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
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Sunday, 21 March 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, 21 February 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, 18 February 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, 31 January 2010
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?
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?
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.
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