Those Who Can, Do.

Next month I will have been scrawling nonsense on this little corner of the internet for a year and the whole exercise has taught me a lot about writing. I’ve found that for me ideas can’t be forced, I generally tend to have to be in the right mood or have been hit sufficiently hard by the inspiration stick to put something out that I’m happy with. There are hundreds of things I see or hear that I could write about but if I put finger to keyboard every time I had a half-baked idea for an article I’d bore the shit out of myself, let alone the people who are generous enough to give up some of their time to sit and read what I post on here.

That said, not all people who read things such as this page are generous. Allow me to explain…

I’ll happily admit that a major inspiration to start Small Tales came from reading a blog that is written by a friend. I didn’t know him when I first looked at it – although we’ve since become friends – and I found it to be one of the funniest things I’ve read for a long time. His observations and vicious wit are right up my street and easily on a par with anything a professional columnist could produce. With material ranging from idiots with iphones on the bus to his crazy neighbours and their ridiculous exploits, from his being crap at drinking alcohol to being accosted by a mad woman at a nightclub, my friend’s writing never ceases to pluck at least one belly laugh from me per article. And what struck me above all is his writing style; it’s engaging, fluid and he has the ability to pen things that are on one hand laugh-out-loud funny and yet at other times incredibly moving.

About two or three months ago I received a text from him when I left work, which read,

‘Hello mate, now I know you’re a good writer but my question is am I?’

It was a strange question because my friend isn’t the kind of emo-esque, insecure attention seeker that constantly needs affirmation or self-inflicted razor slashes to his arms to feel better about himself. A little bemused I replied and told him about how his writing had inspired me and asked why this sudden crisis of confidence. He went on to tell me that someone who had decided to remain anonymous had emailed him and effectively told him he couldn’t write for shit. I pressed him for more specifics and while the following isn’t verbatim quotation of what they said it’s along the same lines.

‘Anonymous’ told him that his writing lacked depth and substance, his style was shoddy and that he used foul language to cover up both his lack of intelligence and ability. Now from my grassy knoll that couldn’t be further from the truth and my first question upon being told this was, ‘have they sent you anything they’ve written?’ to which I was told no they hadn’t. I then asked if they had left their name and an indication of what qualifies them to make these sweeping judgements to which the answer was once again, no they hadn’t. ‘Anonymous’ didn’t even point to sections of my friend’s text that they’d taken offence to.

Now one thing I’ve learned over the years is that it’s easy to criticise. Anyone with an opinion – however badly informed – coupled with the power of speech or some vague semblance of literacy can slag something off. But for me nowadays, being negative is mostly a cop out. As the saying goes, it can take years to build something that takes seconds to tear apart and let's face it, destroying something hardly takes hard work, talent or imagination does it? Unless you’re one of those badass demolition dudes, but that’s not what I’m talking about here.

What ‘anonymous’ did was the literary equivalent of a dull-witted bully coming along and kicking over a sandcastle someone had spent time and energy creating. Of course there are things out there that are so crap they need a good bashing, take most of the music that makes the charts these days for example, but if you have to be negative about something at least put in some effort and be well-informed enough to back up what you say with some form of evidence.

I’ve found that it’s much harder to be positive about something, especially if it’s something you aren’t personally into. There are a lot of things out there that really aren’t my cup of tea let alone my glass of finest single malt, but just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean it doesn’t have merit. One of my biggest bugbears are people with no talent and no motivation other than to sit in their ivory towers dishing out what they loosely describe as criticism to people who have worked on something and had the guts to put it out there in public.

The internet is awash with semi-literate armchair critics who are happy to tear chunks out of someone’s work and yet haven’t produced a single thing themselves apart from their inane, boring, predictable rantings about things others have created. For my friend to be viciously criticised by this moron who didn’t even have the backbone to post their name on the email is a joke. So I’d like to take the shallow approach in my response to ‘anonymous’ and mask my obvious lack of intellect or depth by saying fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

I’d love to see the kind of thing that ‘anonymous’ could produce because I’m sure it would be of such a poor standard that I could give them a proper lesson in articulate bitch slapping. It takes balls to create something and put it out there for people to read, look at or listen to and it is nothing more than cowardice to attack something without so much as revealing who you are and why you think your opinion counts for shit.

If you’d like to form your own opinion, which I strongly suggest you do, you can check out my friend’s blog HERE. But do us both a favour if you want to slag either me or my friend off, at least leave your name and justification for your negativity.

And whatever you do, remember this golden rule: those who can, do. Those who can’t, bitch.

Crutch Power

I’m just about to go back to work after a three week sojourn due to having had a knee operation to repair torn cartilage in my left knee. It’s been a problem that I’ve been putting up with for about two and a half years and finally I’ve had it fixed. I have to admit though, it’s been an enjoyable time off despite my movement being hindered by having to use crutches for a couple of weeks after the op. But while I was consigned to hobbling around I discovered that using crutches had an interesting and rather pleasant side effect.

Now it’s no secret that I’m not a fan of people in general, I am a bit of a misanthrope to say the least. Whenever I go out and walk down the road I think I either become invisible or activate some kind of twat attracting energy field. God knows how this is possible, I’m hardly a blend-into-the-background kind of bloke, but somehow when I go out people either don’t see me or think I’m some kind of gaseous being they can walk straight through. Not with the crutches though, oh no, with those strapped to my arms things change.

I discovered this revelation when I went out of the house for the first time after the operation. Against the advice of my long suffering girlfriend I donned my crutches and we went out into the outside world. I had to get out of the house, I’d been cooped up in my flat for four days and was starting to go a little stir crazy so even a trip to the supermarket was a welcome distraction.

I hobbled round the corner onto St James’ Street here in Brighton, which is generally a cauldron of tourists, students, crazy locals and a random assortment of junkies and alcoholics. I readied myself for the usual barracking when I discovered the crutches had bestowed on me a new power. Rather than drawing dickheads to me like flies to a steaming turd, people actually acknowledged me, even moved out of my way apologising as they did. It was incredible. I tottered along the road and was stunned at the sudden politeness where before I would have been rudely bumped into and ignored.

Then I saw two of my most feared adversaries behind me, a pair of pushchair wielding mothers, the kind who either use your ankles for target practice or barge you out of the way into oncoming traffic. As usual, the women were pushing their offspring two abreast, loudly discussing which of their spawn was more intelligent than the other, totally disregarding the fact that other people wanted to use the pavement as well to do selfish things like avoid getting run over by buses for example. I looked at Charlotte and flashed her a grin that said, ‘let’s see what happens here then, because I’m not moving.’ Poor Charlotte, not only was she fretting about me being out of the house in the first place, she now had to deal with me invoking a stand-off between myself and a couple of baby buggies. See why I refer to her as long suffering?

I slowed down, made myself as wide as I could with my crutches and braced myself for impact. But where normally I would be unceremoniously shoved out of the way, this time the effect of the crutches was indisputable. As they drew closer, for once they appeared to notice me and you know what? They crossed the road. They crossed the bloody road to allow me to go about my business unhindered. It transpired that crutches could thrust consideration on even the hardiest of pushchair wielders. Incredible.

That was the watershed, I decided that I’d have some fun with my temporary disability and get in people’s way as much as I could to see how they’d react. If they did so in the wrong way I’d be in a position of righteous indignation and could expose the offenders’ for the impolite, selfish bastards they were. I think by this point Charlotte had given up and decided to let me wage my stupid little personal war.

A few minor skirmishes later and we were at the supermarket, another venue where I’m generally pushed around and ignored. Nonetheless the same thing happened, people went from being their usual ill-mannered selves to being astoundingly courteous, aware of my struggle and making ay for me.
But then in the dairy section I confronted my true nemesis; another man on crutches. Damn. Okay, I thought, let’s see how far I can push this thing.
There was a Mexican stand-off as we faced each other in the aisle, wondering which of the two of us would yield and give way and eventually my opponent must have realised I was in much worse shape than he was and he capitulated. Fabulous, a clean sheet. The crowd roars.

A week later however, things were back to normal. My crutches were no longer needed and I went down the supermarket once more, bereft of my magical supports. Although I was still limping pretty badly it seemed that without the power of the crutches I had again donned my invisible suit and had become a target for arseholes to annoy. My short lived reign of crutch terror was over. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

I still have the crutches though, the hospital didn’t ask for them back and I forgot to return them, and you know what? I’m thinking of busting them out in a few weeks time ready for the Christmas rush, just to see what happens. If nothing else it’ll satisfy my inner wanker.

From Nijmegen with Love

In 1998 I met a guy called Jan Liefhebber at a house party. It was back when I lived in one of the numerous and infamous party houses on Maples Street in Hyson Green, Nottingham. My time in Maples Street is a whole other story in itself, far too big to summarise properly here, but suffice to say it was one of the craziest times in my life, for better or worse. Jan was visiting the UK from Holland with his girlfriend, Jenny, who grew up in the next town from me. We’d all been at a club night that finished at 2am and when we were kicked out us Maples Street reprobates decided to have an open house after party and Jan and Jenny came along. I chatted to Jan and Jenny for some time and found that Jan ran a record label called Highland Beats and was very active as a DJ as well. After talking for a while I eventually went to play some records myself, which was a good move because based on that little set I did, Jan and Jenny flew me out to play in Nijmegen not long after.

My debut gig in Holland was for his Highland Beats label party at a fantastic club in Nijmegen called Doornroosje. After that I spent the next couple of years going back to the Netherlands to play gigs with or for Jan at squats, clubs and fields in Amsterdam, Nijmegen, Groningen and Deventer. During that time I met some amazing people and fell in love with the country, not just for the availability of quality Dutch smoke but because there’s a real love of techno over there. But then I moved to Brighton, took up my studies at university and unfortunately lost touch with the Nijmegen contingent.

Skip to a few months ago, and through the wonder of Facebook I got back in touch with Jan and Jenny. I found that Jan is as driven by his music as he ever was and as well as being a DJ, he’s now also a producer and has released some damn fine music in the past ten years. I’m more than pleased to report that Highland Beats is alive and kicking and coming up to it’s 41st release with no sign of letting up anytime soon.

Not long after getting back in touch with Jan, he kindly invited me to play at his birthday party on the 1st October at an amazing venue in Nijmegen called Waalhalla, a chance I fucking jumped at. It was an incredible party and I met with some old friends who I’ve not seen for a decade or more, as well as meeting some new people who are equally cool. Waalhalla is a skate park that doubles up as a music venue and I had one of the times of my life there last weekend and one thing is for sure, I won’t be waiting ten years before going back out there to party again.

I made a little short film on the night so you can get an idea of the kind of party Jan had for his birthday, check it out. From Nijmegen with Love… enjoy.

Hello Dave!

Late last night I got wind that Prime Minister, David Cameron was going to be appearing at Hove Town Hall on his Big Society tour. What a stroke of luck, I thought, because I work at Hove Town Hall and have more than a few questions I’d like to ask him. At the very least I wanted to say ‘hi’ to our Dave. Davey C. Our Dave: Man of the People.

I wasn’t alone either, lots of people from unions GMB and Unison arrived in the hope of being able to say ‘hi’ too but unfortunately we were to be disappointed. As the crowd stood waiting for our illustrious leader to arrive a bus load of hand picked people were shipped into the hall, smartly dressed and clutching non-threatening questions; well you wouldn’t want Dave to have to think on his feet would you?

Eventually Dave turned up about ninety minutes late, meaning that most of the people with jobs to go to had melted away by the time he arrived, leaving only a handful behind. Mind you if DC and Cleggy-boy have anything to say these people won’t have pesky jobs to go to soon, so they’ll be able to hang around waiting for him to their hearts’ content.

Another mistake the anxious crowd made was they thought he’d be walking in through the front entrance and dutifully waited for him there. Imagine their surprise when he snuck in unannounced around the back. Such a modest man, not wanting to make a fuss. Strange to think that he’d rather sneak in a back door rather than meet the people with spontaneous questions to ask him, it was almost as though he was avoiding them. Surely not, what with him and Clegg wanting to engage the nation so much.

I was actually hoping Nick Clegg turned up with his boss, sorry… civil partner, I mean coalition colleague, because I wanted to ask him if he could pull the knife out of my back that he accidentally stuck there during the general election. It is still sore you know.

In the end only about eight teenagers, presumably on the summer break before going back to sixth form, were left out back waiting for him. A young lad with a guitar accompanied by a young girl sang lovely catchy protest chants in the hope of serenading our Dave as he left the building, but they were to be disappointed. The young lad was genius in his playing because he left his guitar out of tune, I suppose in some avant-garde fashion that I don’t understand now that I’m getting on a bit. And I think the girl thought Dave might be so impressed with her singing that he would have a word with his mates Simon Cowell and Piers Morgan about getting her on the X-Factor or Britain’s Got No Talent. She must have thought that because there’s no other reason for her turning up caked in make-up, wearing a gold lamé jacket and a wide brimmed hat. She was obviously a future pop star because she also sported odd shoes and did Christina Aquillera hand gestures while she sang. Badly.

I was told later, when all the excitement was over and I was making a cup of tea, that when Dave was at the West Hove School just before coming to my place of work, the moment the cameras stopped filming he refused to speak to anyone, adults and kids alike, and quickly legged it away before you could say ‘crap policies’. Bless him, he must have been tired. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to speak to us at Hove Town Hall. It must be tough being Prime Minister.

The Birds

When I first moved to the south coast from the Midlands, I used to love the sound of seagulls. When I lay in bed in the morning during those first rosy months I’d smile as I heard them, an audible reminder that even if I couldn’t see the sea I was no longer landlocked. On my way to work in the mornings I’d see them in numbers stamping up and down on the dewy grass to fool worms into surfacing and it would make me chuckle because they looked as though they were dancing at a seagull rave.

How quickly things can change.

Now when I hear a squawk from one of those creatures it makes me want to go on a full-on gullicidal rampage. I want silence their foul beaks once and for all. It isn’t so bad in winter because the windows are closed and they’re harder to hear but in the warmer months it can get almost unbearable. Summer means lighter mornings and seagulls nesting on the rooftops, tending to a new generation of squawking monstrosities. The summer light and protective nature of the gull parents causes periods of incessant screeching, generally at some ungodly hour of the morning I only usually see when I’m out for the night. Once the shrieking has woken me up, getting back to sleep amidst the cacophony can prove almost impossible. If there is an afterlife I’m going to track down whoever came up with the idea for ear plugs and shake their hand.

As well as their continuous screaming, seagulls are also becoming increasingly aggressive, so much so that I’m under the impression that they’re building up for a war of supremacy with us humans. One of my friends was up on his roof for some reason the other day and was dive bombed by the bloody things. Another friend recently came back after a night out to find that he’d been the victim of a seagull home invasion. This friend said that he, ‘got home to find a seagull in the living room and bird shit everywhere. It took a scrape out of my arm as I chucked it out by its legs.’ I’m pretty sure the seagull hadn’t simply wandered accidentally into his flat, I think it was bloody squatting. I imagine it had also been helping itself to his drinks cabinet and food cupboards. Shame it didn’t know how to use the toilet.

And the mad thing is we protect this vermin.

What with the shrieking, aggression, squatting, bin bag attacking and general winged thuggery I think it’s about time the government repealed the protection of these sky rats so that we can embark on a pre-emptive cull and hopefully avoid the imminent war.

I think that Hitchcock was right and they’re are out to get us. In his film The Birds it’s the seagulls who attack first; coincidence? I think not. I reckon that The Birds is a warning; Hitchcock saw this day coming and knew that the seagulls would be the generals of the bird army.

My friend, Alex came up with a perfect description of their squawks. He said that, ‘it sounds like they’re laughing at you.’ I don’t think I could have described it better myself. They’re laughing because they’re taunting us, they know that their time is coming. Seagulls aren’t our friends, they are our nemesis. The next time one shits on you don’t pass it off as a random act of airborne crapping, know this: it was aiming for you because it hates you and wants your home, your food and your position in the food chain.

Beware the gulls

My Country Right or Wrong?

I know that there are a lot of you out there who are either indifferent or vehemently against it but I’m enjoying the World Cup. I love hanging out with friends, eating good food, drinking beer and watching football until I’m fit to burst, but there are things about it that turn my stomach as much as it does for those who are avidly anti-football.

Firstly there’s the relentless March of the Advertisers, ramming product after product down our throats, refusing to relent even when we gag. Before this tournament even started I was sick to the back teeth of football related commercials and now it’s upon us it’s worse than ever. But the thing I find most frightening of all is the jingoistic slant given not only to the advertising but to more or less everything surrounding England’s participation in the World Cup.

There’s that vomit-inducing advert for Carlsberg lager for one, with, as Charlie Brooker explains, ‘a cameo from virtually every notable English sporting hero of the past 50 years, pausing briefly for a patronising moment of silence for Sir Bobby Robson, before depicting an ethereal Bobby Moore, bathed in heavenly light at the top of the tunnel, standing proudly beside a lion’. I’m trying not to empty the contents of my lunch onto the keyboard as I type. All this to advertise a Danish lager. Very English.

Then there’s an even a darker, more disturbing side to all of this. It started with the ridiculous rumour - which spread around Facebook like wildfire - that the police were ordering pubs to ban England football shirts and George crosses as they could offend other races, to which masses of the great unwashed responded by telling those allegedly offended to take off their turbans and burkhas before leaving the country. Once again the George cross was hijacked by the racists and many fell into line baying for blood before stopping to think about it for a few seconds.

Newsflash morons; the same equalities laws that protect turbans and burkhas also protect your rights to wear an England shirt to the football. The only time the shirt becomes an issue is if you start acting like a dick, in which case you’re a dick whether you wear the shirt or not. Three words idiots: do some research.

A certain section of those same England supporters think that wearing an England shirt during a World Cup means its okay to be frighteningly nationalist and racist. I was in the Midlands for the first England game against the USA last Saturday and was spending some time in a small town with a good friend. We watched the first half at her place and then went down to her local for the second half. The pub was packed and I fought my way to the main room with the big screen.

What I found wasn’t a room full of enthusiastic football fans boisterously cheering on their team; I found it full of screaming nationalists draped in George cross flags, more interested in shouting at each other about how they were ‘England ‘til I die’ than watching the match. Disturbed and irritated I moved to a smaller room to try to get a decent view. I was attempting to employ my special super powers of x ray vision see the TV through the back of someone’s head when I was accosted by a skinhead guy in an England shirt.

‘Great’, I thought, just smile and ignore him, but when he spoke he seemed pretty friendly. We got talking about the match, tactics, team selection and for a second there I was about to berate myself for assuming what I had when he came out with this:

‘Tell you what though, mate, there’s too many fuckin’ coons in the England team. I looked and there’s less fuckin’ black people in the South African team than there is playin' for England for Christ’s sakes.’

Just when I thought I’d met someone who broke the mold I was cruelly denied; it was like having a shot that seemed destined to go in saved off the line. By a Nazi. In an England shirt.

Finally I want to bemoan the negative media coverage of the England campaign. We draw our first match and what happens? The media goes into a doom and gloom frenzy, so much so that if you took their opinion seriously we might as well pack the team on the next flight home and forfeit the next two games. Why does the English media make our team out to be such losers? We didn’t lose. We drew against a USA team full of premier league footballers, it’s hardly the end of the world. And correct me if I’m wrong but didn’t both France and Portugal draw 0-0 in their opening games? Didn’t Brazil struggle to beat North Korea in theirs? Didn’t current European Champions, Spain just lose their opening match to Switzerland? And to be fair we would have won the opener if Robert Green hadn’t decided to cement his name in English World Cup history by smearing butter on his gloves before the match. Why can’t our media save their judgments until after the tournament, can’t they just get behind the team? I wonder if the Brazilian media does the same?

Before I go, allow me to reveal something to my fellow England supporters. We aren’t going to win the World Cup. Never in a month of Sundays. I accepted this some time ago and do you know what? I enjoy major tournaments so much more than if I go into them expecting us to win. When I watch a major tournament today when England manage to qualify, I go into it expecting to have my heart pulled into my mouth, my nerves shredded to pieces and my liver to be severely punished. What I don’t do is turn into a frothing nationalist ready to unleash my inner fascist and use the occasion to spout racist abuse. The whole thing should be fun, a celebration of one of the most popular sports in the world, be a way for different cultures to come together and get along. Enjoy it, every stomach churning moment of it.

We won’t win but I’m determined to have fun, right down to that heartbreaking moment when whoever it is misses that vital penalty and England go crashing out. Again.

Marathon Man

Well that’s it for the election, all done and now it’s up to the parties to work out who the hell is going to run the country. It’s not the result I wanted but it’s not an outright Tory majority, which is a slight sweetener to the bitter pill we have to swallow. But anyway, I’ve already said more than enough on this election, time to put up my hands and step away from the burning wreck that is British politics.

Back in February you may remember me telling you how I was staring out of my window on what was an absolutely foul day when I suddenly saw runners appear in their droves. Well, they came back a few weeks ago but in greater numbers, and this time they weren’t alone. Where beforehand the only people watching were close friends, family, local ‘eccentrics’ and a smug git behind a keyboard in a warm, dry flat, this time the streets were lined with people as far as the eye could see. They’d come to watch the first Brighton Marathon and I was more than impressed with the numbers who turned out to support it.

I had one of the best seats going because the start/finish line and the halfway point were almost directly outside my window, and to cap that all the roads had been closed meaning for once there was no noise from cars, motorbikes or buses. Instead the incessant drone of engines had been replaced by cheering and rapturous applause; it was a wonderful change from the norm. There was none of the annoying start stop of engines at the traffic lights directly outside, gone were the middle age men in their soft-top sports cars, no more bus drivers leaning on their horns every time someone else tried to use the road. It was bliss, even if it was to be only temporary.

Nor were there planes in the sky thanks to a certain volcano having a whale of a time over in Iceland. When Eyjafjallajokul went pop it was as though Mother Nature flipped us the bird and reminded us arrogant little monkeys who was really in charge. With the majority of European airspace shut down an interesting side effect was evident as soon as you looked at the sky. It was clear. No clouds but more importantly no vapour trails from the engines of countless planes. Where before they’d gone unnoticed, filtered out of vision in much the same way as I block out the almost constant traffic noise, the clarity of the cloudless sky made them conspicuous in their absence.

As the morning progressed and more runners made it to the halfway point, the cheering and applause went from intermittent to continuous and watching from my living room it was impossible not to smile. It was surreal eating my breakfast and hearing sounds of encouragement through the open windows instead of the rumble of engines. It was almost like I was being cheered on to eat my toast and drink my tea. When I’d eaten I checked the route map on the website and went out on my bike to see what I could see.

I found the entire seafront area and surrounding roads free of cars except for the odd one moving at walking speed with a frustrated looking driver behind the wheel. More surprisingly I found the streets lined with people not just around the start/finish point but around the entire route, all of them cheering on the runners. Wherever you went there was a party atmosphere with people in the streets drinking, cheering and smiling, lapping up the sun and the first real day of spring. It was a welcome relief after the long winter.

As I made my way into Hove I went past a pub called the Seafield that had speakers set up outside and as I passed I heard Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now pumping out. That made me grin. It reminded me of the scene in Shaun of the Dead where they beat the shit out of the zombie landlord and I wondered what an undead marathon might look like.

Music punctuated the whole route, although not all of it was good. Typically the hordes of amateur drummers were out in force. What is it about ‘hippies’ with no talent for playing musical instruments that makes them think that they can play a drum? Just because all you have to do is hit the thing doesn’t mean when you do what comes out sounds any good. And being Brighton these ‘drummers’ are everywhere. As soon as the sun vaguely pops out to say hello these racket-mongers flock to the parks of our towns and cities and start hammering away on the bloody things with the rhythmic capabilities of an octopus having a seizure. Between the noise of the crap drummers and trying to avoid the pikeys and poi spinning freaks its enough to put you off going to a park in good weather. But I digress.

The lack of cars and planes made me realise just how intrusive these things are in our lives and how much we filter them out, carrying on as though they aren’t there. But when they’re gone the world for me is a much better place, especially when all around you is full of positivity as it was during the marathon. Don’t get me wrong cars and planes are great inventions, they’ve helped me enjoy some of the best moments of my life and will again, but do we really need so many?

And I may have given runners some grief in that previous post from February but you have to hand it to people who do marathons, that’s one hell of an achievement. I even saw one guy in a full stormtrooper’s outfit, who didn’t look too happy incidentally, and another guy with a full army kit on from backpack to boots. Insane. I’d struggle to walk 26 miles nowadays let alone run it, so hats off to all those who did the Brighton marathon that day. It almost inspired me to do it next year… but then I had another pint.

I Wanna Be Elected

You’re probably sick to the back teeth of hearing about the election already despite the build up to this one being relatively short compared to others I’ve known. But like it or lump it there’s practically no escaping it, unless of course you’re stranded abroad thanks to a certain volcano but even then the media has probably managed to get to you somehow. This election for me has serious significance though because there could easily be a Conservative government again this time in four weeks, something I find utterly terrifying. The quandary for me is that Labour are no longer a truly viable alternative to the Tories so what to do? Don’t get me wrong, I’d take another four years of Labour rule over the Conservatives any day - but only just. Since Blair and Brown unleashed their bastard offspring in the form of ‘New Labour’, the working class majority has essentially been left unrepresented and I think a phrase a few friends and I came up with during Blair’s campaign to be re-elected back in 2001 sums them up perfectly; New Labour – Tory Lite. But the Labour Vs Tory argument isn’t what I want to go into here, mostly because I don’t want to bore the shit out of you.

Before I get to the point that I really want to make however, I want to say that one of the highlights of this campaign hasn’t been Nick Clegg’s battering of the Tories and Labour in the UK’s first televised election debate; although he did a fine job and I think the on air debate is a valuable tool that should have been borrowed from our American cousins years ago. The best thing I’ve seen has been the hilarious attack on the Conservative party’s advertising. The website mydavidcameron.com (link below) has had me laughing my leftie backside off. With its mix of biting satire and stating of the bleeding obvious it exposes the Tories for what they are; a stale old party of toffs looking out for the rich at the expense of the less well off. David Cameron is no more than Tony Blair in even further right clothing and twice as punchable and the prospect of him, George Osborne and Boris Johnson running the country gives me The Fear. Seriously, no matter how much they say they’ve changed, you really can’t polish a turd. I urge you to do something about it.

My opinions of the Tories aside, what I want to do with this article is to urge you to get involved in the political process; we don’t have to let the same old shit happen again. On the one hand there’s a real chance that the Liberals can force a hung parliament this time, especially after Clegg’s debate performance and the general malaise of the population with the two main parties. In my opinion forcing a coalition means we may have a parliament where MPs have to talk rather than shout unproductively at each other.

The dark side however is, thanks to the established parties making a self-indulgent pig’s ear of things consistently for years, some may think a ‘protest vote’ is one for the BNP. Let me get one thing straight, a vote for the BNP is far worse than voting Tory. They are fascists who deny rights to anyone who doesn’t fit their agenda and who deny that the Nazi Holocaust happened among a whole plethora of other unpleasant ideas. Its not only non-whites who are subject to their racist shit either, I would be persecuted by these fascist morons because I’m a Jew. Voting for the BNP is tantamount to agreeing with Nazism so let me ask you, do you really think that Hitler had a point?

Whether you vote for an established party, an independent who won’t take your taxes and spunk them on second homes or other unjustifiable expenses or if you become part of an organised movement to show your distaste for the current system, such as the None of the Above Movement (again link below) please do something. I know there are some people who will never register and never vote, not even to use their ballot paper in protest to the antiquated and non-representational system we have now and that’s fine, each to their own. But like it or not, short of a full on revolution - which let’s face it isn’t going to happen - this is the only system we have to work with. Yes it needs reform so that it resembles something like true democracy but if you don’t get involved then how can anything ever change?

Most elections are won by the votes of about 35% of the population and like it or not the result of this determines how you live for at least the next four years. Almost two thirds of the population don’t engage in the political process – hardly surprising given the lack of options – and I’m under the impression that main parties are probably pleased about this as it means they can carry on riding the same old gravy train rather than doing what they’re paid for; representing us. In America the last election saw a voter turn out of over 60% and what happened there was historic, a first black president. I’d like to see us do something equally historic this side of the Atlantic.

Today sees the final day for you to get registered so please sign up and get involved. If you’re paranoid about Big Brother having your details etc, then I’m afraid you’re already fucked on that score and have been for some time, so being registered to vote will make no difference. Let’s get out there this time and either vote or protest by despoiling our ballot papers and have an election that truly reflects what we want rather than indulging in apathy and then moaning about the government until election time rolls around again and we end up with the same old bullshit politics and politicians. It may not happen overnight but if we do nothing it will never happen, let’s try to force some real change for the better.

My David Cameron.com if you want a laugh. http://www.mydavidcameron.com/

None of the Above Movement: http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=63542657953

How to register to vote: http://www.direct.gov.uk/en/Diol1/DoItOnline/DG_4017686

Another how to register: https://www.aboutmyvote.co.uk/register_to_vote/electoral_registration_applica.aspx

Homage to London Road

I’ve lived in Brighton for coming up to eight and a half years and for somewhere close to seven of those I’ve been inextricably linked with a place called London Road. For a number of years I lived and worked there, in that pocket of Brighton that it’s reasonable to say is one of the less attractive parts of town. Having moved out of the area last summer, Friday saw me leave the job I’ve been doing there for the past five years, so I suppose you could say this is one of those end-of-an-era times. It may be rife with junkies and professional drinkers, have more than its fair share of petty criminals and pushchair wielding single mums but there’s something about that part of Brighton that I can’t help but like. So here’s to you, London Road, a truly outstanding shithole.

Of course there are times when walking down London Road can be a soul destroying experience. I remember walking to work one morning a few years ago at about half past eight and by the time I arrived there I'd resolved to walk the back way in future. In the doorway to the Blockbuster was a tramp lying passed out in a combination of his own puke, piss and shit. A few yards later I saw around six used syringes on top of one of those fuse boxes for the traffic lights. Then to top it all as I rounded the corner to Oxford Street I was harried by some random weirdo at the bus stop.

I had my headphones in, trying to block out the degeneracy of London Road – I think I had Slayer on at the time which wouldn’t have helped things – when this guy lunged at me from a doorway by a bus stop. As I passed him it took me some moments to realise that it was me he was doing the Jagger at. As he flailed away behind me I took off my headphones to hear what he was saying.

‘What’s wrong, man?’ I asked.

‘What’s your fucking problem?’ he screamed in reply. ‘Are you gonna fucking hit me now?’

‘What? Of course not you twat, I’m just going to work. I haven’t got a problem with you.’

He was dressed almost normally – all in black with a black bandana – but that in itself is no indication of loon level down here in Brighton. I could tell by his body language he was a strange one even by this town’s standards.

‘I know what your problem is,’ he screeched, ‘I know what it is.’

‘I don’t have a problem, man. Just calm down, I’m not going to hurt you.’

Ignoring me he went on.

‘You are gonna hit me, I know it. And I know why, I know exactly why.’

Before I could say another word to try to placate him he ripped off his bandana to reveal a shining pate devoid of hair.

‘Its because I’m fucking bald ‘ain’t it? I’M FUCKING BAAAALD.’

I thought the best course of action at that point was to piss off as quickly as possible; he was still shrieking when I ducked into the door at work.

Nonetheless the place was a constant source of intrigue. Working across from the Bat & Ball pub provided many an interesting moment. From the junkies happily shooting up in the alleyway behind the pub to the random outbreaks of midday pissticuffs out on Oxford Street, there was always something to break the tedium.

Sometimes I watched the curious specimens smoking their fags and drinking their pints at half ten in the morning and it was as though the circus had rolled into town, liked the look of things and decided to move into the area using the Bat & Ball as a base.

The shops are fantastic. As long as you’re looking for fresh fruit and veg, charity shops, bookies or everything’s a pound stores you’re laughing. There’s an open market and I swear I score some of the best cheese on the planet there. My cheese dealer, Jason who runs a stall there even does a Belgian chocolate cheese. No I can’t describe it, you’ll have to go and buy some to find out what it’s like.

I think on the whole I’ll miss what my old colleague, Amy described as, ‘the edgy filth of London Road’. But then since I moved to Kemptown I’ve found that it has its fair share of weirdos too, some of whom I recognise from London Road.

I guess I’ll never be safe.

Easy Like Sunday Morning?

Yesterday was one of those beautiful February days that hinted of spring, teasing the weary soul, beleaguered by months of short days and long nights, with a taste of what is only a matter of weeks away. I think the rest of the country had snow, again, but for some reason down here on this stretch of the south coast I could almost feel the world starting to ease open bleary eyes, looking to see if it was time to get up yet.

Today that door was slammed firmly shut, so hard the frame shuddered, as if someone had accidentally left the door to spring open and Mother Nature wasn’t too happy about having to close it again. I woke to see gloom and hard rain, a cruel reminder that we are in fact still well within the clutches of a long, cold winter and will be for a while yet.

The wind howled and rain drummed a frantic rhythm on the windowpanes so I thought that this particular Sunday morning would be a good time to get stuck into some writing. But before I did I had to go outside to fasten the cover back down over my bike because the wind had blown it off and when I did I discovered that as well as being miserable out there it was colder than it looked too. Further proof, if I needed any, that today was a day best spent indoors.

Back inside I had a brief, tricky tussle with the curse of procrastination but my determination to write won through – for once – and I found myself sat behind my keyboard ready to go. I decided to finish the review of District 9 for the Taco Cart site so I opened the file, took out some notes and glanced out of the window. My view of the more than mildly pissed off looking sea was obscured by the rainwater that ran down the pane but it wasn’t long before I saw them.

Runners.

Only a few at first but they quickly multiplied until they streamed past in droves. It took a few seconds before I realised that they had numbers pinned to their fronts and the sudden torrent of lunatics flowing along the seafront were part of an organised race.

Now there are many ways I could spend a wretched Sunday morning in February and running up and down Brighton seafront in shorts on a thoroughly horrible day at the back end of winter isn’t one of them. Wouldn’t even make the long list, let alone the short one. Don’t get me wrong I’m not knocking it, my dad is one of those people who finds running for miles on end in all weather a great way to spend his spare time - even nowadays in his late fifties - and if that floats your boat then that’s fine but I’m afraid I can’t see the appeal.

I watched as they passed and as with most races the frontrunners looked okay, driving along at an admirable pace, coming across like they do that sort of thing regularly and at least semi-professionally. The pace and technique swiftly diminished as the crowd thickened but on the first lap what these later runners lacked in ability they made up for with enthusiasm.

By the second lap though things had changed.

The well of enthusiasm had rapidly run dry for the majority as they shambled past with bright red legs, blasted numb by the wind and rain and bearing expressions of the painfully bewildered. By the final lap it was as though the word enthusiasm had never been invented. Many people had given up the ghost and had reduced their speed to a saunter while some of the competitors had resorted to doing that thing that resembles running but in truth qualifies as animated walking. You’ve probably seen ‘joggers’ doing it where the movement of the shoulders intimate that they’re running but in reality they’re moving along at no more than a brisk walking pace with their feet never leaving the ground at the same time.

Race finally over the damp and exhausted participants made their way back towards wherever they came, grasping their silver foil blankets in an attempt to ward off the dreadful conditions while looking like extras in a low budget sci-fi film. Not one of their faces bore anything other than a look of pained relief and I couldn’t see for the life of me how what they’d just put themselves through could be perceived as anything other than utterly horrific.

I think my displeasure for running, especially on days like this, comes from my experiences as a youngster, forced to do cross country races each January at school. When I had to do my first I was twelve and I had absolutely no intention of trying to win it, so when I crossed the finish line first I think I was as surprised as my PE teacher. My sole objective had been to get the whole episode of unpleasantness behind me as quickly as possible and if that meant running the whole course then so be it, anything to get out of cold and drizzle and back into the warm changing rooms as fast as I could. I only won by complete accident.

Now it may come as a surprise to some of you to hear that I used to win these races, but before I became the slothful thirtysomething you see before you I was a good runner believe it or not. I can honestly say though that the only part of running I’ve ever taken pleasure in is being able to stop. As a young metalhead in the 1980s I spent a lot of time running away from things, mainly getting beaten up by our less tolerant human brethren so for me running was a necessity, nothing more and hardly gratifying. The notion of going out running for fun is an alien concept to me.

As far as I’m concerned to go out and enjoy running in that today you’d have to be at least two parts mad and one part masochist. While I have been known to have had the odd flirtation with insanity, I think I’ll leave masochism to emos and German porn stars.

The Curse of... erm

I’m absolutely convinced if I could ever get myself into a prolonged state of motivation, I could be dangerous. In what way or to whom I couldn’t tell you but I’d like to imagine it would be a world domination kind of dangerous, given half a chance.

And therein lies the problem, I doubt I’ll ever get the chance. This is because I suffer from an affliction that holds back any long-lasting productivity, a malady that points creative energy away from the meaningful and into pointless or menial tasks.

I’m talking of course about the curse of procrastination.

Even now I’m fighting the urge to get up from behind the keyboard and go and make another cup of tea or have a quick nosy out of the window. I’m trying to concentrate on what I’m writing but in my peripheral vision I can see my bass guitar sitting up brightly, winking at me. If I listen carefully I can almost hear it saying, "come and play me for a while, it’ll help relax your mind and give you ideas to write about."

I resist though and stay put in my seat, although now I come to think of it I am beginning to get a bit thirsty and that cup of tea idea is becoming more tempting by the minute. Oh sod it, I need more liquid…

You see what I mean? It is now ten minutes later and I’ve made more tea and twatted about on the guitar. Okay so the tea does help me focus, albeit briefly, and I suppose that playing the guitar for a bit is semi-productive, but it’s still an example of my innate inability to stick to the task at hand. Sometimes I find that I start something, get distracted, start something else, then another thing and by the time I realise where I am I’m falling over things I’ve started and forgotten about.

Even when I do get off the blocks and start to achieve a smidgeon of momentum the curse of procrastination is still there. No sooner have I got the creative juices flowing I suddenly feel that I should reward my good work by going off and having a faff. Facebook is a nightmare tool of procrastination too. I dread to think how many blog entries, short stories or hours of bass practice I could have put in if I didn’t suffer the irresistible draw of status updates, absurd random groups and all the other endless forms of meaningless diversion Facebook has to offer.

I wish my mind could conjure up ideas for stories as prolifically as it finds ways to avoid being creative, I’d be the new Stephen King goddamn it. I’ve got friends who have the amazing ability to limit the amount of procrastination they allow themselves and they achieve fantastic things. If only I could capture their sense of focus and call it Eau de Action or something equally ridiculous, but even then I’d probably lose the bottle whilst reorganising my shelves rather than drafting that short story I had an idea for on the way home.

You could suffer from it too. It’s a common ailment so even if it doesn’t affect you it probably affects someone you’re close to. Ever had a great idea or the inspiration to go and get cracking with something productive or creative only to find yourself cleaning the bathroom? And not just cleaning it, getting stuck into all the really horrible bits that you avoid under normal circumstances? And while you’re there cleaning around the back of the toilet are you subconsciously planning ways to reorganise the kitchen, but only after you’ve given it a deep clean of course?

The curse of procrastination strikes again. Beware.

There and Back Again

It was Monday and I was sitting on the train waiting to leave Nottingham station after a great few days catching up with old friends. I felt surprisingly good considering I’d just had a weekend in the midlands, usually it’s a case of hot flushes, dehydration and exhaustion as my body tries to recover from the abuse its taken.

I thought I’d take advantage of my relative clarity, be productive and write a blog entry so I pulled the pad and pen out of my bag and smiled at the diminutive woman sitting on the opposite side of the table to me. She was in her late thirties, had lank, mousey coloured hair and sharp, almost rodent like features. She returned a disinterested, half smile before turning her attention back to the stack of brochures of dullness and heavily doodled notes that she’d used to colonise most of the table.

The moment my pen touched the paper she got her mobile out and made a call, a full blown phone meeting with some client or colleague. I tried to ignore her but her nasal tone and thick west midlands drawl felt like knives in the mind. Don’t get me wrong, I like west midlands accents, I’m not accentist or anything before you go accusing me of that. I’ve got friends who are from the west midlands and everything. As the train pulled out of the station it got worse with several more people adding to the din, pointlessly informing some poor soul on the other end of the phone that they were on the train and it was just leaving the station.
Why do people feel the need to do that?

My salvation as ever came in the form of my headphones meaning I could use techno to block out the incessant clamour but its times like those that I wish I really could have a Strutterbubble™.

It was the same on the way up the previous Friday evening. I took my seat on the London to Nottingham train, took my book from my bag, nodded at the young bloke sitting next to me and the second we started to move an annoying bastard sitting in the seat in front began jabbering away on his Bluetooth headset. At a volume that can only be described as fucking annoying he customarily informed his wife that he was on the train then switched to speaking in a baby voice, spouting sickening lovey dovey shit at her for the whole carriage to share and enjoy.

When he showed no signs of relenting any time soon I pulled out the trusty headphones and got lost in a world of Red Fang and Mastodon until after about an hour when mercifully he got off the train. Off came the headphones and after a minute or two the guy next to me asked me where I was going. I told him Nottingham and found out that he was on the way from Bournemouth to spend the weekend with his girlfriend who lived in Leicester. I asked him what he was doing down in Bournemouth and he hesitated.

‘I’m in the army,’ he said after a brief pause.

‘Interesting.’ He still didn’t seem to know how I’d taken the information. ‘I haven’t got a problem with squaddies or anything like that,’ I revealed. He seemed to relax a little. ‘My problem is with the wankers who send you to places you shouldn’t be.’

‘Oh, the pen pushers,’ he said smiling. I offered him a beer and he politely declined, producing one of his own from his bag. It was half seven on a Friday night after all.

‘So I take it you must get stick for being a squaddie then?’

‘A fair bit. Some pubs won’t serve us and last week I was refused a packet of fags at a supermarket as well. Girl at the checkout wouldn’t accept my army ID, I had to get the manager down and everything,’ he explained.

‘That sort of thing must be frustrating.’

‘It is, but you have to put up with it. There’s no point getting wound up about it, that’ll get you nowhere.’ I admired the patience he had for someone so young, a virtue I’m still desperately trying to develop even now.

‘So, you done any tours yet?’

‘Not yet,’ he replied, ‘but I’m due to do my first either at the end of next year or early 2012.’

‘Where you got to go?’ I asked.

‘Afghanistan.’

A pause. What do you say to that?

‘Fuck. Harsh,’ was all I could manage. Hardly the most profound thing I could have said. ‘How old are you?’ He told me, twenty one. ‘And how do you feel about it?’

‘Well, I’m a bit apprehensive,’ he said calmly.

‘Apprehensive? Shit, I’d be hell of a lot more than apprehensive.’ He chuckled.

We carried on talking and I found it fascinating listening to why he joined the army, what he wanted to get out of it, how he’d rather sit on a train for six hours to go and see his girlfriend rather than be bored stupid stuck at the barracks all weekend. Then as we slowed down to draw into Leicester station he grabbed his things and stood up to leave.

I stuck my hand out and said, ‘I’m Paul, pleased to meet you.’

‘I’m Mark, you too,’ he replied. ‘Have a good weekend.’

As he walked along the platform to meet his girlfriend I wished him all the luck in the world. In the not too distant future Mark will experience things that would scare me shitless, things that even if I could I don’t think I’d want to imagine. I sincerely hope that I don’t see his face on the news in a year or so, another name to add to the tally that shows no sign of declining any time soon.

I wonder; if the politicians who sent young men like Mark to places like Iraq and Afghanistan had to go out there themselves on a tour and fight on the salary they pay their soldiers, would they be so quick to go to war?

For Mick Reed

On January 3rd a great man died. He was 59 years old. He was the father of a couple of old friends and he touched the lives of many of the people they hung around with, among others. When I was in my early 20s, Mick showed me that when you get older you don't have to become boring and out of touch. He was one of the coolest 'grown ups' I knew and in retrospect he probably had more of an influence on me than I realised.

Today is his funeral, which I wish I could have got to but unfortunately I haven't been able, so I wanted to mark Mick's passing in some way. So here's my little tribute, one of many memories of a man who certainly gave more to the world than he took.

Rest well, Mick. You'll be sorely missed by a lot of people.

I remember once when I was about twenty one I was walking across West Park with my friend Jamie on a Sunday in summer after playing football all afternoon, heading in the direction of a well earned smoke and bottle of cider. Suddenly a man came bombing across the park shouting for our attention.

Mick Reed in cricket whites.

"Lads, can you help me out, not enough people have turned up from The Tiger and we're a couple of players short for this game, we could really do with you to help make up the numbers. Come on lads or we’ll have to forfeit the game."

We reluctantly agreed, obviously it wouldn’t have been possible to say no, and Mick was over the moon. Shanghaied. We approached the green with Mick beaming, two scruffy young lads who would rather have been chugging cider and smoking fatties than playing cricket. Mick put us in our position to field and away we went.

The opposition was what looked like a bunch of self-important, miserable old men who took things too seriously. All the time. They looked at Jamie and I as though we’d just pissed on their cornflakes. Within fifteen minutes they looked like we’d turned around and shat on them as well when I made my first catch of the day, taking out a man who looked a bit like Michael Howard but with less charisma.

Mick smiled, his selection justified.

Before long I made a second catch to Mick’s continued delight and later went on to throw the quickest and most accurate ball of my life. I was fielding, the ball was played and it came to me. The batsmen had decided to run for a single and I noticed that the one running left to right was still a long way from safety. I thought sod it and decided to chance my arm at hitting the stumps from where I was – about thirty five feet away – to run him out. I went for it and it was the truest ball I have ever thrown, taking out the stumps to the dismay of the batsman but elation of the Tiger Inn team. Mick’s face was a picture of pure pleasure.

To top it all toward the end of the match, Jamie was put in to bowl and after a shaky couple of deliveries he eventually took a wicket in his second over, spectacularly taking out the stumps. The Tiger won the match.

Later that evening I was around Big Steve’s house and remembered that I’d left my sunglasses in Mick's wife, Cathy’s bag while I’d been playing cricket. Steve and I were getting settled in for an ‘all-nighter’ so to speak and I knew I’d need them in the morning so I popped round the corner to Mick and Cathy’s to pick them up. Mick was in the kitchen and he asked me if I knew who our opposition had been that afternoon. I said I had no idea and Mick smiled and told me.
The Conservative Club.

No wonder he looked so happy.

The End of Silence

On the Friday night just gone I witnessed one of the greatest performances I have ever seen. Henry Rollins stopped by at London’s Royal Festival Hall on his Frequent Flyer Spoken Word Tour and Charlotte, being the wonderful girl that she is, got us tickets to go see and see him as a treat for my birthday.

Now I’m not sure if you’re familiar with Henry Rollins or the stupidly large body of work he has behind him, but if you aren’t let me tell you this man is the embodiment of the phrase ‘strong work ethic.’ A legend in his own right as a punk vocalist he also writes books, acts in films, presents TV and radio shows, performs immense spoken word tours and still finds time to wander the planet, visiting US troops in Afghanistan, Iraq and other less stable areas of the world as well as taking trips to a whole range of far flung countries with stories to tell. Put simply the man is perpetual motion.

As we arrived at the Royal Festival Hall, a great venue on the South Bank in London, Charlotte pointed out to me that there were signs outside the auditorium entrances that read, ‘please be advised there will be no intermission during tonight’s performance.’

‘How long’s the show on for?’ I asked her.
‘About three hours,’ Charlotte replied.

Three hours? I could almost hear old Hank’s voice in my head screaming drill instructor style, ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP, INTERMISSIONS ARE FOR THE WEAK!’.

We took our seats and at 7.30pm prompt, Henry took the stage. Then for three hours he talked none stop. I’m not kidding, three hours of Rollins covering a vast amount of material in a way that is best described as relentless. And do you know, throughout the entire show I can’t remember Henry becoming lost or saying, ‘erm’ once.

And I thought I could talk.

What is also incredibly surprising is the amount of information that sticks in your head after the show’s finished. When I’ve been to see comedians or similar performers in the past – not that Henry Rollins is a comic - I’m usually buggered if I can remember what they talked about, but with this show I can remember more than three quarters of it. I think it’s because he kind of grabs your attention in a choke hold and refuses to let go until he’s done with you. Don’t get me wrong though he isn’t just a rant machine set on eleven, his performance was funny, moving, informative and most of all inspirational.

Covering subjects from the election of President Obama and the subsequent American right wing backlash, to the blasphemy law in Ireland and the illegality of holocaust denial in the Czech Republic, free speech, the twenty fifth anniversary of the Union Carbide disaster in Bhopal in India and my personal favourite, his flipping the bird to Burmese dictator and general fuckhead, Than Shwe, Rollins was seamless throughout.

I came out of the show inspired. If I’m honest I also came out of it feeling a little lazy; it’s hard not to when you compare yourself to the workaholic nut job that is Henry Rollins. I urge you to seek out some of his stuff on the internet, especially his spoken word material. If I did heroes, which I don’t, he’d certainly be one of them. I do however deeply admire this ageing punk icon and all round maniac and feel better knowing that the world has people like him in it.

Snow Joke - In the Beginning

I’ve finally succumbed to the temptation to add my voice to the clamouring millions who think that their opinions count for something, or are indeed heard let alone considered when floating around in the vastness of the internet. The other day I read a blog that my friend, Sarah pointed me towards entitled Most Blogs Are Shit, Aren’t They? and that probably sums up my opinion of most of them. Ironically, Most Blogs Are Shit, Aren’t They? is really funny and I suggest you take a look, there's a link at the bottom.

So why should I decide that I should add to the already immeasurable sea of self-indulgent writing? Probably because I’m as deluded as most other people and think that someone may actually give a shit and read it.

Another reason for writing this is I’ve been sporadically contributing to the Taco Cart Productions blog, which has so far been mostly concerned with movie reviews, which would make sense with Taco Cart being a guerrilla film making outfit based in Seattle. So I’ve decided that I’ll keep throwing periodic film reviews that way and create a space here for other things I want to write about. If you haven’t checked them out before I suggest you have a look at the Taco Cart site as well as their short films if you can, Jerry and Co are a pretty talented bunch. The link is at the bottom for that site too.

I ‘m going to be exceptionally British with this first entry because I’m going to talk about the weather. ‘Hurrah’ I hear you cry, ‘the weather. What a fabulously fucking exciting thing to read about.’ I’m afraid I have to though because we’ve had the most snow the country has had for a few years and once again even a light dusting has caused everything to practically grind to a halt. The problem is what usually happens is the rest of the country gets a decent measure of snow and in Brighton we get a piffling sprinkle if anything at all.
But not this time.

We may not have had as much as places further north but we’ve still had a fair amount and it’s hung around for more than twenty four hours before turning to shitty slush. For about five days now we’ve been covered with the stuff and hit with sub zero temperatures, which has brought a wonderful helping of anarchy to the usual daily proceedings.

The media has been conjuring up the usual infuriating sound bites and headlines as to be expected, talking as though this was the coming of a bloody ice age. Schools have closed, public transport suspended, workplaces operating at a bare minimum. I saw the BBC website midweek publish an article entitled, why is it so cold? Dear readers, you don’t need to go through a whole BBC article to solve that little poser because I can give you the answer you need as to why it’s so cold right here in one short sentence. Ready?

Because it’s fucking winter.

It tends to do things like get cold at this time of year, and yes occasionally it even snows. Sometimes everywhere. Not just in the Scottish Highlands.
I called on a friend who goes by the name of Shoes yesterday and his Polish friend, Lukas came over and joined us for a drink. He made a rather interesting point as we passed around the warming contents of my hip flask. He said:

‘In my country it is minus fifteen, minus twenty at this time of year. Much more snow. But here it is minus one or two and the whole country fucking stops. What is that about?’

I couldn’t answer him. I mean it’s not like this is Spain is it? It isn’t like we aren’t used to a bit of cold is it? We don’t live in the warmest place on Earth by a long shot so why can’t we cope with a bit of snow? I remember winters like this back in the distant days of my childhood so it isn’t like this is a surprise. It’s a symptom of winter, can’t we just deal with it?

Personally I love it, the place seems brighter and more interesting thanks to the snow. At this time of year I’m usually struggling with a bout of seasonally affective disorder, enduring the cold, dark tedium of January and trying to cope with the big comedown after the festive season. Not to mention coming to terms with being a year older, which is getting more difficult as the years pass by. And what a shitty time to have a birthday, January the second. I ask you. Who wants a birthday at that time of year? Future parents of the world, I urge you to not blight your unborn offspring with a crappy time of year for a birthday. Do them a favour and start shagging in around the end of September, give them a nice summer birthday rather than landing them with one on the day the rest of the world decides that the party’s over.

As for the snow, well as I write another prolonged flurry of the beautiful frozen whiteness is covering the ground once more. Temperatures aren’t going to get above freezing and there’s more forecast for tonight. Long may it continue. Well hey, it’s better than loads of boring old rain and headlines about how the flooding will sink the UK, isn’t it? I think so.

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