable to throw yourself to the lions just yet, take a look around you. In uncertain and trying times, there are still brave souls all around us; start up companies/ small business, local bands and comedy clubs, underfunded & underexposed charities… People of dreams who fly against the harsh winds of sensible safety with passion and drive that deserve our encouragement and support, I hope you agree.
So. Maybe we could all do with demanding of the mirror once in a while: “What the f**k have you done lately?…”
The question posed in the last line of semi-recent uber-sexy, ultra-violent, turbo-actioner Wanted -and one I feel we should all ask the mirror once in a while.
For once over the hills of childish exuberance and teenage naivety and prior to what is sneered at by sensible little citizens as ’mid-life crises’ or senile recklessness, the allure of a safe, sanitised middle-life can become overwhelming.
We put ourselves in convenient little boxes well within ’comfort zones’. We let roles and labels and certified ‘skills’ define us. And deep inside us, another little bit of our 6 year old selves whimpers and dies.
One of the reasons I believe that so many people become painfully addicted to the likes of televised X-Factor auditions, is their utter relief at watching others fail, so as to make themselves feel ’normal’. It’s also why most observational comedy goes down so well. Such X-Factor/ Got Talent never-gonna-be’s are trotted out as a permissible freakshow in our pc world to massage the regrettable human need to feel superior. And that’s even before Joe & Josephine Public are granted the ’lines are now open’ god-like power to make and grow bored of careers.
And okay, whilst many of the desperately passionate (or should that be the other way around?) warbling wanna-be’s would be better off seeking professional help other than that of a voice coach, I say - more power to them!
Because here are folk embodying the true spirit of punk. Disregard for a moment their delusions of grandeur, here are a band of souls so set on a dream that they thumb their noses at having the honed skills and impeccable credentials (okay - and in many cases - even a jot of talent) that they are willing to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous ribbing. And to this end, I have far more time for such perceived ‘failures’ than those armchair pundits taking mean-spirited pleasure from atop idling high horses.
For those who can (or wish they could) - do. Those who can’t - become critics.
This was all brought to mind yesterday. Improvising in the snow with my children, misappropriating their summertime ‘wave boards’ as makeshift snow boards (incidentally, the most hilarious fun I’ve ever had in the snow) my son quizzed me in readiness for his forthcoming skiing holiday with his mother.
Now my one foray onto the slopes was short and woeful and saw me drawing the kind of tear stained hilarity befitting an X-Factor drop-out, so although my counsel is likely to prove unworthy in many respects, my advice to my son was simple: “Don’t be afraid to make a complete tit of yourself.”
Being shy by nature but playful by heart, I’ve embraced my shortcomings and plunged wholeheartedly into such pursuits as performing comedy, creating music and attempting sporting feats that my body and brain have no real inclination or ability to. Now whilst most ’sensible’ people would probably rather run into a burning building than confront assured humiliation, do you know what? - in the process of exploring my many ineptitudes - man, I’ve had some fun!
My youngest had a homework assignment this weekend to write a couple of lines that could be used as a radio jingle for her school. Always an advocate of putting in some extra effort (well, admittedly more so of others homework that I ever was my own) I suggested that we compose a simple backing track, throw in a couple of sound effects and record it. Which we duly did. Playing it back, my youngest was pleased with the result but not her singing. Fearing embarrassment in class, she suggested that this was a project best kept between the two of us. I told her that it was entirely her call, but that by showing such imagination and initiative, she had in her hands a CD to be proud of - and even if she only plays it to Mummy and her Teacher, didn’t we have huge fun pulling it all together?
Because outside of certain governing Laws - and if you’re of a slavish religious bent, dubious doctrines - we fortunates in the Western World pretty much have an open playing field to do and try as we please. What a gift! And surely one not to be squandered? So what if a few unenlightened braggarts mock and sneer, gape and jeer? Fie on them!
Even if you’re unwilling, unready or unable to throw yourself to the lions just yet, take a look around you. In uncertain and trying times, there are still brave souls all around us; start up companies/ small business, local bands and comedy clubs, underfunded & underexposed charities… People of dreams who fly against the harsh winds of sensible safety with passion and drive that deserve our encouragement and support, I hope you agree.
So. Maybe we could all do with demanding of the mirror once in a while: “What the f**k have you done lately?…”
Wednesday 4 February 2009
Planes, Trains and Agutter...
Are you a list person? Owing to a raggedy memory at best, my life would be chaos without lists. Therefore of lists I am a big fan. And to those about to list, I salute you!
And whilst previous blogs have a tendency to veer towards a list of ‘everything that happens to be rattling around my head at this very moment in time’ - I’ll try to keep this brief(er).
Riffing on ideas thrown out by kindred spirits Josie Long and Amelie Poulain, have you ever jotted down your most favouritest ever things - ever; things that are absolutely guaranteed to swing your darkest moments around to Happy Hour?
Coming up with a Top 5 is hard going for me, so I’ll cheat and mention a few of those unranked because they would possibly be obvious choices and therefore may be considered the ‘easy option’.
Things like:
Tapping a humorous vein so rich that a friend or family member laughs so heartily that I too start to convulse and we both fall about until hot tears blur vision and the act of laughing actually hurts.
Pitching up at the movies on a weekday afternoon always feels a bit special and naughty. Pepper this with the dawning excitement that you and a chum may possibly be the only patrons that very afternoon - talk about your exclusive screening!…
The swell of the PA to signal the imminent arrival on stage of your favourite band, or the frenzied exuberance of the theatre curtain call as the audience leaps as one to their feet, their heartfelt applause reflected in the beaming faces of the spent cast.
Closing the door on the world come every other Friday evening, having completed the 100-odd mile round trip to collect my children and cherishing every precious moment we’re about to spend together, with the whole weekend laid out before us. And that very first hug upon seeing them after so long, the power of which can melt away the most stubborn fatigue & despair.
And whilst on my favourite people in the world, that waking moment on Christmas morning, hearing the muffled sounds of excited discovery as another festive bounty is beheld.
Oh - and free-wheeling through countryside on my bicycle, imaging the von Trapp children spilling from the scenery to join me in rousing verse.
They are all Top 5 (okay - 6, maybe 7) in their own right and as I say - a cheat that I mention them ahead of - er - my Top 5...
Here for your consideration (and in no particular order) my guaranteed mood busters. I think of these and the world ain’t such a monstrous place:
1. Dipping a wet finger into sherbert, then drawing the residue onto my tongue
2. Having purely by accident happened upon the perfect gift for a loved one and despatched for the sheer joy of it - regardless of any ‘special occasion’ - the mind blowing powder keg of anticipation of it’s reception at the perceived time of delivery
3. The joy of having a portal into the mind of a child and its unfurling earnest innocence; one of my favourite examples being when my youngest regarded the billowy white excretions from the industrial chimneys of a sugar refinery and enquired: “Daddy, is that a cloud factory?”
4. Speaking of which, the point of air travel where the urgency of the vessel has peaked and upon levelling out above altocumulus, a fluffy, puffy carpet stretching as far as the eye can comprehend, classical musical playing over headphones, regarding the vista and thinking; “I could totally run across that!” (don‘t try this last bit, it may not be entirely possible)
5. Lastly, the joy that trains elicit in folk. Just think of the Railway Children and how stoked they always were. In fact; true story, to permanently capture the feeling, Jenny Agutter had a full-size railway line constructed at the bottom of her garden, so that six times daily she can bound across her lawn waving her bloomers, beaming like a lunatic with a class A drug habit. How amazing would that be? Although pity those poor professional commuters cursed to end their days suffering a never ending scenery-chewing loop across the Agutter estate…
My particular fave train moment is that jolt of uncertainty where two trains on near converging tracks sidle up all snuggy, teasing, threatening to touch, electricity literally in the air… And you gape and you gasp and you wait and you wonder… And in my mind, one train - having travelled a great distance in great solitude from the North, nudges towards its flirtatious companion, reaches out an unseen finger and chirps; “Tag!” Then races off, the baton finally passed and their playful duty dutifully done.
Now I feel all warm & fuzzy inside.
So, tell me, please do - what will make up your list?
Stay positive.
x
And whilst previous blogs have a tendency to veer towards a list of ‘everything that happens to be rattling around my head at this very moment in time’ - I’ll try to keep this brief(er).
Riffing on ideas thrown out by kindred spirits Josie Long and Amelie Poulain, have you ever jotted down your most favouritest ever things - ever; things that are absolutely guaranteed to swing your darkest moments around to Happy Hour?
Coming up with a Top 5 is hard going for me, so I’ll cheat and mention a few of those unranked because they would possibly be obvious choices and therefore may be considered the ‘easy option’.
Things like:
Tapping a humorous vein so rich that a friend or family member laughs so heartily that I too start to convulse and we both fall about until hot tears blur vision and the act of laughing actually hurts.
Pitching up at the movies on a weekday afternoon always feels a bit special and naughty. Pepper this with the dawning excitement that you and a chum may possibly be the only patrons that very afternoon - talk about your exclusive screening!…
The swell of the PA to signal the imminent arrival on stage of your favourite band, or the frenzied exuberance of the theatre curtain call as the audience leaps as one to their feet, their heartfelt applause reflected in the beaming faces of the spent cast.
Closing the door on the world come every other Friday evening, having completed the 100-odd mile round trip to collect my children and cherishing every precious moment we’re about to spend together, with the whole weekend laid out before us. And that very first hug upon seeing them after so long, the power of which can melt away the most stubborn fatigue & despair.
And whilst on my favourite people in the world, that waking moment on Christmas morning, hearing the muffled sounds of excited discovery as another festive bounty is beheld.
Oh - and free-wheeling through countryside on my bicycle, imaging the von Trapp children spilling from the scenery to join me in rousing verse.
They are all Top 5 (okay - 6, maybe 7) in their own right and as I say - a cheat that I mention them ahead of - er - my Top 5...
Here for your consideration (and in no particular order) my guaranteed mood busters. I think of these and the world ain’t such a monstrous place:
1. Dipping a wet finger into sherbert, then drawing the residue onto my tongue
2. Having purely by accident happened upon the perfect gift for a loved one and despatched for the sheer joy of it - regardless of any ‘special occasion’ - the mind blowing powder keg of anticipation of it’s reception at the perceived time of delivery
3. The joy of having a portal into the mind of a child and its unfurling earnest innocence; one of my favourite examples being when my youngest regarded the billowy white excretions from the industrial chimneys of a sugar refinery and enquired: “Daddy, is that a cloud factory?”
4. Speaking of which, the point of air travel where the urgency of the vessel has peaked and upon levelling out above altocumulus, a fluffy, puffy carpet stretching as far as the eye can comprehend, classical musical playing over headphones, regarding the vista and thinking; “I could totally run across that!” (don‘t try this last bit, it may not be entirely possible)
5. Lastly, the joy that trains elicit in folk. Just think of the Railway Children and how stoked they always were. In fact; true story, to permanently capture the feeling, Jenny Agutter had a full-size railway line constructed at the bottom of her garden, so that six times daily she can bound across her lawn waving her bloomers, beaming like a lunatic with a class A drug habit. How amazing would that be? Although pity those poor professional commuters cursed to end their days suffering a never ending scenery-chewing loop across the Agutter estate…
My particular fave train moment is that jolt of uncertainty where two trains on near converging tracks sidle up all snuggy, teasing, threatening to touch, electricity literally in the air… And you gape and you gasp and you wait and you wonder… And in my mind, one train - having travelled a great distance in great solitude from the North, nudges towards its flirtatious companion, reaches out an unseen finger and chirps; “Tag!” Then races off, the baton finally passed and their playful duty dutifully done.
Now I feel all warm & fuzzy inside.
So, tell me, please do - what will make up your list?
Stay positive.
x
Friday 30 January 2009
Trigger Happy
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – everything is better with bubblegum. With the possible exception of soup… Aside from that, everything is better with bubblegum. Apart from oral sex… Okay, so everything is better with bubblegum aside from oral sex and soup. Which is a shame, seeing as I started off with such a neat little poster-boy slogan…
Anyway, Monday morning, rising early and hitting my favourite clogged artery (the M25, blog-fans) I scanned surly skies draped with nimbostratus and - to slightly mis-paraphrase C-3P0 - remembered how much I hate space travel.
Now, I can’t profess to having a full blown fear of flying, it’s just I’d rather not taunt the laws of physics thankyewveddymuch. I have a number of extenuating reasons for this, not least being my pledge to keep my carbon footprint to that of a baby bootie. In this I’m in some small way ‘offsetting’ the moon boot sized swathe my ex-wives cut across Mother Earth. Just kidding.
But in all honesty, air travel does make me a trifle more uneasy the older I get. And abstinence doesn’t particularly bother me. Because I’m incredibly fortunate in the pleasures that jet-setting has afforded me in the past; to have watched the sun set over the Grand Canyon, to have cycled alongside deer gambolling through Yosemite, to have relaxed on balmy streets and drank with Parisians into the small hours, to have scudded across the UK above a carpet or pyrotechnics on bonfire night and helicoptered through the clawing superbright superstructures of Las Vegas.
Okay so there’s a big old world out there still to explore, but one: I’d like to trek across it by sea and rail a la Mr Palin should I ever have the travellers cheques to do so - and deux: there’s still plenty of wonders to behold on my own fair shores. I mean, who needs the pyramids when you can revel in the beauty of torched cars reflected in the eyes of a Hen Party in Gateshead? Seriously…
Anyway, as is my wont, I digress…
Back to my C-3P0 moment, yada yada yada… So as I started to mewl over taking to the skies once more, I decided to follow my own advice and see the positive in the situation. I was after all on an expenses paid trip to Dublin – somewhere I have been meaning to go for years – and the flight was – let’s face it - less than an hour. Grow some, man…
And so, I connected to a time when I knew no fear, where bad things only ever happened on TV and the world was full of limitless possibility. I popped in some strawberry bubblegum and shook hands with my inner 6 year old (which is possibly a little bit formal, but you can never be too careful these days). Instantly I was the wide eyed child inside the gates of Wonka’s factory. Instantly I had the swell of adventure in my belly. Instantly I had sticky goo pasted to my face (hey, don’t sully my tale of innocence!).
Now, whilst I don’t want to mislead you into thinking bubblegum has magical powers, within minutes the cloud gave way to sunshine and calm ruled the day. I kid ye not. And so with 6 year old me by my side, I embarked upon adventure.
And although once strapped into the jet-propelled casket of circulated stink the thing rattled over the asphalt for take off with all the serene grace of the Millenium Falcon bouncing straight into a meteor shower, it was merely the winged beast protesting. Just wait, man… It rumbled (I like to think as aircraft as frustrated hippies for some reason) Just wait, man… This isn’t my scene. Let me fly, man. Then I’ll show you what I was made for…
And just like that, the beast shook off its terra-firma shackles to show its true poise and refinement as it tickled the clouds with seemingly effortless elegance. Before I could even contemplate the over-priced services trolley, the aircraft arced delicately and surely towards Craggy Island and my final destination. And with Dublin’s proximity to the coast it felt like the metal monster was idly trailing its wingtips across the calm waters, enjoying its last few moments of truly being, before thumping along the harsh Earth once more.
Thanks, man. It was a wild ride, man.
Finally free of suffocating airport roadworks in my shiny hire car and it was my turn to take off; at the very same moment an Aer Lingus flight was landing on the runway parallel to the road. A multi-vehicular game of tag – my 6 year old self whooped with delight, a harking back to more innocent times when the family would park up on the verges at Stansted Airport in days where it was an infrequently patronised provincial outpost. Prior to the trappings of anti-social multi-media devices, Dad would drive the family out on an idle Sunday and we’d be thrilled by the occasional aircraft dipping in or charging angrily into the sky.
Sadly, in this age of ‘terror’ and Stansted’s absorption into ‘London’, you can no longer do so without entering the bustle of the airport proper. However funnily enough, given Ireland's usurped position as the world leader in terrorism, there outside Dublin airport in plain view of the runways – is a large observation car park, chocca of plane nerds and excited families, buzzing with the same thrills as I enjoyed as a wee kid.
Now some would say coincidence or a twee world view had its part to play, but I like to think I’ve found my 'trigger'. Just as certain fragrances, music, or television shows can transport you back to more innocent times, my bubblegum had served as plutonium to my DeLorean and skipped me back to a time where the world truly was my playground. It was my much needed swift reality kick to the head.
And it comes in really useful.
Because yesterday, standing at the busy airport terminal in my socks, my trousers drooping over my hips with the sum total of my toiletries clutched in an inadequate sandwich bag whilst my hand luggage was laid out in an undignified heap, my ire began to rise.
The offending article arising suspicion was the snow globe souvenir I’d purchased my youngest. She’s collected these ever since I started her off with a trinket from Amsterdam, so it was the perfect gift. Of course I’d neglected the fact that its ‘liquid content’ may be construed as explosive fuel and thus the item was duly paraded around Security. I tried to reason that there would be identical items in the souvenir shops directly behind me, so wasn’t this bureaucracy for the sake of it, but one by one the officious drones consulted stuck to the unwavering letter of Airport Authority.
Seeing my thoughtful gift slipping away, I tried applying further logic, in that drained of all liquid and thus satisfying ‘the rules’, the heavy glass globe would in fact make a far more effective weapon.
However, explaining with cold logic how I could use the present for my eight year old to pulverize someone’s skull didn’t seem to exactly strike me from the ‘possible terrorist’ register. If anything it only made them more resolute.
And suddenly I found myself very short tempered and embarked upon a railing against bloody-minded (probably not the best term, given my serial killer tainted reasoning) jobsworthiness and I became that disgruntled traveller they love to feature on all low budget airline documentary shows.
Which was unfair. The restrictions in place – as unyielding and unfathomable as they are - are there for the safety of us all. Maybe I should have been flattered that I’d been considered as the most ingenious and creatively adept (with his own glass-blowing paraphernalia to boot) terrorist ever to shake the Earth. And the lady who’d interrogated my luggage had actually been very sweet, thoughtful and compassionate in her trying to source a solution for me.
But momentarily I lost sight of this. And it’s all too easy to count the fingers of blame that put me there:
It was the 4 hour wait without any realistic or cost effective solution to get me home before midnight.
It was the interminable wait, watching wind rattled trees touch their toes (roots, I guess) in a complaisance I could never hope to replicate, stressing myself out over how gnarly this flight was going to be.
It was seeing a thoughtful gift for my youngest be cast aside as (potentially lethal) trash.
Added to this, stood on my stocking feet with my accoutrements (and my trousers) piled around me, I considered this damn well a Human Rights violation.
Which upon reflection was incredibly ignorant of me. It was a momentary inconvenience. It didn’t even begin to flirt with Human Rights. I’ve never been incarcerated for protracted periods with not even a trumped up charge. I’ve not suffered the ignominies of racial prejudice, the terrifying existence of day to day survival in the refugee camps of Darfur, or the arbitrary mortar attacks of the Gaza strip. Really; get over myself…
And then I looked down at the 6 year old me regarding before him this rude and unreasonable man - and suddenly the bubble burst.
I realised that I was being an utter and incontrovertible arse.
And I stopped mid-bluster. And shame faced, I said to the lady trying so hard against the constraints of her peers to help me; “I’m very sorry… I know it’s not your fault.”
Instead of shrugging her shoulders to signify my required departure as she’d have been absolutely entitled, the lady smiled reassuringly, apologised for the disappointment and took her time in explaining exactly where I may find a gift of similar theme, but more acceptable in proportion. And okay, it was a third of the gift for twice the price, but it had more emotional resonance, because this item has been bought out of the triumph of human kindness.
I’m thinking of mocking up some kind of token trophy in award to anyone so imbuing the spirit of Why So Serious? as this lovely lady did. Because in a world where service seems to cost extra and the customer/fellow human is deemed nothing but a hindrance, it takes a few heroes like this wonderful, warm and giving lady, to spread some positivity. For in all its contagion, it can be the most powerful weapon of all.
And to my bubble blowing 6 year old conscience, I also give thanks. I’m sorry I let you down.
So here’s my recommendation: Find your trigger.
Although clearly don’t speak in such terms when passing through airport security…
Stay positive.
x
Anyway, Monday morning, rising early and hitting my favourite clogged artery (the M25, blog-fans) I scanned surly skies draped with nimbostratus and - to slightly mis-paraphrase C-3P0 - remembered how much I hate space travel.
Now, I can’t profess to having a full blown fear of flying, it’s just I’d rather not taunt the laws of physics thankyewveddymuch. I have a number of extenuating reasons for this, not least being my pledge to keep my carbon footprint to that of a baby bootie. In this I’m in some small way ‘offsetting’ the moon boot sized swathe my ex-wives cut across Mother Earth. Just kidding.
But in all honesty, air travel does make me a trifle more uneasy the older I get. And abstinence doesn’t particularly bother me. Because I’m incredibly fortunate in the pleasures that jet-setting has afforded me in the past; to have watched the sun set over the Grand Canyon, to have cycled alongside deer gambolling through Yosemite, to have relaxed on balmy streets and drank with Parisians into the small hours, to have scudded across the UK above a carpet or pyrotechnics on bonfire night and helicoptered through the clawing superbright superstructures of Las Vegas.
Okay so there’s a big old world out there still to explore, but one: I’d like to trek across it by sea and rail a la Mr Palin should I ever have the travellers cheques to do so - and deux: there’s still plenty of wonders to behold on my own fair shores. I mean, who needs the pyramids when you can revel in the beauty of torched cars reflected in the eyes of a Hen Party in Gateshead? Seriously…
Anyway, as is my wont, I digress…
Back to my C-3P0 moment, yada yada yada… So as I started to mewl over taking to the skies once more, I decided to follow my own advice and see the positive in the situation. I was after all on an expenses paid trip to Dublin – somewhere I have been meaning to go for years – and the flight was – let’s face it - less than an hour. Grow some, man…
And so, I connected to a time when I knew no fear, where bad things only ever happened on TV and the world was full of limitless possibility. I popped in some strawberry bubblegum and shook hands with my inner 6 year old (which is possibly a little bit formal, but you can never be too careful these days). Instantly I was the wide eyed child inside the gates of Wonka’s factory. Instantly I had the swell of adventure in my belly. Instantly I had sticky goo pasted to my face (hey, don’t sully my tale of innocence!).
Now, whilst I don’t want to mislead you into thinking bubblegum has magical powers, within minutes the cloud gave way to sunshine and calm ruled the day. I kid ye not. And so with 6 year old me by my side, I embarked upon adventure.
And although once strapped into the jet-propelled casket of circulated stink the thing rattled over the asphalt for take off with all the serene grace of the Millenium Falcon bouncing straight into a meteor shower, it was merely the winged beast protesting. Just wait, man… It rumbled (I like to think as aircraft as frustrated hippies for some reason) Just wait, man… This isn’t my scene. Let me fly, man. Then I’ll show you what I was made for…
And just like that, the beast shook off its terra-firma shackles to show its true poise and refinement as it tickled the clouds with seemingly effortless elegance. Before I could even contemplate the over-priced services trolley, the aircraft arced delicately and surely towards Craggy Island and my final destination. And with Dublin’s proximity to the coast it felt like the metal monster was idly trailing its wingtips across the calm waters, enjoying its last few moments of truly being, before thumping along the harsh Earth once more.
Thanks, man. It was a wild ride, man.
Finally free of suffocating airport roadworks in my shiny hire car and it was my turn to take off; at the very same moment an Aer Lingus flight was landing on the runway parallel to the road. A multi-vehicular game of tag – my 6 year old self whooped with delight, a harking back to more innocent times when the family would park up on the verges at Stansted Airport in days where it was an infrequently patronised provincial outpost. Prior to the trappings of anti-social multi-media devices, Dad would drive the family out on an idle Sunday and we’d be thrilled by the occasional aircraft dipping in or charging angrily into the sky.
Sadly, in this age of ‘terror’ and Stansted’s absorption into ‘London’, you can no longer do so without entering the bustle of the airport proper. However funnily enough, given Ireland's usurped position as the world leader in terrorism, there outside Dublin airport in plain view of the runways – is a large observation car park, chocca of plane nerds and excited families, buzzing with the same thrills as I enjoyed as a wee kid.
Now some would say coincidence or a twee world view had its part to play, but I like to think I’ve found my 'trigger'. Just as certain fragrances, music, or television shows can transport you back to more innocent times, my bubblegum had served as plutonium to my DeLorean and skipped me back to a time where the world truly was my playground. It was my much needed swift reality kick to the head.
And it comes in really useful.
Because yesterday, standing at the busy airport terminal in my socks, my trousers drooping over my hips with the sum total of my toiletries clutched in an inadequate sandwich bag whilst my hand luggage was laid out in an undignified heap, my ire began to rise.
The offending article arising suspicion was the snow globe souvenir I’d purchased my youngest. She’s collected these ever since I started her off with a trinket from Amsterdam, so it was the perfect gift. Of course I’d neglected the fact that its ‘liquid content’ may be construed as explosive fuel and thus the item was duly paraded around Security. I tried to reason that there would be identical items in the souvenir shops directly behind me, so wasn’t this bureaucracy for the sake of it, but one by one the officious drones consulted stuck to the unwavering letter of Airport Authority.
Seeing my thoughtful gift slipping away, I tried applying further logic, in that drained of all liquid and thus satisfying ‘the rules’, the heavy glass globe would in fact make a far more effective weapon.
However, explaining with cold logic how I could use the present for my eight year old to pulverize someone’s skull didn’t seem to exactly strike me from the ‘possible terrorist’ register. If anything it only made them more resolute.
And suddenly I found myself very short tempered and embarked upon a railing against bloody-minded (probably not the best term, given my serial killer tainted reasoning) jobsworthiness and I became that disgruntled traveller they love to feature on all low budget airline documentary shows.
Which was unfair. The restrictions in place – as unyielding and unfathomable as they are - are there for the safety of us all. Maybe I should have been flattered that I’d been considered as the most ingenious and creatively adept (with his own glass-blowing paraphernalia to boot) terrorist ever to shake the Earth. And the lady who’d interrogated my luggage had actually been very sweet, thoughtful and compassionate in her trying to source a solution for me.
But momentarily I lost sight of this. And it’s all too easy to count the fingers of blame that put me there:
It was the 4 hour wait without any realistic or cost effective solution to get me home before midnight.
It was the interminable wait, watching wind rattled trees touch their toes (roots, I guess) in a complaisance I could never hope to replicate, stressing myself out over how gnarly this flight was going to be.
It was seeing a thoughtful gift for my youngest be cast aside as (potentially lethal) trash.
Added to this, stood on my stocking feet with my accoutrements (and my trousers) piled around me, I considered this damn well a Human Rights violation.
Which upon reflection was incredibly ignorant of me. It was a momentary inconvenience. It didn’t even begin to flirt with Human Rights. I’ve never been incarcerated for protracted periods with not even a trumped up charge. I’ve not suffered the ignominies of racial prejudice, the terrifying existence of day to day survival in the refugee camps of Darfur, or the arbitrary mortar attacks of the Gaza strip. Really; get over myself…
And then I looked down at the 6 year old me regarding before him this rude and unreasonable man - and suddenly the bubble burst.
I realised that I was being an utter and incontrovertible arse.
And I stopped mid-bluster. And shame faced, I said to the lady trying so hard against the constraints of her peers to help me; “I’m very sorry… I know it’s not your fault.”
Instead of shrugging her shoulders to signify my required departure as she’d have been absolutely entitled, the lady smiled reassuringly, apologised for the disappointment and took her time in explaining exactly where I may find a gift of similar theme, but more acceptable in proportion. And okay, it was a third of the gift for twice the price, but it had more emotional resonance, because this item has been bought out of the triumph of human kindness.
I’m thinking of mocking up some kind of token trophy in award to anyone so imbuing the spirit of Why So Serious? as this lovely lady did. Because in a world where service seems to cost extra and the customer/fellow human is deemed nothing but a hindrance, it takes a few heroes like this wonderful, warm and giving lady, to spread some positivity. For in all its contagion, it can be the most powerful weapon of all.
And to my bubble blowing 6 year old conscience, I also give thanks. I’m sorry I let you down.
So here’s my recommendation: Find your trigger.
Although clearly don’t speak in such terms when passing through airport security…
Stay positive.
x
Wednesday 21 January 2009
And you can dance. For inspiration...
Hello - and thanks for checking in.
So this morning’s 5am jaunt around the devil’s car park (I have a very special relationship with the M25) was hardly enhanced by the morose twittering emanating from my radio.
Wednesday blahblahblah it’s depressing blahblahblah Wednesday morning even worse blahblahblah roll on the weekend blahblahblah… My how the half empty glass is laced with the poisoned tears of racists and paedophiles…
Wednesday also happens to be the midpoint of the week and therefore far closer to the next weekend than yesterday, the day before and for that matter - the previous weekend. I say ‘tomato’ - they say ‘suicidal‘…
And what’s not to love about today? Whilst harbouring certain reservations about the new Leader of the Free World given that he lifted the tag line for his election campaign from children’s favourite Bob the Builder, didn’t the world awake today refreshed by dawning optimism?
Not only is the rise of Obama the poke in the eye of bigoted oppression that many of us feared we’d never see in our lifetime, but we suddenly find ourselves confronted with a true leader who is lucid, urbane, articulate; a politician who speaks from the heart with both feet far from the vicinity of his mouth. Which planet did I wake up on exactly?…
And we watch and we listen and we nod and we audibly hear the galvanising of a people. ‘Stuff is broke,’ we’re told, ‘this is true. But can we fix it?’ As one we cry - ‘Yes! We! Can!’ And it’s not purely blind euphoria, it actually feels tangible. Crikey, can we order up some more of you please?…
But let’s give the guy some room. It is after all his first day on the job and I recall myself in such a position where I almost poisoned every single one of my co-workers through the simple act of making coffee. New jobs can be tough.
Though thank you, President Obama, for exuding the kind of spirit I would love to bottle and franchise. You are most welcome here, sir. I can only beg to whatever cosmic entity sneezed out this wonderful, chaotic romper room of a universe, that the big O doesn’t get lost in the machine and become jaded & distant like so many before him.
Because I see too many people who are all for the power of One - so long as they’re not the One expected to do the legwork.
Take the vox pop spewing forth from my radio this morning as I tussled with bleary eyes and inconsiderate motorists in the dance of the tentatively employed. Lamenting his lot in life, the wireless man on or indeed in the street, lamely attempted to wrestle down the reasons for his three year hiatus from metier.
Now I don’t know the guy, so far be it from me to cast aspersions, however on the face of it - it didn’t sound like he’d been previously ensconced in a trade so specialist as to be permanently and indeed forever more redundant. This man I’m sure, had not formerly fashioned mittens for unicorns woven from the sighs of angels. If I were to cast aspersions (which you understand I am not) I’d hazard a guess that this man would struggle to spell JOB even if he were being given a lap dance by Carol Vorderman who’d had the word tattooed across her chest.
What I’m saying is, maybe they are other factors at play here, other than ’life doing unto me’. Because - and I forget who first said it, probably either Buddha or Bono - when you point the finger of blame, there’s always three more fingers pointing back at you.
So okay, maybe I’m harsh and blinkered and this will all come back to bite me. I am after all, very aware that my own role in the current climate is tenuous at best. And to have ’life do unto to me’ would indeed be a speed bump I could do without. However, the reason I bust my hump working long hours and travelling great distances for a job that would merely hover around the fringes of my ideal, isn’t through any deficiency in my leader elect, the nearsightedness of the financial sector or any number of pretexts hanging from the fickle finger of blame. For the part I played in two failed marriages and an affinity - my being a good little consumer - to amassing shiny things, my present situation is rather more me doing unto life, rather than vice versa. I accept that wholeheartedly, learn from the experience and move on. Geographically I may be Poles apart from being a role model, but I can honestly say I love my life. And for that, I've only got myself to blame.
This morning’s Mr Misery was wheeled out as a tarnished trophy in light of the latest unemployment highs (or rather lows). Two million soon to be out of work in the UK - the highest ever! Now I’ve not looked into this and maybe I should, but 99.97% of all statistics are subjective (and 86.73% of all statistics are made up on the spot). Yes this may be the highest number ever and not by any stretch is it a good number, but has anyone made a comparative assessment against the number of people currently living in the UK? I’d wager that’s at an all time high too. And this isn’t some veiled dig at immigration law. It’s not. I’d just like someone to be honest when spouting math at me.
The poisoned glass half empty brigade love to have us brow beaten with worst case ever scenario. Profits at an all time low! But you still made a profit? Uh, yeah. So what you’re saying is that people are being less gluttonous than is the norm? Uh, yeah. Oh. Sorry, I thought the mantra ‘greed is good’ died with the 80’s? I’m not sure I entirely follow your pronouncement of doom…
The back in the golden days brigade will conveniently skirt around rationing and short life expectancy, virulent human rights infringements and religious genocide. For we privileged in the so-called developed world can look forward to twice the lifetime of our recent ancestors. Think of all the extra whinge benefits for one… Breakthroughs in science and medicine, technology and lets face it - with the crumbling of apartheid, the Berlin wall and other such iconic moments in history - human responsibility, all thrust us forward with a momentum not witnessed since the big string bang thingummy (and if you did witness that, please can you provide a written statement).
Now a chum recently likened my ‘peachy’ worldview to the spirit of a new mobile telecommunications provider’s media ad, where a flash-mob dance-off occurs in perfectly choreographed spontaneity at a major railways thoroughfare. And whilst I balk slightly at such an unbridled display of fun being lashed to such corporate (alleged) cancer inducing cynicism, it is a very very cool sight to behold. Because at the funfair in my head - that’s what happens to the world when ever I pull on headphones in public.
Which leads me to this proposition for you.
As antidote to those who try and beat us down with ballistic statistics and portents of doom, how about compiling your ultimate ‘sunny day’ play list? I’m a firm believer in the power of music and that it can alter your mood in an instant. So why not - whether it be by mp3, old school mix tape or via the joyful eccentricities of Ally McBeal’s John Cage - in your head, string together some solid tunes to pick you up when all around is down.
Then dance your ass off, whether for real or in the playground of your mind. Now how does that feel?
And unto the nay sayers, I say - hey! Why so glum? Why so serious?… As the artist formerly known as the artist formerly known as Prince once sang; I get delirious!
Stay positive.
So this morning’s 5am jaunt around the devil’s car park (I have a very special relationship with the M25) was hardly enhanced by the morose twittering emanating from my radio.
Wednesday blahblahblah it’s depressing blahblahblah Wednesday morning even worse blahblahblah roll on the weekend blahblahblah… My how the half empty glass is laced with the poisoned tears of racists and paedophiles…
Wednesday also happens to be the midpoint of the week and therefore far closer to the next weekend than yesterday, the day before and for that matter - the previous weekend. I say ‘tomato’ - they say ‘suicidal‘…
And what’s not to love about today? Whilst harbouring certain reservations about the new Leader of the Free World given that he lifted the tag line for his election campaign from children’s favourite Bob the Builder, didn’t the world awake today refreshed by dawning optimism?
Not only is the rise of Obama the poke in the eye of bigoted oppression that many of us feared we’d never see in our lifetime, but we suddenly find ourselves confronted with a true leader who is lucid, urbane, articulate; a politician who speaks from the heart with both feet far from the vicinity of his mouth. Which planet did I wake up on exactly?…
And we watch and we listen and we nod and we audibly hear the galvanising of a people. ‘Stuff is broke,’ we’re told, ‘this is true. But can we fix it?’ As one we cry - ‘Yes! We! Can!’ And it’s not purely blind euphoria, it actually feels tangible. Crikey, can we order up some more of you please?…
But let’s give the guy some room. It is after all his first day on the job and I recall myself in such a position where I almost poisoned every single one of my co-workers through the simple act of making coffee. New jobs can be tough.
Though thank you, President Obama, for exuding the kind of spirit I would love to bottle and franchise. You are most welcome here, sir. I can only beg to whatever cosmic entity sneezed out this wonderful, chaotic romper room of a universe, that the big O doesn’t get lost in the machine and become jaded & distant like so many before him.
Because I see too many people who are all for the power of One - so long as they’re not the One expected to do the legwork.
Take the vox pop spewing forth from my radio this morning as I tussled with bleary eyes and inconsiderate motorists in the dance of the tentatively employed. Lamenting his lot in life, the wireless man on or indeed in the street, lamely attempted to wrestle down the reasons for his three year hiatus from metier.
Now I don’t know the guy, so far be it from me to cast aspersions, however on the face of it - it didn’t sound like he’d been previously ensconced in a trade so specialist as to be permanently and indeed forever more redundant. This man I’m sure, had not formerly fashioned mittens for unicorns woven from the sighs of angels. If I were to cast aspersions (which you understand I am not) I’d hazard a guess that this man would struggle to spell JOB even if he were being given a lap dance by Carol Vorderman who’d had the word tattooed across her chest.
What I’m saying is, maybe they are other factors at play here, other than ’life doing unto me’. Because - and I forget who first said it, probably either Buddha or Bono - when you point the finger of blame, there’s always three more fingers pointing back at you.
So okay, maybe I’m harsh and blinkered and this will all come back to bite me. I am after all, very aware that my own role in the current climate is tenuous at best. And to have ’life do unto to me’ would indeed be a speed bump I could do without. However, the reason I bust my hump working long hours and travelling great distances for a job that would merely hover around the fringes of my ideal, isn’t through any deficiency in my leader elect, the nearsightedness of the financial sector or any number of pretexts hanging from the fickle finger of blame. For the part I played in two failed marriages and an affinity - my being a good little consumer - to amassing shiny things, my present situation is rather more me doing unto life, rather than vice versa. I accept that wholeheartedly, learn from the experience and move on. Geographically I may be Poles apart from being a role model, but I can honestly say I love my life. And for that, I've only got myself to blame.
This morning’s Mr Misery was wheeled out as a tarnished trophy in light of the latest unemployment highs (or rather lows). Two million soon to be out of work in the UK - the highest ever! Now I’ve not looked into this and maybe I should, but 99.97% of all statistics are subjective (and 86.73% of all statistics are made up on the spot). Yes this may be the highest number ever and not by any stretch is it a good number, but has anyone made a comparative assessment against the number of people currently living in the UK? I’d wager that’s at an all time high too. And this isn’t some veiled dig at immigration law. It’s not. I’d just like someone to be honest when spouting math at me.
The poisoned glass half empty brigade love to have us brow beaten with worst case ever scenario. Profits at an all time low! But you still made a profit? Uh, yeah. So what you’re saying is that people are being less gluttonous than is the norm? Uh, yeah. Oh. Sorry, I thought the mantra ‘greed is good’ died with the 80’s? I’m not sure I entirely follow your pronouncement of doom…
The back in the golden days brigade will conveniently skirt around rationing and short life expectancy, virulent human rights infringements and religious genocide. For we privileged in the so-called developed world can look forward to twice the lifetime of our recent ancestors. Think of all the extra whinge benefits for one… Breakthroughs in science and medicine, technology and lets face it - with the crumbling of apartheid, the Berlin wall and other such iconic moments in history - human responsibility, all thrust us forward with a momentum not witnessed since the big string bang thingummy (and if you did witness that, please can you provide a written statement).
Now a chum recently likened my ‘peachy’ worldview to the spirit of a new mobile telecommunications provider’s media ad, where a flash-mob dance-off occurs in perfectly choreographed spontaneity at a major railways thoroughfare. And whilst I balk slightly at such an unbridled display of fun being lashed to such corporate (alleged) cancer inducing cynicism, it is a very very cool sight to behold. Because at the funfair in my head - that’s what happens to the world when ever I pull on headphones in public.
Which leads me to this proposition for you.
As antidote to those who try and beat us down with ballistic statistics and portents of doom, how about compiling your ultimate ‘sunny day’ play list? I’m a firm believer in the power of music and that it can alter your mood in an instant. So why not - whether it be by mp3, old school mix tape or via the joyful eccentricities of Ally McBeal’s John Cage - in your head, string together some solid tunes to pick you up when all around is down.
Then dance your ass off, whether for real or in the playground of your mind. Now how does that feel?
And unto the nay sayers, I say - hey! Why so glum? Why so serious?… As the artist formerly known as the artist formerly known as Prince once sang; I get delirious!
Stay positive.
Sunday 18 January 2009
Welcome to my world...
Hey, thanks for stopping by.
For many, in this early crawl of the year - with the fleeting daylight and picking up the tab from the holiday season - it is a time of SADness and introspection.
And in these so called troubled times, one has only to pick up a newspaper to realise that we are all inescapably and irretrievably doomed. Regardless of geography, belief system, social standing or favourite member of Take That - despair will seek you out, hunt you down like a rabid dog and drag you kicking and screaming into the bloody abyss.
Cheery stuff, no? My solution? Well, for one - don't pick up a newspaper...
In the coming weeks and months I aim to use this forum to scrape away the bile and all pervading cyniscism from day to day living. I'm not proposing some grandiose manifesto or an uprising of the people. I'm not Che Guevara. For one I really don't suit the hats. Even though the t-shirt royalties wouldn't go amiss.
What I'd love to get back to - with you like minded folk - is the exuberance of youth, regardless of any inherent naivety that suggests.
Because as we get older and bob like flotsam through turbulent times, I feel often we become so self absorbed with the minutiae of just making it through the day, that we cease to find the wonder so abundant in this fantastic universe we have been gifted as our playground. Isn't that just a smidge more than just a wee bit sad?...
We are here but just a gnats heartbeat, so why merely watch the clock?...
In a world obsessed with celebrity, the big news always seems to be what others are doing in their lives - and who they are doing it to. By tuning out our own daily grind, we snuggle into a vegetative state, apathetic to changing the world around us, of cheering on our fellow human, or sucking the very marrow out of life. Wouldn't we make our 6 year old selves sick to their sherbert and soil lined stomachs?
Einstein once said: Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand...
Yeah, well easy to say when you're a genius in the first place, but a point well made. Many of the true wonders of the universe aren't that recondite and can be unlocked for example by the untethered flinging of paint or the shameless abandon of embracing a complete stranger.
Of course it's not just about being the smartest ape in the room. Generally as a species we are conditioned to be incredibly hung up on overall aesthetic and the ephemeral concept of being filthily healthy. And yet last time I checked at the gym, they had yet to introduce an exercise to open the mind. What's good for the body isn't necessarily tonic for the soul.
(That's not the reason why I don't go to the gym, incidentally. Call me old fashioned but I'm just not that motivated by the determined stink of others).
I hear a lot of folk chime on about their quality of life, which in many instances equates to the amount of stuff they fearfully lock up tight at night. In the words of one our greatest contemporary poets, Seasick Steve; I started out with nothing and I still got most of it left... Startlingly my quality of life seems all the rosier for it.
For a super evolved species, are we so focused on the Sight Chart tacked to the wall not to appreciate the cinescape view from the optometrist's window?
So what are we waiting for? For the media to tell us our life is over? For our bank balance to be a barometer for our happiness? For the suffering of others to be a cautionary tale and not a call to action?
We are all wonderful, powerful, sentient beings. We have a huge creative capacity for compassion and warmth and love. And if we are are complicit in the world's ills, it is by a resolute passiveness to the way of things .
As I say, I'm not trying to lead an uprising. I'm not striving - a la the powerfully allegorical movie Network - for you to go to the window and yell; I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take this anymore!
Just something like it...
Thus, back to the original point which in my own very long winded Ronnie Corbettesque style has taken some rather tenuous detours - I plan to use this forum to - in the words of the song: accentuate the positive... eliminate the negative...
Not that I'm advocating homicide you understand.
Positioned as the antithesis of the popular media (and by this I don't mean I'm striving for unpopularity, though if you blog it - it will come) I aim here to share tales of and for those still harbouring a highly tuned sense of wonder. Because the world and our fellow ape needs folk like us. And like a stone in a pond, wouldn't you love to have your ripples felt?
It will no doubt be a gnarly evolution. So strap in and I hope you enjoy the ride.
In the meantime - baby steps. When was the last time you just took off running for the heck of it? The sheer weeeeeeeeeeee! factor of it all? Try it. Stop the second it starts to feel like exercise. And if you can - chew bubblegum whilst you do it (though try not to swallow it - I hold myself in no way culpable for medical insurance claims).
Then let me know how it feels.
Have fun x
For many, in this early crawl of the year - with the fleeting daylight and picking up the tab from the holiday season - it is a time of SADness and introspection.
And in these so called troubled times, one has only to pick up a newspaper to realise that we are all inescapably and irretrievably doomed. Regardless of geography, belief system, social standing or favourite member of Take That - despair will seek you out, hunt you down like a rabid dog and drag you kicking and screaming into the bloody abyss.
Cheery stuff, no? My solution? Well, for one - don't pick up a newspaper...
In the coming weeks and months I aim to use this forum to scrape away the bile and all pervading cyniscism from day to day living. I'm not proposing some grandiose manifesto or an uprising of the people. I'm not Che Guevara. For one I really don't suit the hats. Even though the t-shirt royalties wouldn't go amiss.
What I'd love to get back to - with you like minded folk - is the exuberance of youth, regardless of any inherent naivety that suggests.
Because as we get older and bob like flotsam through turbulent times, I feel often we become so self absorbed with the minutiae of just making it through the day, that we cease to find the wonder so abundant in this fantastic universe we have been gifted as our playground. Isn't that just a smidge more than just a wee bit sad?...
We are here but just a gnats heartbeat, so why merely watch the clock?...
In a world obsessed with celebrity, the big news always seems to be what others are doing in their lives - and who they are doing it to. By tuning out our own daily grind, we snuggle into a vegetative state, apathetic to changing the world around us, of cheering on our fellow human, or sucking the very marrow out of life. Wouldn't we make our 6 year old selves sick to their sherbert and soil lined stomachs?
Einstein once said: Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand...
Yeah, well easy to say when you're a genius in the first place, but a point well made. Many of the true wonders of the universe aren't that recondite and can be unlocked for example by the untethered flinging of paint or the shameless abandon of embracing a complete stranger.
Of course it's not just about being the smartest ape in the room. Generally as a species we are conditioned to be incredibly hung up on overall aesthetic and the ephemeral concept of being filthily healthy. And yet last time I checked at the gym, they had yet to introduce an exercise to open the mind. What's good for the body isn't necessarily tonic for the soul.
(That's not the reason why I don't go to the gym, incidentally. Call me old fashioned but I'm just not that motivated by the determined stink of others).
I hear a lot of folk chime on about their quality of life, which in many instances equates to the amount of stuff they fearfully lock up tight at night. In the words of one our greatest contemporary poets, Seasick Steve; I started out with nothing and I still got most of it left... Startlingly my quality of life seems all the rosier for it.
For a super evolved species, are we so focused on the Sight Chart tacked to the wall not to appreciate the cinescape view from the optometrist's window?
So what are we waiting for? For the media to tell us our life is over? For our bank balance to be a barometer for our happiness? For the suffering of others to be a cautionary tale and not a call to action?
We are all wonderful, powerful, sentient beings. We have a huge creative capacity for compassion and warmth and love. And if we are are complicit in the world's ills, it is by a resolute passiveness to the way of things .
As I say, I'm not trying to lead an uprising. I'm not striving - a la the powerfully allegorical movie Network - for you to go to the window and yell; I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take this anymore!
Just something like it...
Thus, back to the original point which in my own very long winded Ronnie Corbettesque style has taken some rather tenuous detours - I plan to use this forum to - in the words of the song: accentuate the positive... eliminate the negative...
Not that I'm advocating homicide you understand.
Positioned as the antithesis of the popular media (and by this I don't mean I'm striving for unpopularity, though if you blog it - it will come) I aim here to share tales of and for those still harbouring a highly tuned sense of wonder. Because the world and our fellow ape needs folk like us. And like a stone in a pond, wouldn't you love to have your ripples felt?
It will no doubt be a gnarly evolution. So strap in and I hope you enjoy the ride.
In the meantime - baby steps. When was the last time you just took off running for the heck of it? The sheer weeeeeeeeeeee! factor of it all? Try it. Stop the second it starts to feel like exercise. And if you can - chew bubblegum whilst you do it (though try not to swallow it - I hold myself in no way culpable for medical insurance claims).
Then let me know how it feels.
Have fun x
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