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
Sunday, 31 May 2009
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
