Global Warming

I'm writing this while relaxing in my own comfortably large carbon footprint. Like an old relaxed pair of slippers my carbon footprint allows me to stretch out here in the front room while a real coal fire burns away decoratively in the hearth, Christmas fol-de-rols packed along the mantlepiece above, even though the temperature outside is more like September than darkest December. The stuff - as we gardeners call it - in my garden is still growing. This really pisses me off. I don't even approve of it growing in the height of summer when I have to get out there with machete and industrial strength weed killer to keep it under control and now, when I'm expecting some respite, it looks as if this close to Christmas Eve I'm going to have to cut the fucking grass! And there's a climbing thing next to the wheelie bins which is like a fucking triffid, it's indestructible. You think you've dug it's fucking roots up but it still comes back leeching up the walls. It's going to come through the bedroom window one day, I'm sure.

And we've had rain recently which if we get it again we'll have to upgrade the common or garden gutters to monsoon ditches like we're living is Singapore instead of the west of Scotland. The only good thing about all this is that we get spectacular film of calving icebergs on the National Geographic channel which is just as entertaining as watching skyscrapers being demolished. We've just got one of the new high definition tellies and the other week we were watching Planet Earth with David Attenborough speaking in reverential tones while hundreds of male Emperor Penguins huddled in the deep Antarctic winter incubating their chicks while the female was off at sea enjoying herself. The freezing males might have welcomed a bit of global warming. Now don't get all upset. I'm not personally in favour of the planet overheating. I'm an Independent reader, a more bleeding, bleeding heart you will not find. I just like a coal fire. I haven't the room for a nuclear reactor, which is probably the best alternative but the neighbours might frown on mushroom clouds coming out the chimney.

New Look

How do you like the new look? I hope to add some meaningful content soon to justify the superficial snazziness.

What Everyone Wants To Know

There are, according to my tracking thing, two things everyone wants to know; (1) an analysis of the Keats poem When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be and (2) what is the ending of Nick Horny's novel How To Be Good all about?

You would be amazed (slightly) of the number of Google searches with these two subjects which hit my blog. Well I am amazed because I never thought that the reach of this blog could be so extensive. Unfortunately the answers to these two literary quests is a little beyond my reach. I had a stab at the Keats and ended up sounding like Brian Sewell, so much so that I had to take the piss out of myself in case people thought I was a right ponce.

Clearly though, the demand for clarification of the ending to How To Be Good impels me to give it my best shot, so here goes. By the way I know that Nick Hornby never fails to keep up with this blog so Nick, if you're there please feel free to comment, mate.

The gist of the novel is Dr. Kate Carr's struggle to hold her family together while dealing with a husband who is going through a spiritual crisis. The book begins as Kate is engaging in a bit of extra marital, more as a way of trying to obtain some warmth and loving affection in the face of a marital relationship which is already at breaking point. David, Kate's husband is a writer who earns his main income from penning a column for the local weekly paper as 'Holloway's Angriest Man'. Not to go over too much the synopsis, as this post is aimed at people who have already read the book and know fine what it is about, but Kate's affair fizzles out and she and David, for the sake of the two kids, Tom and Molly, try to come to some kind of accommodation with one another.

In the meantime David strikes up a relaitionship with a faith-healer named GoodNews. GoodNews moves in with David and Kate as he and David evolve various schemes to make the world a better place. The major scheme that the pair come up with is finding homes for homeless youngsters by persuading their neighbours to make better use of their spare bedrooms. The whole thing is told in Kate's voice and Nick Hornby deserves great credit in making this first person female narrative come off so well. Some of the narrative, such as the description of one of the homeless kids desperation to make the scheme work, is achingly tender and other parts are laugh out loud funny. It is really a good read, as you can see here

But the ending. Let me set this up and if you've not read the book, too bad. Kate and David finally have their own house to themselves (and the kids) as GoodNews has moved out. They are more tender with each other and David has come to some kind of realisation as to how he should be leading his own life. Kate has not shaken off the melancholy which events have visited upon her but she is coming to terms with herself and is beginning to enjoy a lot of the things which she has been putting aside for too long. The children, so beautifully characterised, have been through too much and it seems the family is now more together than perhaps they have ever been.

The last part of the final chapter takes place in a dark stormy night.

For the last three days, it has been raining and raining and raining - it has been raining harder than anyone can remember. It's the kind of rain you're supposed to get after a nuclear attack:

Hornby sets a scene of an almost apocalyptic storm going on outside while inside the family are safe within their solid walls, safe together after all the storms of the preceding months. This is contrasted by Kate pondering:

It feels like the end of the world. And our homes, homes which cost some of us a quarter of a million pounds or more, do not offer the kind of sanctuary that enable us to ignore what is going on out there: they are too old, and at night the lights flicker and the windows rattle.

Safe then, but still vulnerable. And just as they are eating, water starts to pour into the kitchen under the French windows, serving as a further reminder of the forces outside. David digs out a cycling cape and goes upstairs to lean out of a window and try to clear a gutter choked with leaves and rubbish. They get a broom and David leans out further to try and clear the blockage. The final chapter:

'Stop, David', I tell him. 'It's not safe.'
'It's fine.'
He's wearing jeans, and Tom and I grab hold of one back pocket each in an attempt to anchor him, while Molly in turn hangs on to us, purposelessy but sweetly. My family, I think, just that. And then, I can do this. I can live this life. I can, I can. It's a spark I want to cherish, a splutter of life in the flat battery; but just at the wrong moment I catch a glimpse of the night sky behind David, and I can see that there's nothing out there at all.

It ends right there and I wonder, why did he end it end it like that? Why didn't he stop with the phrase 'a splutter of life in the flat battery'? And David perhaps shouting out 'Its cleared.' That would have been the expected ending. In fact that's the kind of ending he was leading up to all through the book, and the only reason I can think of that makes some sense of how it finished on that last desolate note was Hornby's realisation that he was being conventional and predictable. I think he was being capricious even with his readers in not giving them what they were expecting. The result is unsatisfying, you feel cheated somehow, ultimately let down. So, Nick Hornby, explain yourself or I'll steal all the future books you ever publish.

S.N.A.F.U.

Well I thought I was being smart, trying to change my template, but look what I've done - deleted all my links to my favourite blogs. What a bastard! Now I'll have to do them all again, well maybe not all but certainly my real faves like Lingo Slinger, Emerald Bile, Clairwil and Ill Man. It's such a twat because it will take ages. Has anyone got tips on how to do it quickly and easily? Something called Blogroll? I'm fucked if I know. Please help!

I'm Back

I need to do this. I've had a good think and it seems to me that the thing I like to do is blog. I know it aligns me with all you deluded saddoes out there who think that the world is interested in your small, intricate lives but that's a price I'll have to pay to ensure that the world, the -- how shall I put it? -- the zeitgeist -- can share in my general wonderfulness.

So, I'm back. (Smiles beamingly down on the assembled hosts). At this particular moment, sitting in the quiet kitchen of my life, looking out over the townscape of my past, I don't have a lot to say. However that state of blank, idea-less, Homer-Simpson-esque mindless numty-ism has never deterred the vast majority of the blogging sphere - the so-to-speak blogosphere (that's clever, I think I'll copyright that) so it won't stop me now.

Anyway, what's it all about? I hear you say. Well it's not all about me. Of course some of me has crept in here from time to time and no bad thing. But I'd just like a wee change of direction. Nothing radical, just a gentle nudge on the tiller as old Ted Heath was likely to say. Maybe a bit less of the diary style and rather more reflections on life and the pursuit of happiness. Actually I don't know if you can successfully pursue happiness (there you are right there, a little reflection without hardly even trying!) because the more you pursue the more elusive it becomes. Happiness happens to you, comes to you, when you are not pursuing it. Once you know the secret of how to want what you have, you've cracked it.

Goodbye For A While

This blog is closing down. I thought I'd let you know because a lot of you have given me some lovely feedback over the past couple of years. So goodbye for now. I'm afraid that there is too much else going on in my life and I can't give the blog the direction and input that it needs.

I'll be back sometime but for now I need to give it a rest. In the meantine I can re-assess the situation. Thanks for all your comments, visits, and warm thoughts. See you later.

Getting Out

It's Saturday night and we're having our usual night in. The old dear is downstairs douring away over the ironing, the oldest is upstairs with one of his mates putting away a few lagers before they go out to meet the other mates in the pub, and the youngest is god knows where doing god knows what (I do worry though). And I'm here listening to my Atlantic Gold compilation which I bought just yesterday. And if there is a better piece of music than Otis Redding singing 'I've Been Loving You Too Long' then I've not heard it, and I don't think I'm likely to.

I'm thinking I might take the bike up to Loch Lomond tomorrow; put it on the rack and drive up to Drymen and explore up the east side of the loch. You get as far up as Rowardennan, or maybe I'll go on to Ptarmigan Lodge for a silent pee. Last week I was over on Bute and I really enjoyed that.

I cycled down to Wemyss Bay and fortunately I just missed the ferry. I say fortunately because it gave me the opportunity to have a bacon roll in the old-fashioned cafe at the pierhead and read the Observer sports pages before the ferry returned. Rothesay looked great in some places and dilapidated in others. Too many neglected terraces tell a story of genteel decline. I took the road south towards Kingarth which took me on a loop round the south of Bute, the back into Rothesay and a pause for re-hydration. Passing Zavarone's Ice Cream Parlour I biked out of town and north to the ferry from Rhubodach to Colintraive. This was a treat. I love ferries and this five minute journey is a wee classic. It's only about 300 metres from one side to the other and the scenery around is gorgeous.

After Colintraive the road goes north towards Strachur but there's single track moor road over to Dunoon via Glen Striven which was do-able despite me not having the use of the big sprocket on the back wheel. Being on top of the moor was lovely, I had the world to myself ... apart from the occasional passing car. By the time I got to the ferry at Hunter's Quay I had covered 53 miles and my arse was aching. It was a good day though.

A Great Feeling ...

... now that it's over. The colleagues and I had a fine time last Saturday riding round Arran on our bicycles. The day started off pishing with rain and we were well soaked by the time we reach Kildonan at the south end. But we were making good progress and feeling good about the success of our fund-raising. Then near-disaster; my chain slipped off the rear cogs as I was changing gear and the derailleur got chewed up and snapped. Bastard thing was totalled. We pulled into a house by the side of the road and the old couple and daughter there provided us with shelter in their shed while we tried to think out our next move. Eventually, while we were scratching our heads and thinking that I would have to retire altogether, the old guy, Terry, volunteered to drive me and my bike back to Brodick.

The colleagues pressed on regardless and I was whisked back to the Cycle Shop in Brodick which was fortunately open. Within half an hour the mechanic there had fitted a new derailleur and I was in a taxi van heading over the String Road in the middle of the island towards Machrie. We caught up with the others just north of Machrie and I was back in the game.

I was absolutely delighted to be re-joining them as I would just have hated to have to quit, having got this far. Anyway we were soon enjoying better weather as we cruised up the west coast towards Lochranza. Which is where is situated Arran Distillery where they make a fine single malt. We had a wee look round but didn't get the full tour as it was near the end of the day, but we bought a bottle of the ten year old just in case we needed a nightcap back at the digs.

After the distillery we were back on the bikes for the long drag up the west side of Glen Chalmadale. This is a near two mile gradient rising to about, fuck I don't know. Anyway I was nearly pegging out by the time I reached the summit. And then! What a fucking rush freewheeling down the other side towards Sannox. It was mental! We were nearly clocking forty miles an hour. If we had come off we'd surely be brown bread. But it was great. I felt terrific at that point which was just as well because eight miles further on as we dragged our sore arses over the finishing line at Brodick I was well knackered.

But we did it, and we have raised over £2,500 for Cancer Research UK. Not bad, eh.

A Great Response

So far we have raised over £1,400 for Cancer Research UK. The progress bar on www.justgiving.com/roundarran has burst through the £1,000 target. This is so rewarding and really puts the wind at our backs for the run tomorrow.

The training is going ...

... not too bad considering that we have so little spare time for it. Take last week-end for example. I was due to fly out of Prestwick on Sunday for a business trip to France. The colleague and I planned to do a 40 mile run round the back roads of Ayrshire on Saturday, so I booked into a hotel in Prestwick for the Saturday night and took the bike down on the back of the car. So we set off on the road to Straiton and Maybole, good hilly roads to get the lungs working, and then down towards the coast road between Culzean Castle and the Electric Brae.

All in all it was four and a half hours in the saddle and the after effects were not too unbearable. So now we're looking forward to this coming Saturday for the main event. We reckon to leave Brodick at 11.00 a.m. and head clockwise round the island. If we complete in the time we think we will need then we'll be back in Brodick by 6.00 p.m. It will be a great achievement just to finish on the same day, for me at least, so wish me luck.

Give A Little - Make A Difference

If you are a generous caring person then the chances are you're all used up with giving. Because there are too many demands on your time, your money, your self. But here's a thing; I am going to be breaking my arsebone riding 57 miles around Arran in the hope that others will make my efforts seem worthwhile. Please don't let me down. If you want to support Cancer Research UK and also support me and the colleagues in our sponsored cycle then visit www.justgiving.com/roundarran and donate a quid, a dollar, or a rouble, and help to make a difference.

A Ride Would Be Good

Well it's developing. The Round Arran Challenge or Blazing Saddles is getting closer. The training is well under way and myself and the colleagues are working hard on building up resistance to saddle-ache.

The venue of Arran could not be better, well it could be flatter but this isn't Holland is it. We've booked into a B & B in Brodick for the night of Saturday 2nd Sept. and hopefully we'll be back there after the round island cycle in good order for a pint or two. Well it would be a real bummer if we were so fucked by the end of the day we couldn't enjoy a celebration.
The plan is to ride anti-clockwise and get the hilly north part over first. Frankly I don't think it'll make that much difference but you have to have a plan don't you.

I've put a couple of maps here for you but mostly I've put them here for me. I love maps, and I love maps of islands. They remind me of Treasure Island and I could spend hours poring over them imagining where the treasure might be hidden.

I used to spend a weekends on Arran when I was a youth. We used to camp outside of Brodick and the favourite pub was the Ormidale Hotel. I got thrown out of the place once for dancing on the table. This bloke called Fisher Gilmour who owned the place took a dim view.

Anyway I'm going to set up a donation opportunity for you all to support Cancer Research UK. Kat gave me the idea of a page on justgiving.com. As soon as it's ready I'll let you know.

I'm in Love ...

with my Apollo Cafe 2. I know it's only a bike but what a wonderful piece of machinery it is. 21 speed Shimano gears with revo-shift, lightweight aluminium frame, front suspension, seat suspension, och just all the bells and whistles you could wish for, including a bell! But that's not the point. The thing just beguiles me with it's ability to make me feel good.

It was stuck in the coal cellar for eighteen months, lying neglected with deflated tyres and not even cleaned of the muck I had subjected it to on its last run out. Then my colleague started talking about how he had always wanted to cycle round Arran. Well I was really energised by that for some reason. Whether it's because Arran is one of my favourite places or whether it was just the idea of the challenge, I don't know but before I knew it I was dragging the thing out of its dark hole into the sunshine of the back yard, pouring 3-In-One onto the chain and gears, buffing with a cloth, and preparing to mount.

Despite the lay-up she whirred along like a sewing machine. A scoosh round the coast road past the Cloch lighthouse on Sunday morning was just idyllic. Joggers jogged past smiling; Maw, Paw, and the weans cruised by in the old family jalopy, the sun shone on all who were skidging church. It was a perfect day. And the bike made me a part of it.

You see the thing is, I work too much so I need some antidote to work and a day on a bike ... well a good day on a bike, I wouldn't want it to be pishing down ... is the perfect antidote to work. And work is the main reason I can't keep up this blog the way I would like. I mean it's just not possible. Here's a typical day for me:
06.30 Alarm goes. Up, bath, breakfast, cuppa in bed for the wife.
07.30 In the car, up the M8.
08.00 Arrive in office. Open computer - on the batter.
10.00 Tea at desk
12.00 Lunch
12.30 Back to desk - continue on the batter.
15.00 Tea
15.15 Meeting - yadda yadda yadda.
18.30 Start to clear up.
18.45 In the car, music up to max volume, yaaaaa-aaaah!!!!

Five fucking days a week, I shit you not. I know it's no way to live but that's the way it is, and I actually enjoy a lot of what I do, it's just I've got very little time to myself. I'd love to just spend ages and ages doing my OU thing (did I tell you I'd passed that BTW? No? Sorry.), keeping a nicely creative blog going, writing pithy short stories, meeting fellow bloggers in Babbity Bowsters for a pint (Oh so yoo-oo-'re Ill Man, yes you do loook a little pale ...). I mean look at what interesting lives all these bloggers are leading. It's fuckin' cuttin' edge stuff ... Tommy Sheridan and bits oot o' the paper and, and ... aw sorts. It's jist awesome, and here's me.

So a bike is good. Gets ye oot. (I''ll need to get a grip here. I'm starting to sound like Billy Connelly). Anyway here's the plan. We're gon'eh cycle round Arran for charity. September week-end. All the way round Arran (57 miles by the way) in aid of cancer research. Do you think I've got it in me?

How To Be Good - Nick Hornby ...

... has an ending which seems to have intrigued more than a few people; in fact unsettled may be a better way of describing some people's reactions. Now I would like to explore this a little further, and I have been asked to but ... I'm afraid that, unlike in those halcyon days of a few month ago when I was living the ex-pat bachelor life in old Dalmatia, I am now chained to a desk for eight to ten hours of the day and when I get home of an evening it's all I can do to rouse myself occasionally from my armchair to tap a few words once a week into this blog. And in any case I've forgotten how the ending went so that's not much use. But I will re-read this book and try to shed some light on the author's purpose. Don't hold your breath though, I may take a while.

So that's where you come in. Have you read the book? How did you like it? Was the ending good for you? Did the earth move? Let me know and share with others, you'll enjoy the experience. And don't be shy of giving the ending away, who cares.

Sepia-toned Soldier

You look out of faded pictures
Through wars and years long gone.
I try so hard to see into your eyes
To try to know you again.
But it's 1935 and you're in India,
Shoulder to shoulder with your mates,
Royal Scots, Pontius Pilate's bodyguard,
And you can't see me yet.

You're a hard wee man and
you're not looking too far ahead.
There's soldiering to do and
Battles to fight,
Mates to lose.
A girl to meet,
Five sons and a daughter to grow,
But you can't see it yet.

You can't see me in 1960
helping you to pee into a bottle
Because the cancer that's killing you
Has stripped the muscle from
Your sturdy soldier's body.

I wish I could see you now
Just so I can tell you,
I'm okay.

Analyse This

A is for asking - what's next?
B is for breast - me on yours, you in mine.
C is for careless - in both of its senses.
D is for don't - just don't.
E is for echo - echo.
F is for - who gives it?
G is for God or god.
H is for home - sleeping alone.
I is for ignorance - who cares?
J is for jealousy - mine not mine.
K is for kindness - it's all.
L is for lambs - of God or god.
M is for me - only me.
N is for normal - normally.
O is for open - openly.
P is for pen - and words - please come.
Q is for quick - being cut to the.
R is for resolve - I will, maybe.
S is for sex - sugar.
T is for tangled - tortured.
U is for under - an obligation.
V is for veneer - thin.
W is for wonder - if I can.
X is for ex - except I don't.
Y is for you - or you.
Z is for Zen - Ommm.

Acknowledging Lingo Slinger's idea

Fresh Bile Once More Available

They're back. And I'm back too. For the last two weeks I've just been concentrating on being a dad. The boy's and I have been farting around Split together and also doing some strenuous outdoor things on the islands. Our first day together in Split coincided with the ex-pat's five-a-side kickabout so the boys joined in. Then the next day we went over to Brač to start a five day sea-kayaking adventure. We were lucky in having for our guide the coolest guy in Split. Pačo is an old acquaintance of mine from my visits to Twins Caffe Bar on Split's riva. He was our constant companion on kayak trips to the Pakleni Islands and down the south coast of Hvar to Sv. Nedelja. This was basically a rock climbing camp with a small lodge for overnight stays. We climbed the 600 m peak of Sv. Nikola which was absolutely gruelling in the heat we're getting this summer.













After the hill climbing being in the kayak was positively relaxing although paddling 20 km or so up the coast was no walk in the park, if I can put it that way.















Sometimes a dad has to do a bit of hard work to let his kids know he's there for them. And it's not always quality time that matters, just quantity time.





















So that explains my absence from the blog, in case you've been wondering. I'll catch up soon.

What's Happened To Emerald Bile?

Does anyone know where Noreen and Ball Bag have gone? Please submit your conspiracy theories here.

So it's near enough midnight ...

... last Friday night and I'm sitting on the roof terrace of the Caffe Bar Libar chillin' with the dudes , or whatever the expression is, and I get a call from my colleague in Glasgow.
"West", he says urgently. "You've got to go to New York and sort out the mess on" ... (names the place where the mess is occurring).
"But I'm just about to get into a higher gear here!" I protested. Anxious faces turned towards mine as my consternation communicated itself to the assembled company. They sensed that something was going on which could put a dampener on the party atmosphere. They drew closer together, gaining comfort from each other as events unfolded.
"It's all arranged, West, your ticket is booked, Split to Frankfurt ten o'clock tomorrow morning, just enough time to sign a few autographs at Frankfurt, then it's next stop New York. The Big Apple's waiting West baby, start spreading the news".
"Are you fucking mental!" I screamed. "There's stuff to do here, babes to service, conquests lining up." But he was gone, the die was cast.
"What's happening West?" Spokesbabe number one asked tentatively, her eyes downcast. The others hung back, waiting.
"I'm sorry babes, I've got to go. It's New York for me."

And so I departed old Dalmatia prematurely. The late Friday night/early Saturday morning high jinks at the Club Tribu just about did for me. Honestly, the next day I thought I was going to peg out, but once I had rehydrated and medicated myself with half a pharmacy I summoned the strength to get out to the airport and was off, in shambling order to New York via Frankfurt.

After the mess was sorted out I made sure to head back down to Manhattan. I arrived there last Monday evening at about seven thirty. Just enough time for a long soak and then a short stroll down to Thirty Second Street to get the subway to my spiritual home, Hoboken.
I lived there for six months from October 2002 and I just love the place. I got off the PATH and strolled down 1st Street to call in at the Nag's Head Pub run by Barney Finnegan, the most disagreeable pub landlord I have ever met. Unfortunately Barney was not at home so I had a quiet pint of very agreeable Guinness and headed off to the Scotland Yard Bar home of the Monday Night Blues Jam with Big Ed Sullivan. I used to go to the Yard religiously every Monday and I'm glad to say that nothing had changed. It was still great. Christine was still behind the bar, Big Ed was still running the show, and great musicians like Arthur Nielsen and Dave Gross, the wunderkid. And so many other fine musicians, most of them enthusiastic but gifted amateurs. The regular drummer is good and really can drive a good rocking blues number, but there was also another, younger guy there who showed some unexpected subtlety in that company. Great music, and all for the cost of a few beers and show your appreciation in the tip jar.

Next day it was down to Macy's for the shopping and another chance to soak up NYC. Being as how it was the Fourth of July the place was relatively quiet, as the office workers had abandoned the canyons for the day and left the place to the tourists. A handbag for the lady wife, a Boston Celtics vest for the sprog, and two original 1960's Superman comics for the wasting asset. And so to the airport, relax in the business lounge, a few glasses of wine, board the plane, dinner and a few more glasses of wine. I slept like a baby all the way to London.

Paddling Like Fuck

I'll be seeing you soon. Don't think I'm giving up or anything. Work is overwhelming at the moment but it'll settle down and we'll be back to abnormal. I'm going back to the UK on Wednesday next and that is the end of my sojourn in old Dalmatia. I'm going to miss this place. It has captured a special place in my heart and ... well I'm going to miss it. I've had a great opportunity to meet a lot of nice people, get to know a special place and soak up a different culture. My only regret is that for a large part of it I could not share it with someone I love. There's a saying - a worry shared is a worry halved. I also think that a pleasure shared is a pleasure doubled, and if that is doubled twice it is quadrupled. Singular pleasure seeking often leaves one feeling empty.

So it was a particular pleasure for me to share a kayaking trip to Brač with a colleague. I'll try and give you some idea in a future post as to the distance covered but I'll tell you now. It was a fucking long way. But good, you know how good you can feel when you have really achieved something. That's how it felt.

It's All In The Mind

“Wait, get up a minute.” Said George.

Hank paused. He looked over at George and he could see the sweat running down his oil-stained face. Henry eased himself out from under the car giving George space to do the same.

“Where are you going?” Asked Hank.

George wiped his face with an oily rag.
”I need a drink of water.”

Hank looked at the transmission assembly lying on the trolley-jack, then he looked at the clock.
”But we've not finished yet.”

George started walking towards the office.
”I'm too hot.”

Hank sighed. We’ll never get this finished tonight, he thought.
"OK, bring me one too." He shouted.

I just thought I'd try that to tease you. What did your imagination tell you the poem in the previous post was all about? Well we know where Lingo Slinger's head was.

Whatever ...

... comes into my head in the next two minutes. I'm going over to Hvar today. It's apparently beautiful but then to me all islands are beautiful, especially all islands in the Adriatic. I'll hire a scooter and tool around and see where the spirit takes me. That's the joy of life isn't it? Not knowing what might be around the next corner. Or maybe it's a curse - not wanting what you have but always wanting something else which you can't quite see clearly but you know it's always going to be just out of reach.

Enough of this middle-aged angst which is so boring. I hope that Lingo Slinger did good at the poetry slam. Here's one from me:

Wait, get up a minute.
Where are you going?
I need a drink of water.
But we've not finished yet.
I'm too hot.
OK, bring me one too.

Is Human Life Sacred?

That was the philosophy question in the final assessment for my OU course in the humanities. Now I know that I'm not supposed to post these TMA's onto my blog but I'll get away with this, mainly because I posted it off without copying it and now I've only got a vague recollection about what I actually wrote. So let's consider - what do we mean, first of all, by sacred. I always like to get back to basics with these things so let's take the dictionary definition first:

sacred a. 1. Consecrated or held especially acceptable to a deity, dedicated or reserved or appropriated to some person or purpose; made holy by religious association, hallowed...

I believe that it is in humankind's instincts to hold human life as sacred and I would extract from that dictionary definition the part - dedicated or reserved to some person or purpose. It seems to me that most people hold human life to be sacred whether or not they believe in a deity. So what, you might ask, is the purpose to which I think human life is dedicated to? It is simple self-preservation.

We studied early on in the course the philosopher Rousseau and he spoke about society obeying the general will. Most people would see sense in this idea as the alternative to rule by consent is anarchy, and in a state of anarchy we are at peril. So we live in what we commonly call society. In most cases this is based on small groups such as the family, then the neighbourhood, the town, the province and then the nation. We expand this co-operative network by forming alliances, commonwealths etc. and finally a body such as the United Nations.

The link here is that we wish to protect, firstly ourselves, then our family, then out neighbours and countrymen, and then our allies and international neighbours. Our instinct for self-preservation is not therefore just a narrow, selfish impulse. By holding other human life to be sacred we protect ourselves. That is society. Maggie Thatcher tried to tell us different:

And, you know, there is no such thing as society. There are individual men and women, and there are families. And no government can do anything except through people, and people must look to themselves first. It's our duty to look after ourselves and then, also to look after our neighbour. (M. Thatcher 1987)

If we look after our families and our neighbours we live in a social world, a society. The poor old cunt didn't know what she was saying. Of course there are instances of killing but these are mercifully few compared to the billions of lives being led by people in harmony with one another. Making war is not our natural instinct, making love is. All human life is sacred and we don't need a religion to make it so. And that is not to put religion down as such. Often religion is nothing more than unscrupulous people seeking power over others but it can be a force for good, and I believe that this is so when it is directed inwards. When a person studies his own inner self, call it the soul if you like, then he is more able to see the value of others and to cherish the beauty and diversity of his fellow humans.

A New Beginning

As you may notice from the comments below the gorgeous, pouting Lingo Slinger seeks to rouse me from a prolonged torpor and get on with this blog. It seems also to me that it is time I got on with the rest of my life, not just the blog. The reason I have been slumbering this long, or reasons I should say, is that (a) I have been busy with work (b) I have been reconsidering the future content and (c) pure fucking laziness. So there - now you know.

So now I've spent all this time reconsidering the future content, what have I decided? Not a clue. Hopeless, all this reconsidering when you fail to come up with something substantive. Never mind, I'll write about nothing until something comes up. (Why don't you sit on my lap Miss Jones and we'll see what comes up).

Thing is, I've got writer's block and I did want the point of this to be an outlet for creative writing. And now I just have to fall back on bashing away at the keyboard until something happens. My time in Croatia is coming to an end shortly, in about three weeks. I'll be packing up the office soon and getting ready to hand over my apartment. I will be sorry to go as I've just fallen in love with this country. The old town of Split has been my home for the past year and a half but all good things must come to an end eventually. There's a nice community of ex-pats here and I'll miss that. Friday nights in the Caffe Bar Libar have been especially pleasant and the genial host (hosts are better if they're genial as if they're not then they're generally surly) Kristijan has become a good friend. It's one of the nice things about Split that the people here are very fond of their town. There's a poem inscribed on a small obelisk near the old town centre which I think sums this up very nicely. I liked it so much I had to learn it off by heart in Croatian.

Ne treba
Nikamo ici
Nigdje drugdje
Traziti
Sto jest
I tu je

Basically the poem says - You don't need to go anwhere, to look elsewhere, what you want is here. Perhaps in another life all I want would be here but I'm not a Splichian so I'll seek elsewhere. Some day I may find it.

Just as a matter of interest ...

... here is an interesting blog giving some figures comparing the current situation in Iraq with the situation three years ago when the great Commander-In-Chief enthralled the world with his grasp of military campaigning.

Mission accomplished ...

... as the banner behind George W. said on the USS Abraham Lincoln. With the same breathtaking hubris I can also point to a job well done. I have just completed AZX103 An Introduction To The Humanities and, like the great Commander In Chief, I like to bask in the applause while the going is good. And, also like George, I'm getting the photo opportunity set up before I know the final result. Why waste time waiting for the marks to come in, let's get the party started.

I am just glad that it is now over. I posted my final TMA today by courier and I just hope it gets to the right place. Some confusion arose when I was trying to figure out who to send it to. The very specific instruction sheet gave one address in Milton Keynes. However there was included with it a pre-addressed envelope for the purpose of enclosing the same TMA and it had a different address in MK. What to do? Well I phoned the OU Student Support lot and the woman on the other end gave me yet another address. Well, fuck it I thought. I just went with the first one given on the instructions and hoped for the best. All very confusing.

Will I do another one? I had the notion before I started this that I might use this as the basis for a degree. I'm not so sure now. My work life and private life would have to be a lot more tranquil than it is at present for me to be able to do another 60 pointer properly. It was enjoyable even though I was doing it more or less totally on my own. The on-line tutorials were almost non-existent and the conference was dead despite my early efforts to inject some life into it.

I did learn some stuff about art appreciation and expressing myself which I can perhaps build on and that is a real positive. It is good to tackle some thing new and get satisfaction knowing you've made a decent fist of it. It was fairly basic stuff but, hey, it still required a lot of effort so good for me.

The question now is - now that the OU is out of the picture for the while - where does the blog go? Looking through past posts it is a bit of a dog's breakfast. The OU provided a thread but there's a lot of other stuff which doesn't really sit readily beside it. I'm not sure now. I know that nobody out there gives a shite but the blog does serve a useful purpose for me so I want to do it well. I reckon I should follow the fragrant Lingo Slinger's example and get more short fiction down. That will maybe stand me in good stead if I ever get round to doing A215, you never know. And on reflection it's good for a body to be able to rant about politics every once in a while. It also feels good getting my views out there where they might meet up with some similar opinion and take energy from that and grow and ... wow, gee whizz! Who knows where it might all end up!

Teethmarks On The Clenching Bar ...

... is the working title for my autobiography. You need to know, of course, what a clenching bar is exactly to get the full impact. It's a piece of nautical equipment, a sloping bar or hand-hold, bolted to the bulkhead adjacent to the toilet bowl in a ship's toilet. It's there for when the ship is rolling or pitching violently and you need a little assistance in keeping your arse tight to the cludgie. But sailors have another function for it and that is for when one is afflicted by the trots, gippy tummy, Ghandi's revenge, the squirts, or whatever other fragrant name you wish to call it.

Thus - the clenching bar, there to grip tightly as you give your bowels that extra squeeze, hoping your arse is not about to fall off, while you sit there, eyes bulging and sweating like a rapist, resolving never to spend another night drinking Tiger beer and eating dodgy noodles on Bugis Street, before staggering back to the ship at half past three in the morning, just in time to go on watch at four o'clock. And then, just when your ring is scorched to a white heat by the passage of the undigested raw chillies you somehow thought were a good idea twelve hours ago, you stifle your screams by biting down on the clenching bar and you wonder - Why did I ever come to sea? And then you remember. It was for the uniform, the foreign travel and the chance to see exotic places, meet new people, the glamour. And then your travails for the time being are over and you hitch up your breeks and sweat-soaked boilersuit and head back down to the heat of the engine room.

What's Happening With The OU?

You might well ask. I'm back in old Dalmatia once more and have run out of time for the latest TMA. I did ask for an extension (again) and I fully intend to submit something. I've now got the weekend to get it done. The Swinging Sixties - Eng-ulland swings like a pendulum-doo, Bobbies on by-sickles two by two - and all that bollocks. We'll just have to give it a go, see what happens. Then the final TMA just when I've got a trip to Trieste coming up. Ohhh n-oooo!

There will be a pause ...

... in transmission. This blog is shutting down for a while. Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.

Where were we ...

I had a quick trip home over the Easter weekend and now I'm back in sunny Dalmatia. The weather is distinctly summery and the riva never looked nicer than it did today. Last night there was a bit of a gathering in the Bar Libar just off the riva where the ex-pats of Split normally spend a drunken Friday night. Oddly enough (?) I was in the thick of it and when someone suggested we decamp to a night club I was up for that too. Big mistake, however when we arrived at the Tribu it was around two thirty in the morning and we were only there half an hour when they decided to close. Stephen then announced "No problem, I've got a bottle of Glenfiddich at home." I really should know better than to try and keep up with these youngsters but it's true what the say - There's no fool like an old fool.

The result of all that is that I have been feeling so crapulent all day. So I'm in no great mood to be creative. Anyway I just want you to know. Do you see that prominent peak in the picture, the pointy hill about a third of the way in from the right hand edge? I've climbed that. It's about the same height as Ben Nevis. I felt worse this morning than I felt the morning after I climbed that bugger. Now I'll have to get into some kind of shape for playing football tomorrow. It's a hard life trying to enjoy yourself sometimes.

George W. Pants Like A Dog

This guy is more toe-curlingly embarrasing than anything Ricky Gervais, of The Office, could ever make up.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yyAaAI1qG-A&eurl=

Resolution & A Cultural Revolution

Now referring back it seems I am falling by the wayside, sorry about that, I did also say I would avoid cliches like the plague and falling by the wayside is so-oo cliche. No, what I am failing on is my resolution to post an entry at least twice per week. Now that is a big ask, as some cliche addicted football commentator would say.
(Yes, beating United on their own turf Ron, it's a big ask of any team but Rovers covered every blade of grass tonight in their efforts, literally.)
In my own defence I will say that the work is getting in the way of my leisure pursuits but I do need to buckle down. I'm giving myself a push because I know I can do better, and it's not just on this blog. My last TMA to the OU, while utter crap (see below), was nevertheless an attempt at creativity and that is something that I need to be if I am to retain any real sense of purpose in life.

I look at other blogs, you can see from my links list the kind of stuff I like to read, and I envy these guys their staying power as well as their talent. I am just reminding myself here one of the main purposes of this blog was to track my progress in the OU course, An Introduction To The Humanities and, while I started off well in this, I have not really followed through. One reason for this was a message I received from a well-wisher advising me that, according to the rules of the OU, I was not allowed to post up my completed TMAs. Thank fuck for that I hear you chorus. Well maybe so but it did fill space.

Filling space is not my objective. Using space creatively, that's the point. The next part of the course is entitled; The Sixties - Mainstream Culture And Counter-culture. If there is a subject which should be close to my heart it's the Sixties. I was sixteen years old in 1965. I had already left school and started an apprenticeship in a heavy engineering factory on the Clyde. I still had hair and it was fashionably long in the style of Charlie Watts. I had a girlfriend after going through school feeling myself the object of ridicule of every group of girls who looked in my direction. There was a wonderful new invention on the horizon called lager. The outlook for my self-esteem was rosey.

So it should be a doddle. A few reminiscences on factory life, growing up on a tough housing scheme (Actually it was quite a respectable housing scheme with well tended gardens and the most trouble we got into was for banging on old people's doors and running away), youthful fondling in the park, a first holiday abroad in Majorca with Harold Wilson's maximum £50 spending money (unbelievably there was still some left over after a fortnight's excess).
Instead we get questions like this;
How useful is the term cultural revolution when applied to the Sixties? Support your answer with examples from each of these disciplines ; History, History of Science, Religion, Music and Art. Not more than 2000 words.
The easiest part of that is the 'not more than 2000 words'. That means anything from 200 to 2000, right? I should say not, the fuckers. There might have been a cultural revolution in San Francisco or Ibiza, but not in Greenock. We were too busy serving our time and looking forward to the seventies when we would be journeymen and out of there. The Sixties (with the capital S) only happened retrospectively as far as I was concerned.

Now I'll have to really trawl through the course material and try discover what it all meant. I've got until the 5th of May to get it done by. Wish me luck.

Carnaptious ..

.. is a fine word. It's an old Scottish expression that means grumpy, but something slightly different from just grumpy. There's a sharp edge to it, as if it's someone who's slightly high pitched, shrill. It would suit someone with a beaky nose and a pointed chin. Now I have been characterised as carnaptious once or twice and, I dare say, that was fair comment in whatever the circ's were at the time, although I don't have a beaky nose and pointed chin. We can't be sweetness and light all the time, especially if we are Scottish. It's inbred, this dourness (and if there is anyone out there who pronounces dour as "dower" I'm going to have to give you a slap. It rhymes with whore).

So why do you need to know this? Well, no reason really. I've just submitted my latest Tutor Marked Assignment and it was crap. Capital C, capital R, capital AP. I really did not have a lot of excuses. I did beg for a few days deferral as I was so busy travelling and such, and I got the few days grace. But I was ill prepared. So I'm pissed off, and if you meet up with me in the next few days you might find yourself asking - What's up with that carnaptious old git?
On the other hand you might see me sipping a pina colada on someone's balcony declaiming to all and sundry on the foolishness of people who worry too much. Why can't people be more relaxed, and so on. My guess is the latter.

Paul Story - A Farewell

Here I am back in my little bijoux flatette in the cultural heart of old Dalmatia. During my recent travels back from the Far East I met my body clock going the other way, so now re-united I with myself I can concentrate on the job in hand, viz; this wee blog and my OU TMA (see below).

Before I get started on other things I have to tell you about some changes now afoot in our small but perfectly formed ex-pat community here in Split. On Friday night we all foregathered in the Bar Libar just off the Riva, and adjacent to the church of St. Francis, to say farewell to The Writer. He's been here nearly two years now (I think) and he's now decided to take himself back to the UK on a publicity tour. It was a happy and, at the same time, a poignant occasion because in many ways Paul was the hub of the community, a fixture at his favoured table outside the Backpacker Cafe, either tapping away on his portable keyboard/PDA set-up or receiving visitations from his many friends, rather in the manner of the Oracle bestowing wisdom on the seekers of truth.

Luise and Kristijan had gone to some trouble to ensure that the walls of the caffe-bar were festooned with farewell banners and joshing messages and we were all there to give him a good send off. Brett made a fine speech and Paul responded with startling verbosity. Some tears were shed and much drink was taken. We'll miss him. So if you're wondering what Paul's writing is all about, visit his website. And if you see him in the UK buy him a drink, he's usually thirsty.

A Spring Morning - Omuta, Japan

Some of you may have wondered where I've been all this time. Most of you couldn't give a monkey's of course but then neither do I, give a monkey's that is about those who couldn't give a ... for fuck's sake, what am I raving about. Anyway, here I am in all my soft cuddly gorgeousness, back with a new blog to delight your eminences, if you would give me your attention for a few moments more.

I am going away. Now I don't want you all to gather round weeping and wailing. You'll just have to accept it and get on with your own lives. I'll be back eventually, perhaps in about two weeks but I'm not sure. I'm off to Korea in the morning, not for long, just a day or two there then I'm sailing (although not by wind power) to Japan. Another day or two there then it's back to Croatia in time for the good weather.

So! Interesting little trip. I should try and get some pictures of the strange and enigmatic orient to entertain you on my next post. Would you like that? I've been to Korea and Japan before, many times, and I do like it out there. It's so ... how can I put it? Different! That's the word. By jove sometimes I surprise myself with my perspicacity.

But you do see some "different" things out east. The people there have a different take on things. It is another world. I'll give you an example. I was walking along a downtown street in Omuta one quiet Sunday morning. It was a nice, sunny & mild spring morning and I came across an old man sitting on a small folding stool, his knees were up around his chin. He had an easel in front of him and he was painting a small watercolour scene of the street and the buildings, the level crossing and the sky, and he was so old and hunched over the easel, and he was trembling. He had Parkinson's disease or something and he trembled so much I wondered how he could possibly achieve anything. I couldn't help but stop and wonder at him and I wanted to get a better look at the painting. It was just a beautiful splash of colours and shapes, the blue of the sky, a red banner outside a store, white lines suggesting the level crossing gates. He had not captured the form but he had captured the feeling of that morning perfectly. The old man looked round as I looked over his shoulder, and he gave me the loveliest smile. I felt blessed.

Look after yourselves, and I'll see you when I get back.

The Good Fight

The following letter is from today's Sunday Herald (the Glasgow-based quality newspaper, sister publication of The Herald). I don't know the story referred to but I do admire the way Dr. McLachlan takes the paper to task for its sloppy use of language. More power to him.

Imprecise meaning
THE story by Aasmah Mir about her return from London to Glasgow is called: “Return of the prodigal daughter” (Seven Days, March 5). Why? “Prodigal” means “wasteful” but there is no suggestion in her article that she is or was wasteful. In the biblical story about the wasteful son, the wasteful son happened to return. Has this created the false impression that a prodigal person is one who returns? Not all prodigal sons or daughters return. Not all sons and daughter who return are prodigal. The prodigal son was so called because of his prodigality, not because he returned home.
It is obvious that words can change their meaning and that misuses of language can become, through their frequency, correct uses over time. However, to say that the rules of language can change is no reason for disregarding them or acting as if they had already changed.
Dr Hugh V McLachlan
School of Law and Social Sciences
Glasgow Caledonian University

Isn't that a treat?

Paradise

We played golf at Turnberry yesterday. The boys and I were celebrating the wee fella's fifteenth birthday. I could tell he was excited about it by the way he'd been planning for over a week what he was going to wear. He's not normally the voluble type, and you have to know how to read the signals to know how he feels, but it was a dead giveaway when he laid out his all black Tiger Woods outfit, including his newly shined black school shoes which he will never in a million years wear to school.

We've had a few great golfing days out, the boys and me, over the years. I suppose the first biggie was when I took the big fella to Troon in '97 for the Open which Justin Leonard won. We arrived at about seven thirty in the morning, in time to see Jack Nicklaus on the practice ground with Payne Stewart. How poignant that image is now. We walked the whole course that day, sometimes stopping to watch the players come through, sometimes following one of our favourites like Jesper Parnevik or Seve, or Barclay Howard, the leading amateur.It was the Saturday we went down so we could watch the final day on the Sunday in the comfort of our own front lounge. The big fella was just twelve then and he lapped it up. A golden day.

The next was the open at Royal Lytham in 2001. We went down on the Friday and stayed two nights in Blackpool. The big fella's mate, Seve (real name) came with us. The wee fella was ten years old and would not be left behind. I spent more time that day trying to keep tabs on him than watching the golf. The big fella and Seve had a ball chasing autographs, although there was a tense hour at the end of the day when they were late meeting up with us at the agreed time, and I was running between the mobile police unit and the rendezvous point. Sometimes you could just murder your kids and save the lurking paedophiles the bother. We spent the last day at the Blackpool amusements. The two bigger ones went on the big dipper and I had the dubious pleasure of nearly shitting myself on this infernal thing called the Coca Cola ride with the wee fella. Ironically it was the only ride we could go on together because the wee fella passed the height restriction. First of all you were flung forward and whipped round in a corkscrew motion till you thought your head was going to fly off, and then it mercifully stopped. Just as you were thinking - Thank fuck for that - and about to loosen the safety harness - the bastard took off again backwards ! And whipped you round again back to the starting position. I'll tell you something for nothing, I was crying tears of relief when I got off. And I never did find my 'Open 2001' cap which I'd forked out the better part of ten quid for the day before. You don't normally see chinstraps on baseball caps .. pity.

St. Andrews last year was special. The wee fella and I had two great days. A B&B right in the middle of the old town, a few steps away from the first tee on the Old Course. All that atmosphere and history. It's a wonderful place to visit. I love it that you can just walk right on to the famous turf. There is a public right of way across the eighteenth fairway. Try that at Augusta or Pebble Beach. St. Andrews is great. Then we had a game on the Duke's Course. I won. No, only kidding. I don't remember the score, just that we enjoyed the game.

There's something about golf that can bring people closer. I find it difficult to define. Maybe it's because you don't have to say too much. You can enjoy the game and each other's company and the pleasant surroundings. And when you're walking down the eighteenth fairway it's the best feeling when your boy puts his arm around your shoulders and says 'This was a great day, wasn't it, Dad'.

TMA 07 - Masculinity & Femininity

Just to keep you up to date with what I'm not working on, I have to do the following for submission by the 31st March:

In no more than 1500 words, with careful reference to two of the following works, show how attributes traditionally associated with masculinity and femininity are contrasted:
Pygmalion - A Play by George Bernard Shaw
Medea - A Tragedy by Euripides
Don Juan - A Symphonic Poem by Richard Strauss
Wide Sargasso Sea - A Novel by Jean Rhys

Now I know what you're thinking; the boy can do this, no bother. Your faith in me is touching but, faithful blog-readers, I'm going to have to cut myself some quality time if I'm to make any impression on this. We shall see but it's looking good so far. The dear wife has taught herself to do the ironing one-handed so I'm relieved of those duties and, as I've bought her a new ironing board, then surely a mere broken wrist won't hold her back from producing crisp white shirts for the wee fella to play football in, leaving me to concentrate on the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake.

The preceding paragraph illustrates attributes traditionally associated with masculinity and femininity. Discuss, not more than twenty words.

Are Specs Wearers Being Ripped Off?

I went looking for new glasses today. I've got this pair of vari-focals which I'm increasingly having to wear full time, and I need a pair of plain long vision goggles for when I'm on the golf course. So, having determined that my local branch of Vision Express could do the whole thing inside a working day, off I toddled.

The young man with a stiff neck and an odd sideways way of walking, who served me, allowed me to browse around the frame display on my own. Now I know that the UK is one of the most expensive places to buy spectacles in the world; I know this because I have bought them in various places like Dubai, Bahrain, the USA, etc. but the price tags were ... well, I just thought, ludicrous.

"How much are these?" I asked, indicating a frameless pair.
"One hundred and eighty pounds for the frame, plus your lenses".
That's what he actually said - "for the frames".
But there are no frames, it's just two legs and a bridge, there's fuck all to it! The material must only weigh about twenty grams, or less. When you add it all up it's nearly three hundred quid, call that four hundred and fifty dollars. Is it just me? I mean, why are we putting up with this shit?

When I expressed my views on this Great British Rip-Off to an inattentive audience at the family dinner table, I was reassured that I would be accompanied by the oldest boy to the spectacle emporium the next day to choose a frame, as a precaution against me running amok and breaking someone's head against a display stand. I can't fucking wait.

Blether

I get quite a lot of hits from people doing Google searches for keats - analysis - when - i - have - fears - that - i - may - cease - to -be and of course this links to my post some time ago on the John Keats poem. This was part of an answer to an OU TMA and I wonder if its popularity (maybe 'popularity' is too strong a term) is due to a number of new OU students looking for inspiration. Of course my comments in italics at the end of the "analysis" were meant to be an iconoclastic blast to balance the stuffiness that went before. It surprises me that, apart from the fragrant Lingo Slinger who shared in the joke, no-one has seen fit to take me to task for this little bout of ribaldry. I must try harder, it seems, if I want to elicit some response from my fellow students of poetry.

This post will be a lot about not much. I have been inspired in this by Lingo Slinger who does nothing so well, if you see what I mean. There have been a few things on my mind recently but such have been 'events' that I have had no time to string a credible sentence together, never mind a paragraph of the necessary polemic to satisfy your slavering maws.

I was reading, a few days ago, Stephen Fry's compendium of his various newspaper columns, Paperweight. A glorious read and one of his creations, Professor Trefusis, goes on about turning places of education into places of training. "Training is what you give to a dog", he says, if I can paraphrase somewhat and, although the context was the Thatcher era, the sentiment and thrust of what he (Fry) was expressing is still very relevant today. How I wish that education could be a means of liberating our childrens' minds and not, with the constant emphasis on "vocational training", a means of shackling them to the values of commerce.

All that may seem a tad precious from someone who earns his living in the world of commerce, whose profession is engineering and not art history or somesuch, and who worries that his sons will be able to survive in the real world after school and university. Maybe so, but whatever my sons study (one is doing Business Management at uni and the other is in High School and, now that professional golfer is looking somewhat elusive, tells us he wants to be a carpenter) whatever they study, I want them to have a real understanding and appreciation of the creative arts at an age when they can take it further if they are inclined. And not have to wait as long as I did before studying something I'm really interested in for itself, as opposed to its value to my so-called career.

Long Time No Blog

Sorry for being so out of touch. My dear wife broke her wrist last week and I had to hurriedly return home to take care of the ironing. Anyways here I am back in Bonny Scotland (How about that rugby result by the way!).

Apart from this dismal news (she's on the mend though), the real good news is that I achieved another unbelievable 80% for TMA 06 Religious Studies. I wonder what has got into my tutor, the delightful nonogenarian, Dr. Matilda Clench. Frankly, I think she's losing it. All that single malt can't possibly be good for a body.

As for the next TMA, well I don't have a scooby doo once more and the reason is that, in my hurry to depart sunny Split, I have left the timetable back in my apartment. So if there is anyone out there who knows the details of TMA 07, perhaps he/she can email it to me.

TMA 06 Religious Studies

You know that feeling you used to get when you were thirteen years old and just fresh out of the confessional on a Saturday morning. You proddies won't know what I mean but it was like you were walking on air. The weight of guilt had just been removed from your immature shoulders and you could start afresh. A new sin-free life was ahead, you were re-born. Actually what then transpired was that you could be a saint for thirty six hours while you got communion on Sunday morning, and then your hormones would get fed up creating ungodly boils on the back of your neck and reassert themselves in your genitals and you would have a good wank on Sunday night before your big brother got home from the pub and staggered into the bedroom and found you with his secret (he thought) collection of jazz mags. You remember that feeling? Well the feeling you get after submitting a Tutor Marked Assessment that you've laboured for two weeks on is nothing like that.

The Gordon Brown Mystery

What the fuck is Gordon Brown up to? He wants to establish cadet forces in schools across the UK. He wants to have a flag waving 'national day' so we can take the Union Jack back from the National Front. And he wants us to have, in addition to Remembrance Sunday, a Veterans' Day, as another way of enforcing our support of our troops, and to celebrate our "symbols of Britishness". I just don't get it. How is it that Gordon Brown is starting to look more like a Thatcherite Tory than a radical, modern, liberal Labour politician?

I have no argument with supporting our troops, either active or veterans, but do we really need another day especially for this? Or is it just another way for the government to persuade us how vulnerable we are in these increasingly nervous times, in order for them to secure their policy agenda while sidelining real debate on public security. Things must be bad, look at how many police/soldiers we need on the street - end of discussion.

Cadet forces in schools? Now I really don't get that at all. Is that what our schools are for? To raise the next generation of soldiers? I beg to differ. Schools are for the liberal education of our children. They should not be hijacked by any politician for any purpose. He's got a fucking nerve even suggesting such a thing. And that's the mystery. How did Gordon Brown, brought up in the Labour movement, a man who said recently, regarding fatherhood:

"It is incredible to watch a young child develop and change every day. It does make you think all the time what parents need - they feel under pressure because they want to do the right thing, and as a father I understand that."

how does he come to the conclusion that forcing our kids to become army cadets, and march across school playgrounds with wooden rifles at the slope, is doing the right thing?

The Accolades Just Keep Flooding In

I'd like to thank my agent - Morrie, you're the best; my scriptwriters who really put in some good work for very little recognition, good going guys - just don't ask for more money- har har! Only kidding. And all the other people behind the scenes without whom all this would have been possible. I love ya all. And finally I'd like to thank the nine people who voted for me over on A Mischief Of Magpies, well actually (blushing fiercely) the other eight, who made West Coast Ramblings their Blog Of The Week. Please support them and nominate your BOTW for this week's poll.

How To Be Good - by Nick Hornby

I've just finished reading this. A truly great book. I love Nick Hornby and just devoured Fever Pitch when I read that some long time ago now. This novel is written in the first person, the narrator being a woman doctor, Katie Carr. I was a wee bit disconcerted with this initially as I cannot help myself from, in a first person narrative, half identifying the narrator with the author. I know this is silly but I always feel that although the assumption may not always be true for my purposes as a reader it may as well be. In any event Nick Hornby's narrator soon assumes a life quite separate from the maleness of her creator. It is superbly written.

The story hinges around the marital crisis of Katie Carr and her husband David. They have two children, Tom at ten years od and Molly, eight. The ideal 'nuclear family' to all intents and purposes until Katie becomes less and less in love with David, and David becomes so self-absorbed that he fails to notice. Katie embarks on a brief and regretted affair which becomes a catalyst, rather than the cause, of the marital breakdown.

The voice of Katie is brilliantly presented. Her journey through frustration, anger, grief, rebellion, and resignation is told with humour, wit, and heart-rending honesty. There are piercing arrows of truth spoken throughout. I'd love to just cut and paste it on to here so that you can all enjoy it but instead I'll give you a snippet from towards the end. Katie has reverted into a world of her own. She has become a reader again after a long time away from reading for leisure. She has chosen a biography of Vanessa Bell, the artist sister of Virginia Woolf. According to the blurb on the cover Vanessa Bell has lead a 'rich and beautiful life'. Katie buys the book to see how this is done. Here is what Katie discovers about reading:

It is the act of reading itself that I miss, the opportunity to retreat further and further from the world until I have found some space, some air that isn't stale, that hasn't been breathed by my family a thousand times already. Janet's bedsit seemed enormous when I moved into it, enormous and quiet, but this book is so much bigger than that. And when I've finished it I'll start another one, and that might be even bigger, and then another, and I will be able to keep extending my house until it becomes a mansion full of rooms where they can't find me.

There is such a sadness in these lines but the book is leavened throughout with the humour that you would expect from Nick Hornby. That is what makes it so successful. The characters of Katie and her odd 'nuclear family' and their strange lodger who heals the sad people of Holloway by laying on his hands, these people come to life and pull you into their story until you cannot tear yourself away. You will love it too.

How To Not Study

The upcoming TMA (that's Tutor Marked Assessment to the uninitiated) poses the question:
How far do you think observing a religious activity, such as a festival, can help you to understand the part a religion plays in the life of an individual or a community?

To be honest I haven't a got a scooby-doo. I suppose that if you look at the Hadj for example then the sheer scale of that activity, with over 5 million people visiting Mecca annually, then you can draw some conclusions regarding the individuals who take part and, possibly, the communities from which they come. The event can therefore, for the sake of this excercise, be viewed from two perspectives; firstly as a major part of the Islamic religion and secondly as a component of the spiritual life of the individual pilgrim. As to what these conclusions will be ... well you'll have to wait and see. I'm going to try and get busy on this over the weekend but you know how it goes, temptations of the flesh and all that (I should be so lucky).

Talking about pilgrimages; everybody should make at least one visit in their lifetime to Croatia. I hate working here but it's a great place to visit. Last night, as happens every Thursday, there was live music in the caffe-bar below my apartment. On the basis that I won't get to sleep anyway with the noise coming up through my bedroom floor, I usually go down there and enjoy the music. It's a regular trio, one guy on acoustic guitar and vocals and two other guys providing counterpoint. The music is Croatian folk music with a heavy emphasis on sentimental Dalmatian songs about travellers far away from old Dalmatia dreaming about the olive groves, sunshine, and friends back home. The whole bar joins in and it seems to me that there is not a song in the trio's repertoire that everybody doesn't know off by heart. Still they never seem to tire of listening to them.

The trio (Trio Bura) finished up about midnight and were taking it easy at the table next to ours when unexpectedly they started forth singing unaccompanied in the classic folk style here called 'klapa'. One friend of theirs joined in and we now had the pleasure of a klapa quartet. It was so spontaneous and unexpected, and the quality of their voices was just superb. They sang, I think, four songs in this manner and I have to say it was an unalloyed joy to be there. Lovely people. You should come over here some time and see for yourselves. It's a pilgrimage you would really enjoy.

Shucks, you people.

I've been out of touch for a bit, and I've not been able to get internet access since last Saturday. Thanks to all the commenters to my last post (and to previous ones). Especially thanks to all those who voted for me on Blog of The Week at Mischief Of Magpies. It's nice to know that you care.

Hegemony

hegemony: n. Leadership, especially by one State of a confederacy. (The Concise Oxford Dictionary, 1977 ed.).

I used to wonder what that word meant. Admittedly my dictionary is an old edition but it has taken on a new meaning over the years since 1977. I think it's because the Chinese used to use it a lot to complain about Soviet expansionist policies in the dark days of the cold war, and they also used it when talking about American influence in other cultures. Too many Macdonald's hamburger joints around the world became the symbol of 'American hegemony". The symbol of too many shite hamburgers being sold also but I digress. Anyway, are we bothered?

I was reading this on Harpowoman's blog the other day and she made me think of how I feel about America. I seem to be drawn to the subject more these days and I think it needs some consideration. I lived in the US for a year from October 2002 to October 2003. The first six months our office was in New York on W.34th Street just opposite the Empire State Building. What a fantastic place to go to work. I lived in Hoboken, NJ, birthplace of Frank Sinatra which some call a mini Manhattan. Every morning when I got out of the PATH station and turned into w.34th I would remind myself to look up and enjoy the view of that beautiful building. You will not, I told myself, take this for granted. All around me were NYC's famous landmarks; Macy's, Broadway, the Flatiron Building, 5th Avenue, Greeley Square, Yellow Cabs, New York's Finest, Keen's Steak House, Irish Bars owned by real Irish. I used to imagine looking down at myself from a height as if I was watching the realtime movie of my life. How could you avoid that feeling in New York. You see the place so much in movies that to me it was like walking through a movie set. I loved it.

We moved after six months in New York to Houston, TX. What a fucking awful place. But wait, stop here! Pull over! It's an Irish pub. The Harp on Richmond provided a welcome as warm as the Playwright on W. 35th. The Guiness was fine and although you had to drive to get to the place my apartment was only ten minutes away. But that's not the best part. The Blues. Man they had some great blues bars down there. The Big Easy was great. They had blues almost every night of the week and occasionally they hosted the monthly jam of the Houston Blues Society. There were many others; Cosmo's, The Sherlock, The Cosmopolitan. There was never a night when I couldn't look up the listing in the local free paper and find somewhere to go and listen to the blues. I was in hog heaven, to coin a phrase.

One Sunday I happened to see that there was a gig on in Mr. Gino's down on the southside. From four PM it said. Now the south side of Houston, outside of the Loop is not my natural habitat. I'll be honest, you could get mugged down there and that's not because most the people around there are black. No, it's because some of them are bad. Anyway, going on the premise that God looks after naive Scots and dingbats (both categories into which I fit) I motored down there and parked nearby a scrappy looking building with a neon sign, doing no good in the bright sunlight, indicating Mr Gino's. Inside was dark and cool and a five dollar cover was extracted as I crossed the threshold. There was a four-piece ban playing on stage and on guitar was an old guy I later learned was Mr. I.J. Gosey. The band were great and the people dancing were a sight to see. You know that kind of get down dirty dancing that looks so cool to uptight wee Scottish guys like me.

I stood at the bar and enjoyed a few beers and the guy behind the bar, Mr. Gino (for it was he) was really friendly, and the beer was the cheapest I had enjoyed since arriving in the US. So after a while I loosened my grip on the bar and wandered over to where I could get a better view of the stage and the dance-floor. I think it's fair to say old I.J. Cosey (pictured) is ever so slightly elderly, but man he rocks. They played all that good old stuff, and tunes I'd never heard before and the joint was jumping. I was on my own and being the only white person around, except for the keyboard player who I'd seen playing before with another band, I guess I kind of stuck out. But nobody bothered me and I eventually I thawed out and just enjoyed the atmosphere. When I.J. and the band had wound up Mr. Gino introduced me to them which was really nice. I went back a couple of times after that but by then my time in Houston was winding up and my live blues life was coming to a close.

Fond memories which contrast with other aspects of the US which I hate. The bad does not in any way outweigh the good but boy I can get riled when I think about how some Americans view the rest of the world. And (don't get me started) when the call themselves the "finest nation on earth", or the "greatest country in the world" I could boak. And it's not just people with over-muscled necks who say this. Politicians, so-called fucking statesmen say it as well. What do they think they are? That kind of ignorance of the rest of the world just used to take my breath away. Now I'm used to it and almost come to expect it from a nation who could elect a President (Leader of the free world? Don't make me laugh) who once declared that the person he most admired in history was Nolan Ryan (he's a baseball player). The thing is a large number of Americans don't give a shit about the rest of the world because as far as a lot of them are concerned it hardly exists except as some kind of irritation that they need to just ignore and it will hopefully go away. It's not isolationism, it's ignorance. And all that indoctrination that goes on about honour to the flag. Oh say have you seen that star spangled flag wave ... There's so many stars and stripes around the place it's like the people are brainwashed into flying flags. It's not patriotism, it's zomby-ism. You know what they should do with flags. Burn every last one of them, Union Jacks and Stars and Stripes and fancy yellow fuckers with rum barrels and palm trees on them from wee far away places in the Pacific. People should be actively discouraged from standing behind flags. We should not be standing behind anything, we should be out there embracing each other.

Imagine there's no countries,
It isnt hard to do,
Nothing to kill or die for,
No religion too,
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace.
(c) John Lennon

OU TMA 06 Religious Studies OR History of Science

This TMA is a choice between these two subjects. A 1200 word essay is required and I'm way behind on the studying. I reckon I'll plump for the Religious Studies question which is:
How far do you think observing a religious activity, such as a festival, can help you to understand the part a religion plays in the life of an individual or a community?

Now so far I what I'm thinking is this. 'Read the question'! See it's not about religion per se, or a religious activity, or an individual, or a community. It's about how far I think the mere observance of a religious activity can help me to understand the part a religion plays etc. So we're separating the study of religion from religion itself. OK it's blindingly obvious to you lot but it helps me if I spell it out in front of me like this before I get my teeth into it.

So where should we proceed from here? Well tonight is Monday and there is usually live jazz on in the pub downstairs, so I think that is where I will proceed. In the meantime I want you lot to study this question carefully and give me your answer in not more than 1200 words. And NO TALKING! For god's sake Lingo Slinger pull your skirt down, we can almost see your breakfast! Twenty Major! Put that cigarette out or I'll have to tweak you. Clairwil! Leave Nogbad alone! Do stop snivelling Nogbad, it's pathetic. No Larnach, you can not sit next to Bluefluff. Yes I know she's your friend. No Bluefluff you cannot sit next to Larnach. Now heads down people, I'm off to the pub. Barker! You're in charge.

The Real Reason For The War In Iraq

I want you to imagine a pipe. It’s a big open-ended pipe and here’s how big it is. It’s so big that Shaquille O’Neal can stand inside it wearing a top hat. In metres it’s 2.4 m diameter or, for you Americans, it’s 7 feet 10 inches. Now, let’s get Shaq out of the way because we don’t want him to get injured, because down this pipe we are going to send crude oil. This crude oil will flow at a speed of 3 m/sec or 6.7 miles/hour, a fairly fast running pace, and it will fill the whole diameter of the pipe. So this is what I want you to visualise, a pipe 7 feet 10 inches diameter flowing full bore with crude oil, every minute of every hour, of every day of every year, on and on without cease. It flows like a river, it gushes continuously, it roars forward, a cataract of black oil. Just imagine what that oil would look like as it cascaded out of that pipe. Think of the sheer ear-drum shattering noise, the earth-shaking vibration, the awesome power of it.

The quantity that flows through this pipe is 10,178,711 barrels per day. Every day, on and on. This is, on recent average, the amount of crude oil that the US imports every day, continuously, year after year, and the trend, rather than decreasing, in these days of worrying middle east politics and global warming, and so on, is increasing. Of course there is not a single pipe. There are a number of them, from Canada for example, plus the oil imported, largely from the Middle East, by the huge tankers that berth at LOOP off the coast of Louisiana, and at the offshore lightering areas off of Galveston, plus the smaller tankers, relatively speaking, berthing at shore facilities on both coasts. The US in fact only produces just over 5.5 million barrels per day, so it relies on imports for about two thirds of its needs.

Now let’s add this up in cash. We need to keep it on a daily basis because if you try to think of it yearly it’s just crazy. Let’s say a barrel on average costs $50. In fact today it’s about $65/barrel. So 10,178,711 times 50 = $508,935,550 per day. Have you got that? Half a billion dollars a day! That’s what’s flowing out as the crude flows in. Now I believe the US has a trade deficit of about 49 billion dollars. That’s about 100 days of crude oil imports, actually it’s a lot fewer than that if we keep to a realistic oil price. Is anybody making the connection here?

Of course the US needs energy to produce goods and to keep the economy moving, but does it need so much that it hurts? It hurts the economy and it hurts the environment. It seems perverse to me. And do you know what is really perverse? If a US politician wants to make himself unelectable he just has to stand up and say that gasoline is too cheap and that there is a crying need to put more tax on it and to consume less.

And here’s the real truth behind the war in Iraq. GW Bush has no idea how to run the country without this huge oil consumption. In his term imports have continuously risen to these levels, and they just keep on climbing. And now this and this.

The growing economies of India and China are taking more and more out of a finite supply, pushing prices higher and creating supply problems in the medium to long term. Where does it end? The gloomiest scenario is a world economic collapse and further turmoil in oil producing areas such as Iraq. It’s not too far fetched to say that Iraq is only the beginning unless the American public wakens up to what is going on, and unless American politicians start telling the truth about how vulnerable the country is to depend so much on imported oil. While Bush is in power? Fat fucking chance. You need more? Read all about it here.

Now think of the torrent of oil flowing today into the US, over 10 million barrels a day, and picture it slowing, stuttering, trickling and then .. stopping.