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?
Sunday 31 January 2010
Wednesday 20 January 2010
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.
Monday 18 January 2010
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.
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.
Saturday 9 January 2010
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:
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.
http://mostblogsareshitarentthey.blogspot.com
http://www.tacocartproductions.com
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.
http://mostblogsareshitarentthey.blogspot.com
http://www.tacocartproductions.com
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