Christmas Spirit

I imagined that Christmas would be awful. I’d been in Australia for eleven months by then and hadn’t once been queasy with homesickness. But this was to be my first Christmas away from home and I fully expected to develop some major symptoms.

I was surprised that Christmas is celebrated down under in much the same way as it is here. Australians are so proud of their own identity that I expected them to adapt Christmas and personalise it to their own culture – kangaroos in Santa hats, girls barbecuing in fur clad bikinis, a surfing Father Christmas – that sort of thing. But there was nothing of the kind. Fake snow was sprayed into the corners of windows, decorations were draped across the city streets and winter carols played in every shop. It was a strange sensation to see all this in the height of summer. Father Christmas isn’t quite as jolly when his beard is drenched with sweat and he’s on the verge of collapse because he’s wearing a thick red woollen suit in 35 degree heat. It was so far removed from any Christmas that I’d experienced before that there was nothing to remind me of what I was missing in England. Therefore, I didn’t feel homesick at all. The problem was that I didn’t feel very Christmassy either.

Without any familiar signs to prompt my brain into releasing the chemical responsible for festive cheer, each December day felt the same as a November or October one. There was no sense of build up or anticipation until, finally, on Christmas Eve, something happened.

It was the supermarket that did it. My flatmate and I were there to buy our dinner for the following day and the place was packed with frantic housewives. They all looked dishevelled and exhausted and there was a crazed look in their eyes as they jostled in the aisles, panic buying things they’d forgotten. ‘Oh. So it is Christmas,’ I thought, and was instantly possessed by the Christmas Spirit.

In the end I had a wonderful Christmas Day and, more importantly, it taught me what the season means to me personally. It isn’t about getting presents or eating extravagantly. It’s not about snow or trees or the Queen’s speech and the afternoon blockbuster. It isn’t even about getting drunk or hearing Slade playing from every available speaker. It’s about wrapping tinsel around your sunhat and getting the bus to the beach with a bag full of turkey sandwiches and party poppers. It’s about driving through the suburbs and seeing kids in the street playing with their presents in the sunshine. It’s about falling asleep on a dune and waking up to the laughter of two Korean girls because the inner lining of your swimming trunks has corroded. It’s about spending $3 and two hours writing fake Christmas cards to yourself from ‘Paul and Barry Chuckle’ and ‘all the lads in Radiohead’ and ‘That weather girl off Channel 9’ just to win a futile competition with your flatmate about how many cards each of you would receive. It’s about playing ‘Battleships’ with a pen and paper then bickering for over an hour because one of you cheated. It’s about stepping out of your normal reality for a couple of days, putting aside troubles and concerns and allowing yourself to be silly and carefree.

In short: no worries.

Jason

When I worked with Jason there were just five people in the studio so I got to know him pretty well. He was quiet and a little awkward but no more so than anyone else working in IT. We tried to include him in the usual office banter which he enjoyed despite never really fitting in completely. He was there as a student placement for his degree so I suppose he hadn’t seen enough of the working world to become as cynical and brutal as the rest of us. He didn’t seem to have any sort of monitoring system controlling how much personal information he revealed to us – didn’t know that a group of men working in a creative and pressurised environment will instantly snatch up any potentially embarrassing information like a seagull outside a beachfront chip shop. Then they’ll fly around your head with it, waving it in your face as you flail and stumble.

One such incident took place in the pub, after work. We were all talking about our hobbies and Jason said that he liked photography. The first thought that occurred to a table full of designers high on Barnsley Bitter and bravado was, naturally, porn.

‘What sort of photography?’ said the production manager, coyly.

‘Women, mainly.’

Christ Jason, shut up now – don’t say any more.

‘Naked women?’

‘Yes. I really like the female form.’

It was as if someone had tossed a hand-grenade onto the middle of the table. Poor Jason didn’t have the instinct to take cover or defend himself, I saw that clearly then. He was too naïve and innocent for this, it was like attacking a rabbit with a howitzer and I knew whose side I needed to be on. I parried the verbal barrage on his behalf, fired back with shots aimed well below the belt, provided distractions, diversions and feints to the bar but it didn’t do much good, the photography conversation had given them too much ammunition.

The great thing about Jason however, was that he didn’t seem to mind any of this in the slightest. He went far past the point where anyone else would have become aggressive or, at the very least, gone to have a little cry in the toilets. Through it all he carried on smiling and enjoying the banter until, eventually, someone else spilt a pint and the emphasis shifted away from him.

I worked with Jason for about a year before I left the company to go travelling. Out of everyone I knew, he was by far the most enthusiastic about my trip. I told him all about my preparations, what a hassle everything was and he asked where exactly I was going and what I intended doing. He supplied me with lots of helpful and interesting websites - he even encouraged me to set up a travel blog so that I could gloat about what I great time I was having.

We promised to keep in touch but of course, we didn’t. No matter how close you are to somebody when you’re working with them, as soon as your circumstances change you lose that common bond, that shared experience. Inevitably, you make new friends and the people you used to work with aren’t as important to you as they once were. Over the course of my career, I’ve worked with many wonderful people and I’ve lost touch with every single one of them.

When I returned a year later, I ended up working for the same company but many of the faces I knew had gone. One of those was Jason’s.

According to the bosses, not long after I’d left, he’d started behaving strangely. Apparently, he’d been rude to clients, sat reading magazines all day, walked out of the office at random times on extended lunch breaks and made a badly judged and clumsy pass at the receptionist.

This all seemed very much at odds with the quiet, polite and innocent lad that I knew.

Eventually he stopped turning up for work at all and someone from the University came to speak to the bosses. It turns out Jason had a history of mental problems and was under pretty close psychiatric care. The changes in his personality were because he’d suddenly stopped taking his medication and suffered a breakdown. Nobody at the office had the first idea about any of this.

A few months later I bumped into him in a shop. He introduced me to the friend he was with who didn’t say anything and moved away to a polite distance as we stood talking. Jason certainly wasn’t surly or unpleasant or miserable – but he wasn’t really the lad I had known before either. He seemed upbeat and chirpy – but chirpy in the way that born again Christians or the very lonely are chirpy; as if they’re trying to convince themselves as well as you that everything’s great. It was good to see him but I could tell something wasn’t right. It was the sort of conversation that, when it ends, you walk away from with relief and think: ‘what on earth was that all about?’

That was nearly four years ago now. The next time I heard about Jason was when I saw his name in a local paper. He went missing on the 27th December last year. Three days later the Police found his car parked near the Humber Bridge.

Thinking back to our conversations in the studio, I remember how enthusiastic he was about my trip. I hope he decided to travel too. I hope that he’s been selfish and inconsiderate and opted to avoid all the hassle of preparation by just taking off suddenly. I hope that he’s on a beach or in a foreign bar talking about photographing nude women and smiling at other people’s banter. I hope that the worst thing that’s troubling him is a guilty conscience about all the family and friends he abruptly abandoned.

www.missingpeople.org.uk

Writing Clichés #2

WIDE EYED AND LEGLESS

That bloody alarm clock! That bloody snooze button!

I leapt out of bed and skidded across the bedroom on the July issue of Marie Claire. The mirror wasn’t my friend that morning. The massive zit that had been amassing for several days very helpfully chose today to erupt out of my forehead and my hair was a complete fright. All I could do was tie it back and cover it with a hat. Which hat? I shouldn’t be allowed to make important fashion choices when I’m still technically asleep.

Like an idiot, I grabbed the beret that had been lurking in a dark corner of my wardrobe, unworn since the day I bought it. I’ve no idea why it was even there – it had no place among my other clothes which tend to be quite dull and practical. I remember picking it up from a lovely stall on Camden market and imagining how Cosmopolitan and French it’d make me look. That had been a good enough reason when I was all giggly on Chardonnay but in the cold light of day I realised that all I looked was, at best: kooky, and at worst: completely deranged.

Who on earth wears a beret to the office on the day they’ve got an important marketing meeting at 9.30? I obviously wasn’t thinking clearly. I should have just gone back to bed and phoned in sick.

Clothes-wise, I put on the nearest things to hand which happened to be a pink blouse and a trouser suit that luckily wasn’t too creased. Only later when I was sprinting down the street to the tube station did I recall that the jacket had a tzatziki stain on it from Friday’s lunchtime bagel.

I was way too late for my usual train so I missed any encounter I might have had with my mystery man. Most mornings, it’s only the thought of seeing him that gets me out of bed at all. Two or three times a week we end up in the same carriage – that is, I make sure we end up in the same carriage if I’m quick enough to spot him through the window as the train slows down. He gets on somewhere further up the line and gets off somewhere further along, I’ve no idea where. One day, I’m going to book the morning off and follow him just to see where he works.

I imagine him being in publishing, possibly because he’s always reading when I see him. Not the Metro or a newspaper, it’s always a novel, usually written by some French author with loose morals. He has these cute little wire rimmed glasses and slightly overlong hair that’s elegantly dishevelled and makes him appear all arty and serious. I wonder if he’d been wearing his distinctive scarf that morning? I was probably thinking of him when I bought that damn beret.

We’ve never spoken or anything but the time is getting closer, I’m sure of it. Whenever he’s there, I sit as close to him as I dare and wait for him to look up so that I can catch his eye. Surely he must have noticed me by now.

But maybe it’s for the best if we never speak. What if he’s not half as alluring as I imagine him to be? What if he’s a tabloid journalist or a telemarketing guy? What if, when he opens his mouth, there isn’t a refined and gently accented Scottish or Irish burr but a broad Liverpudlian twang?

God, it would ruin my commute!

That day I was on the later train, the one that’s always packed. I had to squeeze in behind some exchange students and my face was in the sweaty armpit of a fat man all the way to the office. I tried my best to put on at least some make-up but what with holding onto the hanging strap and balancing my briefcase between my knees, I ended up with panda eyes and decidedly wonky lipstick. It would have to do.

No time for my usual Chai Latte pick-me-up from the Italian café outside the station or a friendly flirt with the security guard at reception that morning, I went directly up to my office and tried to make myself look as though I’d been there ages. I was just booting up my computer when my boss, poked his head round the door.

‘All set for the meeting Rosalyn?’ he said.
‘Oh yes, Mr Hague. Just spell-checking the final agendas.’
Then he saw my beret and physically flinched.
‘Er, that’s an interesting hat,’ he said.
I brazened it out. ‘Why, thank you Mr Hague,’ I replied, without looking up. He was too polite and old-fashioned to start giving sartorial advice to a woman twenty-five years his junior. I’d managed to get away with it.

There was barely enough time to print out the agendas before the meeting. As I headed upstairs in the lift with Mr Hague I noticed a glaring typo on the second line – typical!

The executive from the marketing agency and the photographer were already there when we arrived. I didn’t notice them at first because I was too busy juggling with an armful of files. I nearly dropped them when I saw who was positioned at the table opposite me.

‘Miss Bedford, I think you know Mr Henrion from the agency?’
‘Hi,’ I gasped at the exec.
‘And this is Jack Miller, our new photographer.’

He stood up and I shook his hand. Was that a glimmer of recognition that flashed across those piercing blue eyes?

‘Hello Miss Bedford,’ he said. It wasn’t Scottish or Irish but thankfully, it wasn’t broad Liverpudlian either. Definitely northern though, Manchester maybe? He’d worn that distinctive scarf today after all.

‘Nice beret,’ he added, with a smile.

Neural Waste

A coastal town, out of season. A narrow street lined with tall Edwardian townhouses. I was at work in the attic of one of them using a drawing board and T-square instead of a Mac. The studio had wooden beams and high ceilings that followed the slant of the roof.

There was a girl there wearing a dark coloured cardigan, white blouse and black trousers. She was small and pretty with long, straight black hair. I’ve never seen her before but I know that we knew each other very well and I trusted and respected her unconditionally – like an older sister rather than a girlfriend.

She took me into the storage room at the back and pointed up to the skylight set into the roof. The wind was blowing clouds across the sky. As I watched, the clouds broke apart and began forming into distinctive shapes. They became cars and trains but not realistic ones, these were blocky and oversimplified, the kind of cars and trains a child might draw.

The wind changed direction and the clouds now came towards us, forming into the shapes of fighter planes – Lancaster bombers, Tornadoes and Spitfires. They floated silently lower and lower until they were close enough overhead for me to see how detailed they were. Every rivet and strut and panel was perfectly formed but the planes themselves were all gunmetal grey and solid as if they’d been carved or injection moulded.

They glided past, following the line of the street. Soon they were level with the window and my friend pulled me back as a Harrier Jump Jet clipped the side of the building with it’s wingtip, demolishing most of the wall in front of me.

Scared and confused we ran from the house and along the street. The fresh, sea air had a calming effect and before long we were walking steadily, so content in each other’s company that we didn’t feel the awkward pressure of having to make conversation.

There was a field on a hill leading up from the cliff. Lots of people were gathered there, many of whom I recognised - close and distant friends; work colleagues; casual acquaintances. They were standing together in loose groups of five or six and looked as though they were waiting for something to begin. I smiled and waved at a few who spotted me but I didn’t stop to talk to anyone.

I saw a lad I remember from University. His name was Phil but I don’t recall his surname. He was on my course but we didn’t know each other very well. He was one of those people that I neither liked or disliked, we just had nothing whatsoever in common so simply never became friends. I haven’t seen him or even thought about his existence for over twelve years which is why it’s strange that suddenly, it seemed very important to me to say hello.

He was striding across the field along with four very attractive women. They were heading for small, squat building that looked like it could be a cricket pavilion. As I ran over to them, they were almost at the door and inside it didn’t look like a pavilion or clubhouse at all. The interior was like the foyer of a block of very new flats – lots of strip lighting and bare white walls. Phil had opened the heavy fire-door by the time I got to him. I gently tapped his shoulder and he turned around to face me.

‘Phil! How are you? Remember me?’ I said, and told him my name in case he’d forgotten.

He obviously had because he looked at me as though I were a complete stranger. Was it him after all? Yes, I was positive.

‘Come on Phil, Nottingham? Graphic Design? 1997?’ I repeated my name but again, got no response. The four women were confused and looking at him for instruction.

I just presumed he’d forgotten. I explained over and over again who I was and how I knew him but he never said a word. Eventually my friend grabbed my arm and pulled me backwards a few steps.

‘He’s blanking you, you idiot.’ She told me. ‘He knows who you are and he’s deliberately ignoring you. Just leave him be, walk away.’

‘No, surely not.’ I said. But then I heard the women giggle and knew it was true. I glanced round and saw him whispering to them, a smirk on his face.

‘Right, well fuck him then,’ I thought and turned around to tell him exactly that but he’d already gone inside the building. The fire-door slammed shut behind him.

I shook my head in total outrage and my friend quietly led me away.

Writing Clichés

COLOR ME DEAD

Inglewood, West 33rd Street. I was parked outside a neat little redbrick building out in the ‘burbs at the request of a broad named Talula Monsoon. She’d wiggled into my office that afternoon and given me the sort of smile that can loosen a belt at ten paces. Just a simple job she said, a routine stakeout. I’ve been around the block enough times to know that nothing’s routine in my line of work, especially when my fee’s agreed with no questions asked. That amount of dough is enough to buy my curiosity and besides, Talula’s got the kind of figure that makes it hard for a guy like me to refuse.

It can get awful lonely at 3am in a dark suburban street. That’s why I always bring a friend. His name’s Mr Daniels but when you know him as well as I do, you just call him Jack. He’s a good buddy, very easy to get along with. He always travels light but he can pack a hell of a punch just when you need it. Boy, I needed it then. I reached across to the glove box to bring him out for a chat. I was a little jumpy, there was something in the air that night.

That something turned out to be a slug from a ’38. It missed me but caught Jack right in the neck. He was bleeding liquor down my suit before I even realised what had happened. Two more bullets slammed into the bodywork of my sedan before I took the hint and got the hell out of there.

I only just made it. The guy with the itchy trigger finger was now out in the street and he sure was mad about something. Not as mad as my mechanic was going to be, with two more shots my back window was gone and my trunk suddenly had air conditioning. He fired again, wide this time, then turned and ran for his car.

I headed for the hills with the guy right behind me. The roads out there are windy and unlit but I floored the sedan and hoped for the best. When I’d put some distance between us, I rounded a blind bend, skidded the car to a halt and killed the lights. It was time to have a little talk with my angry friend. In situations like this, I always find it best to do my talking with a Colt semi-automatic.

When he came around the corner, my gun was in my hand and I was ready for him. I put three, quick rounds into the space between the headlights and hoped I’d caught the engine block. At least one of them must have hit home as the car swerved to the right and into a ditch. Then, silence.

I waited a while, the smoke from my cigarette mingling with the smoke from my gun. Nothing moved.

Ten minutes later and the sound of those damn crickets was driving me crazy. I crushed my fourth cigarette under my heel and went over to see the damage I’d done.

The engine was ruined. So was the driver. Clunk click, every trip – I guess he forgot that. When the car hit the ditch he’d popped out of his seat like a champagne cork, straight through the windscreen and into the field.

He was very dead.

He was lucky, it would have cost him a fortune in chiropractor bills to fix that nasty crick in his neck.

I pulled out a torch and turned him over with my boot. I recognised the face immediately, especially the mouth, the guy had more teeth than a Ferrari gear box. I’d seen it enough times leering at me out of the gloom and more often than not, that view had directly preceded a lengthy sleep and a trip to Hopewood Infirmary.

Grinning Mike McGee, a hired goon running with Hoagy Winston’s mob. But Hoagy Winston ran his outfit on the Southside, what the hell was he doing in Inglewood?

I had no idea what Talula Monsoon had gotten me into but one thing’s for sure, I was suddenly in a whole heap of trouble...

Manimals

When I first arrived in Sydney, I felt pretty detached from things. I was travelling alone, wasn’t used to the hostel lifestyle and was older and flabbier than most of the people I met there. Typically English, I also had an inherent distrust of ‘Johnny foreigner’ and struggled to adapt to my environment.

After a few nights, I tagged along on a hostel excursion to a nightclub and everything suddenly seemed to click into place. There were Britons, Australians, Germans, Canadians, Japanese - every nation you could think of in that club and their behaviour was very familiar. Drinking, dancing, pulling, predatory males and flirting females all revolving around each other and playing out the same scenes that I’d seen a thousand times before. I realised then that whatever nationality, we’re all essentially the same.

Nightclubs are great places to observe the basic instincts that drive human beings. Booze erodes the veneer of respectability and burrows down into the most basic part of our brain. The primal need to reproduce takes over and nightclubs serve as mating grounds. Sure, the mating rituals may be different, but they’re mating rituals just the same. Instead of growing colourful and elaborate plumage, we might wear a snazzy shirt. Instead of a sophisticated and technical mating dance, we’ll wiggle and strut to Beyonce. Instead of calling out into the darkness with a beautiful song we’ll smarm up to someone at the bar and hit them with our best chat-up line.

I remember being in a Leeds nighclub a few years ago - it must have been about the time The Blue Planet was on television because the dancefloor reminded me of something. There was a scene in the programme that showed thousands of sardines being hounded by a group of sharks. The sardines had been pushed up to the surface to prevent their escape and had then packed themselves into a tight mass for protection. This was called a baitball and the predators swam into it at speed and picked off the weaker fish or the ones that were too slow. The Leeds baitball was a hen-party dressed in tight pink T-shirts and mini-skirts. They were all dancing close together for protection as groups of men prowled their perimeter, pushing them further and further into the middle of the dancefloor so they couldn’t run to the bar. Occasionally a man would bolt into the jiggling mass of women, looking for a bite, picking off the gullible or the ones that were too drunk.

Another primal instinct is violence. When booze has cut through our human airs and graces, the less advanced elements of society tend to fight a lot. That’s pure hunter gatherer, caveman behaviour – the need to protect or display your strength or show power – even the music in nighclubs is almost tribal in its rhythmic pounding.

I saw similar behaviour in two red-deer stags during rutting season. Each of them was surrounded by their own group of hinds and they faced off in a feeding area split in two by a fence. On the left side of the fence was Harry, the mouthy one. He was the younger of the two and kept his harem of hinds close by, preventing them from wandering freely. Being the main aggressor, he was bellowing all the time, putting on a show of strength, trying to prove his worth. Cameron, on the right, was three years older and much more dignified. Being more secure, he didn’t feel the need to watch over his hinds so strictly and they wandered around freely looking a lot less scared than Harry’s. Cameron didn’t bluster quite so much although occasionally he had to react to Harry’s goading and put the young pretender in his place. The two would eyeball each other, walking side by side, backwards and forwards along the fence. Then one would turn away casually before spinning round with his head lowered to launch himself at the opponent.

These sorts of fights happen in nightclubs all the time. I half expected one of the hinds to grab their stag by the antler and shout tearfully: ‘Leave it Cameron, it’s not worth it!’

However developed and important we think we are, you just need to add a catalyst of lager or vodka and you’ll see that, despite national boundaries, we’re all the same species. Not only that, we’re all animals too. We have the same urges and the same drives – the same behaviour much of the time. The only real difference is that our brains are bigger and we’ve built up a more complex and sophisticated system with which to display our base instincts. We’re not quite as special or important as we often think ourselves to be.

The Road Clown

Driving home from work I was stopped by some traffic lights. A car pulled up next to me and in the back was a girl of perhaps 12 or 13. She looked directly at me and started laughing.

It wasn’t just an ordinary laugh, it was a hysterical laugh. She was also pointing. At me.

‘Fair enough,’ I thought, and waited, slightly awkwardly, for the lights to change. Further down the road, the car with the laughing girl in it overtook me. Then it slowed down again until it was level with mine – just so that the girl could have another laugh. She was now grabbing at the shoulders of the woman in the passenger seat, pointing me out to her like an exhibit at a Victorian freakshow.

It was that horrible, exaggerated sort of laugh that kids force when they’re trying deliberately to make someone feel really small. It reminded me of my school days when I was young and vulnerable and desperate to be like everyone else as opposed to how I am now - old and cynical and desperate not to be like everyone else. The feeling made me want to flick her the Vs on behalf of all the kids at her own school who’ve been on the receiving end of laughs like that. I didn’t though. Fortunately my skin’s thick enough to endure the ridicule of a teenage girl. Besides, the bloke who was driving looked quite big.

However, the incident did make me wonder what specifically she’d been laughing at. The obvious guess would be my car. I get a lot of laughs from people about my car. In a perverse way, I actually quite enjoy it as I think it says a lot more about them than it does me. It exposes them as being young or dumb or downright materialistic if they don’t understand the obvious benefits of having a car like mine.

I’m happy to give them a little amusement and let them feel all superior for a fleeting moment. It might enable them to temporarily justify to themselves the vast amount of money they’ve undoubtedly spent on their own vehicles. I have sympathy for them because the initial thrill of new ownership wears off pretty quickly and that big, expensive car soon becomes just another mundane part of everyday life, just another thing. The higher the price, the more worry that comes with it – scratches and dints; car parks in dodgy areas of town, alarms, security, waxing and polishing – all those extra considerations that eat up your time and are completely irrelevant when you drive a 1984 Toyota Starlet in hearing-aid beige. Yes, they can laugh if they want. They need all the fun they can get.

I didn’t get the impression that it was the car though, the girl seemed to be laughing specifically at me. I wasn’t singing – which is usually the reason – so it must have been something else. The hair? The beard? The sunglasses? The shirt?

I suppose it’s quite pathetic that the answer’s not obvious. Maybe it says a lot about my general appearance that she was probably spoilt for choice. Then again, maybe it says a lot about my ego that I couldn’t care less.

Generic Journeying

After the safe landing comes uncertainty. Will your luggage have made the same journey you have? Will you stroll through security unhindered, despite the irrational guilty feeling in the pit of your stomach? Will passport control spot something suspicious in your documentation? Will they recognise you from your picture now that you’ve got a beard?

The taxi driver should be waiting for you at arrivals. He’ll be carrying a ragged piece of cardboard that has your name written on it. What will he be like? Will he be trustworthy? Does he have the sort of face that you could describe to the police? Will his features be the last thing you see before you lapse into unconsciousness and awake in a bath of ice, a gaping hole where your kidneys should be?

Once inside the taxi, you start to relax. He seems quite friendly. You try to show him that you’re not the typical British yob by engaging him in light, generic banter. The standard cab-conversation starter of: ‘are you busy tonight?’ is replaced with: ‘How do I say hello/thanks/yes/no/goodbye etc, etc.’ in the local language. The roads around the airport are packed with taxis, all of which contain identical exchanges.

Through his heavy accent you can’t understand a thing he says back to you but attempt to cover this up by laughing politely. Eventually you catch something about Britain so you spend ten minutes telling him how rotten it is. Now he laughs politely.

On the journey, you pass some of the sights and you allow yourself to start enjoying it. All that’s left to do is face the awkwardness of paying the driver in notes of too high a denomination; book into the hotel; dump your luggage and get out into your holiday.

Already you feel a pressing sense of urgency. Time’s tight, you don’t want to miss anything. Where’s the guidebook? Where’s the suncream? Where’s the camera? Where’s my wallet?

Steen-rolling

There's so much to put about the expenses row that I told myself I wasn't going to say anything about it. I wouldn't know where to start and i'd only make myself angry. I won't comment. I won't, I won't, I won't.

Aaargh, can't leave it alone! This Anthony Steen character is just too good. His interview with Radio Four's World at One is perfect. Doesn't his voice alone make you want to punch him in the face?

My favourite bits were:

'Do you know what it's about? Jealousy. I've got a very, very large house. Some people say it looks like Balmoral.' An inspired way to get the public back on his side. Brilliant.

'We have a wretched Government here which has completely mucked up the system and caused the resignation of me and many others, because it was this Government that introduced the Freedom of Information Act and it is this Government that insisted on the things which caught me on the wrong foot.' That's right, it's entirely the fault of The Freedom Of Information Act because it allowed people to discover what he was up to. I'd like to be in a courtroom when a burglar tries that line of defence. 'It's entirely the Police's fault, your honour. They're the ones who caught me coming out of the window. If it hadn't been for them I wouldn't be here'.

'What right does the public have to interfere with my private life? None.' Fair point. After all, an Englishman's Castle is his... well, castle. We have no right to poke around in his private life. Oh, apart from the fact that OUR MONEY PAID FOR HIS FUCKING PRIVATE LIFE.

I know he's an easy target - the man's clearly an idiot. His life of privilege means that he's been able to sit in his mini-Balmoral (probably on a throne) safely detached from the realities that the rest of us mere proles have to face. Only that sort of a man would say: 'I don't know what the fuss is about,' and then be surprised that his constituents are 'absolutely beside themselves with anger'. Let's face it, only that sort of a man would name his daughter Xanthe. He's blundering through a world that he doesn't understand, relying on sheer arrogance to carry him through the shitstorm that's kicking off all around him.

Granted, the way he's been highlighted and blown up in the media does feel a little like bullying a disabled child or throwing rocks at a crippled donkey. I might even have some sort of sympathy for him if he hadn't been in a position of power and able to make important decisions that affect real people. That also goes for the rest of the politicians who are apparently suffering so much from stress and depression that a psychiatrist has been brought into the House of Commons to offer counselling. Aaaah, poor Politicians, all sad because they've been found out. Nasty public, mercilessly persecuting them just because they've been getting ripped off by the people they elected to speak for them. The politicians shouldn't have done it if they couldn't face the consequences. The cost of that psychiatrist had better not be coming out of our taxes. If it is, there'd better be free counselling for all the honest, hardworking families that are struggling to pay their mortgages and bills after losing their jobs. All those families that have been let down by the politicians who allowed the banks and big business to balls up their finances. All those families without a duck island or a moat or a second home to give them any comfort.

After Steen's interview, David Cameron said: 'One more squeak like that and he will have the whip taken away from him so fast his feet won't touch the ground.' I understand why he's angry about the comments; he's been working very hard to convince the voting public that he's a down-to-earth and practical everyman - the sort of tactic that worked so successfully for Tony Blair in 1997. Hell, he was even starting to win me over after taking quick decisive action over the expenses furore while Brown dithered and skulked, typically displaying as much leadership and dynamism as a kitten's fart.

But Sheen is exactly the sort of stereotypical Tory that Cameron's been trying so hard to make us forget about. The sort of moneyed, arrogant snob who thinks he's got a god-given right to do whatever he wants because he's firmly entrenched in the higher echelons of the establishment. The fact that people like him are still in the party should be a warning to everyone who's considering voting Conservative. I have this image of a pack of old-school Tories like Steen lurking in the shadows. No matter how genuine or sincere Cameron is, as soon as he gets elected, they'll all rush forward and take over again. Then we really will be up shit creek.

Supermarket Scenes

- Down the alleyway, next to the main entrance. a cluster of staff on their break. Their identical maroon and navy fleeces and the way they're huddled together makes them look like a sports team discussing tactics. You can hear their cackles and coughs as you pass. A cloud of smoke hangs over their heads.

- The security guard in the main entrance. He's tall and overweight and he's balding badly but has tried to hide this by getting a crew cut. He's bored so he browses through the newspapers on the carousel next to him holding his mobile phone, looking for competitions to enter.

- Several beenied students loitering in the runway behind the tills, getting in people's way. They're waiting for mates that are still going through the checkout and they congregate around the store notice board. Between their feet they have carrier bags filled with booze and blue and white packaged food. In their hands, pens and pads to write down details of second-hand white goods, special deals and part-time work.

- They've moved the sandwich spreads again. Every time I come they're somewhere different. I walk up and down the three most likely aisles, scanning the shelves. A couple of people glance at me when I say to myself 'Where the fuck is the tuna?' in a voice louder than I intended.

- At the checkout, there's social etiquette regarding the Next Customer Please blocks that separate people's shopping. It's good manners to put one behind your stuff when you've unpacked. Often, the person in front won't. They'll either stand with their back to you ignoring their responsibility or, more frequently, they'll have simply forgotten and will turn and say 'oh, sorry,' with a smile when you lean across their shopping to pick one up for yourself. Some people make a big show of it. They'll put their block down behind their beans or asparagus quite flamboyantly to make sure you notice how nice they are. They'll glance at you to make sure you've acknowledged this and if you catch their eye, you can see in their half-smile that they're proud to have done something considerate. Maybe they'll even use it as an excuse to start a conversation.

- There's a middle-aged man in front of me at the till. He's buying two tins of cat food and sixteen cans of own brand bitter - the sort where the alcohol content is the most prominent feature on the packaging. I interpret this as a horrible warning about my own future. He doesn't put a Next Customer Please block down behind his stuff.

- The shop assistant scanning my food. She's got short, jet black hair and wears a very stern expression. Without looking at me, she asks whether i've got a store card and whether i'm collecting vouchers. Her tone of voice reveals that she's asked these scripted questions a million times before and doesn't care what the answers are. As I pack up my shopping and take my card out of the machine, she turns to me and says 'hope you have a good weekend'. I don't think she's being ironic, the huge smile she gives me is so lovely that it must be genuine. As I leave the store i'm in a happier mood. An unexpected human gesture like that cheers me up far more than any roll-back offers or logos with smiley faces on.

Eurosong Fever

I used to quite enjoy the Eurovision Song Contest. I used to research the acts and place bets with disbelieving bookmakers. I've even sat there alone in front of the telly with a couple bottles of red wine and a scorecard. In my defence however, the scoring criteria I used was very different from that of the judges. I was looking for songs that were ludicrous, backing singers/dancers that were dirty looking, skimpy clothing and a decent amount of overacting from the lead singer. The more wine I drank, the more generous the marks - tellingly, my highest rated acts were usually among the last five.

Granted, that sounds quite pathetic but what can I say? I'm just a very lonely person. At least Eurovision meant that for one saturday at least I was able to keep the black dog of despair from yapping around my ankles.

Not this year though - i've lost all enthusiasm for it.

The problem is that we seem to be taking it seriously which is completely missing the point.

Britain has produced and still produces some of the greatest music in the world. We may have lost the empire; we may be crap at football, cricket and any other sport that matters; we may be miserable, skint and hated by almost every other nation on earth but at least we can knock out a decent tune - we have that going for us. Traditionally, we were, to some extent, justified to feel all superior towards Johnny Foreigner and his quaint little attempts at producing music. Spearheading the sneering was Terry Wogan who was brilliant in his role as narrator - his commentary seemed to echo what we were all feeling about the event. But last year he became so disillusioned with the ridiculous thing that he quit. The gaping hole he left behind has been filled by an obligatory reality show build up and what appears to be a serious attempt to win.

The song we've entered is obviously trying to appeal to the to the broadest audience possible. By trying to please everyone however, you water things down and make them inoffensive and boring. The result is a bland and forgettable song whose only surprising element is how much rage it manages to induce in me. The singer's no better, she's one of those Leona Lewis/Pop Factor Alexandria type clones - completely generic and pointlessly oversinging every word. It's a sure sign of desperation when a singer's got to screech and warble and stretch notes beyond breaking point. If the tune wasn't so dull she wouldn't have to yodel around it. She ends up sounding as if she's in a field hospital, wailing as a medic digs shrapnel out of her leg without any anaesthetic.

By treating Eurovision seriously, we're belittling ourselves. We used to watch it thinking: 'Look at these idiots, do people actually listen to this dross in Liechtenstein/San Marino/Azerbaijan/Monrovia/wherever?'. Now, we're the idiots and unfortunately yes, we do listen to this dross in Britain these days.

But, being British, i'm used to being let down and disappointed. On holiday a few years ago in Spain, the only thing I could get on the hotel television was a European music channel. It sucked me in and, along with my friends - who were also music snobs - we became obsessed with a band that they seemed to play every fifteen minutes or so. The song was so awful, so utterly, painfully bad that it was unintentially hilarious and we were amused no end that the Spanish seemed to like it so much. How we laughed and sneered at them for their musical tastes. How we looked down our noses and dropped references to The Beatles and Radiohead into every conversation. Imagine my horror therefore, when I returned to England to find that the same band that we'd arrogantly ridiculed were number two in the UK charts. That band was Scooter.

Scooter.

I'll never understand how my countrymen could debase themselves so horribly.

For that reason, i've always been quite relieved when Britain finishes last in Eurovision. At least that shows that we're still a little bit detached from the mindless pap churned out in the name of Europop. I hope our song finishes last again this year. Mainly so that I won't have to hear the bastard thing on the radio all the time, but also because maybe then, the people who decide what our entries are going to be will finally admit that whatever song we submit, it won't make the slightest difference. Even when we give it our best shot, take it seriously and produce a record so bad that it might actually stand a chance of scoring some points, it's irrelevant. The voting is entirely political and we're never going to win because everyone hates us.

After this year, when this will be proved beyond all doubt, we might as well say 'fuck it' and do whatever we want. Because we're one of the few countries that actually pays for the contest, we always get an automatic place in the final so why not use this to our advantage? Get Morrissey or Thom Yorke to write something - someone with established talent and credibility so that when they come last it shows up what a sham the contest is. Either that or put something in that's patently ridiculous and takes the piss like the Irish turkey from last year who sadly didn't make it through to the final because Ireland had to go through an elimination round and none of the organisers have a sense of humour. if you're going to lose, might as well lose BIG, that's what I say.

The other option is to just withdraw altogether, taking our money with us. That'd be a shame though, it'd make us look like bad losers and that's one thing we certainly aren't. In fact, we've had so much practice i'd say that the people of Britain are the best losers in the world.

At least that's something to be proud of.

Burlesque Stage Names

Talula Fondue
Twinkie DeLuxe
Angel Fatale
Starlight Parfait
Ambrosia Divine
Fifi McPlenty
Almond Monsoon
Honeydew Satin
Samphire L'amour
Coco Supreme
Scrunty O'Toole
Diva Fontaine
Cupcake Fandango
Melody Crumpet

With a cowgirl theme:

Minxy Alabama
Yeeha Sparkles
Sally Sidesaddle
Dallas Bandana
Amber Rider
Kentucky McSwoon
Tamara Stetson
Delilah Udderful

More riské:

Wanda Pheromone
Labia Hottentot
Pendula Mindfuck
Chastity Buxom
Felicity Gleestick
Akimbo DeFleur
Trixie Flagranté
Remedy Fettlewell

Competition Time

I presume everyone’s seen this by now? The challenge is to come up with something to justify how the police behaved - I don’t think it’s possible.

Disregard the other unconfirmed elements of the case – the reports that Ian Tomlinson had already been attacked with batons in a neighbouring street; that he had nothing to do with the demonstration the police were there to suppress; that the police officer hit him with a baton before the shove; that he died 10 minutes later from a heart attack – forget all that, just focus on what is actually visible in the clip itself.

I’ve heard the following spurious excuses already:

1. Tomlinson was drunk.
2. He was deliberately pissing the police off by walking slowly.
3. It was high spirits - the police were ‘psyched up’ and ready to face an angry mob.
4. Tomlinson was a protester and had been causing trouble moments before.
5. He was muttering insults and goading them under his breath.

None of these count, they’re all completely irrelevant. If Tomlinson was drunk, so what? If he was walking slowly just to annoy the police, aren’t they professional enough to deal with it in a civilised manner? Who cares if they were ‘psyched up’ - football fans get ‘psyched up’, nightclub bouncers get ‘psyched up’ – does that give them the free-reign to beat up anyone they want? Even if Tomlinson had been a protester; even if he’d been witnessed lobbing a brick at a squad car and was wearing a T-shirt that said ‘fuck the police’; even if he’d called the officer’s mother a rabid whore – it still doesn’t justify how he was treated.

You might try and formulate some kind of argument based on ‘reasonable force’ but that would also be bollocks. Reasonable force, as defined by the Crown Prosecution Service, means that you can only use ‘such force as is reasonable in the circumstances’. That means it’s got to be proportionate to the threat. If a police officer is in danger of being attacked or killed, they can use whatever means available to defend themselves. An unarmed man walking slowly with his hands in pockets – how much of a threat was he to a police officer dressed in full riot gear? Enough of a threat to approach him from behind and shove him so hard that he’s knocked off his feet and falls face first to the pavement?

It’s worrying that if he hadn’t had a heart attack minutes later, we might not have heard about this. It also makes you wonder how many other similar incidents happen – incidents behind the locked doors of cells or on streets where there isn’t an American fund manager recording things on his phone. But it is encouraging that the footage has generated as much interest as it has and that people seem to be genuinely outraged.

Therefore, for the good of our country, I hope that nobody manages to come up with an excuse that justifies the police officer’s behaviour. If someone does and people accept it, it’ll be a sure sign that our democratic and civilised society really is falling apart. If we start fearing the police and allowing them to wield their power indiscriminately, it’s only a short step to outright oppression and abuse. Then we’ll lose the liberty and freedom of speech that enables us to complain about things like this in the first place.

Rela-a-ax

There was a famous television advert for British Rail in the late ‘80s. Shot in luxuriant, deep hues, the camera moved through a spacious train as trees and fields sped past the window. A singer with a chocolaty voice lazily drawled over the top:

Any time you choose, kick off your shoes (on the floor of a carriage, the heel of a discarded stiletto curls up cosily over the rest of the shoe),
Rest your weary eyes and catch up with the news,
A favourite book will be the perfect company (a penguin on a book cover stretches and leans back against the oval of its logo),
Rela-a-ax.

Forget about your blues – you’re doin’ fine (an old man and a young boy are playing chess – a couple of the pieces stretch and yawn),
Leave your cares and worries far behind,
Loosen up your tie, let the world speed by (a businessman’s polished shoes turn into comfy slippers),
Rela-a-ax.

It looked ace. Who in their right minds would want to drive when trains are like that?

However, that ad is twenty years old. I think it might need updating. Here’s the journey I took on Sunday – if any marketing executives are reading, they’re welcome to use it in one of their campaigns.

Exeter to Sheffield. A direct train departing at 4:38pm, arriving at 9:19pm. It was long journey but I had a seat reserved, I had my book – the perfect company – I could even have a bit of a nap. Four and a half hours isn’t so long when you’re able to rela-a-ax.

However, Exeter St. David’s was utter bedlam. A train had been cancelled. Inevitably, that train was mine.

I’d no idea why it was cancelled, nobody did, not even the staff. Nobody even knew if there would be a replacement arriving any time soon. I asked a nice, smiley lady at the counter but apparently her sunny disposition was the only skill she brought to her role, as she was useless at anything else.
‘Oh, the Leeds trains have been arriving every so often. I don’t know why this one has been cancelled.’
‘Is there likely to be another one setting off soon?’
‘There might be. It could be a few minutes, it could be several hours – I hope not though!’ she beamed.
So do I. Bitch.

A swarm of disgruntled customers was buzzing round a harassed man in a luminous tabard. He was telling them to get the train to Paddington then change at Reading to get a connection northwards. The Paddington train left in two minutes so we all rushed to Platform 3 and wedged ourselves inside the carriages like veal calves.

The train then stood there for 45 minutes while a driver arrived from Bristol. It was a scheduled service, what the fuck was he doing in Bristol? Other trains came and went – including another Paddington train that left from the platform opposite and was practically empty – and the man in the tabard was now overheard telling people to change at Taunton, which added some confusion to break the monotony.

Once the journey was underway, a heavily accented driver told us over the speaker in hushed tones – as if it was a secret – that all passengers from the cancelled Leeds train should get off this one at Taunton and catch the one behind that would take us north.

OK then.

I got off at Taunton and waited for the train which turned out to be 30 minutes behind ours and was due to terminate at Birmingham. That doesn’t sound very northern to me.

I got off at Taunton and waited for the train which turned out to be 30 minutes behind and terminated at Birmingham. That doesn’t sound very northern to me.

There was a Leeds train due in 45 minutes later – should I chance that one instead? Was it running on time? Would it even pass through Sheffield? There was one single staff member at the station sat behind a wall of plexiglas at the end of an enormous queue, nobody else at all – not even a bloke in a tabard giving out conflicting advice on a whim.

Playing it safe, I got the Birmingham train. It took three hours.

Three hours sat next to the obligatory youth with the ‘shhht, shhht, shhht’ of dance music blaring out of his earphones.

Three hours of avoiding the mad, drunk woman with a booming voice and savage looking dog, who talked at anyone who paid her the slightest bit of attention. I had to duck down to try and avoid eye contact whenever she zigzagged up the aisle.

It wasn’t very rela-a-axing. Nor was there much opportunity to rest my weary eyes and catch up with the news, as I had to keep on full alert for further announcements over the tannoy. At Bristol, for example, they calmly told us that the train would be splitting in two and the back half would be staying behind. They told us this just as they shut the doors and we were about to pull away. Mercifully, I was in one of the front carriages, but that was pure luck. Passengers getting on here were also told that their seat reservations no longer applied due to a ‘mess up’.

Birmingham. We were late arriving so I missed my connection to Sheffield and had to wait an hour there.
Never mind, rela-a-ax.

I smoked a cigarette. I had to walk about half a kilometre away from the station before I found an area that wasn’t plastered with No Smoking signs.

I went to the loo. It cost 30p.

I asked for a complaint form at the information desk. They’d run out.

I bought a sandwich from a shop at the station. Station shops are just like normal shops except that everything they sell is 50% more expensive.

I tried to discard my rubbish responsibly. Bins are banned at stations now – they’re too much of a terrorist threat. I walked around the building until I found some huge, smelly wheelie bins tucked away round the back. They all had locks on them.

Astoundingly, the train to Sheffield arrived on time. Presumably, its last stop had been somewhere in the 19th century as it was the slowest train I’ve ever travelled on. I don’t say that lightly. In the past I’ve travelled across the vast open plain of nothingness between Adelaide and Perth. A journey where the horizon is empty enough to see the curvature of the earth and, because the temperature is so hot, the tracks are almost at melting point and the train must go at snail’s pace so as not to buckle them. I’ve also travelled in rural Thailand where you keep your bags buckled to yourself to avoid the hawkers and thieves and the train is followed by packs of stray dogs because the toilet is an open hole in the floor emptying straight onto the tracks.

At least the Thailand train had a toilet. The Sheffield one didn’t, it was out of order. This didn’t stop the interesting smell from permeating through the whole carriage, though. Maybe that 30p was worth it after all.

The mad, drunk woman with the dog was still haunting me, so I headed straight for the ‘Quiet Zone’ without realising that this is the carriage where everyone goes to use their mobile phones. I sat fuming for another two hours, mentally playing out the conversation I’d have with the conductor when he questioned my ticket. Unfortunately, I was even denied the pleasure of a decent argument, he just snipped it without comment.

By the time we pulled into Sheffield at nearly midnight, my carriage looked as though it was carrying refugees back from a war zone. In the same time and for the same price, I could have flown to New York.

Forget about your blues – you’re doin’ fine
Leave your cares and worries far behind

That advert seems so out of date now doesn’t it?

I’ve got a new concept. How about a boardroom full of fat, greasy, capitalist fat-cats with jagged teeth, black rimmed eyes and stained suits? They’re talking about how to improve the rail ‘service’, discussing what they can get away with charging, how much the public will take before they finally crack.

‘30p for using the bog.’
‘No, Laurence, are you mad – they’ll never swallow that!’
‘Of course they will Geoffrey, what other choice do they have? Take away their bins as well – that’ll teach them, bunch of ignorant proles. Mwaaah-haa-haa!’
‘Martin, another cognac, pronto.’

The fat-cats then pass their scheme to a group of marketeers with sharp suits, gelled hair and shiny skin. They spin and mould the idea into something that sounds vaguely rational and acceptable before giving it to the monkeys to implement. These monkeys have glazed eyes and a bewildered expression. They’re just like the flying ones from The Wizard of Oz except they’re wearing name-badges and corporate waistcoats. They don’t have a clue what’s happening outside of their narrow little tunnel of existence and it doesn’t even interest them – they’ve got their job to do and nothing else matters.

If they put the prices up again – and they’re bound to soon, it’s been a couple of months since the last increase – I’m going to save up and buy a helicopter. It’ll be a lot cheaper and a damn site less stressful.

Ronan Bloody Keating

Ronan Keating is someone whom parents are happy to let their kids listen to. He’s a clean cut figure, he’s safe, a good influence. I think this is a very short sighted point of view. If you consider the deeper implications of what Keating represents, he’s the last person that should be held up to be a role model and someone to admire.

Firstly, he’s responsible for Westlife, let’s not forget that. Against all odds, they’ve managed to explore new vistas of blandness and predictability – a difficult achievement in an environment where blandness and predictability are already pretty widespread. They’ve extinguished all traces of passion or emotion from the songs they’ve mauled - it’s not enough to look the part by dressing like doe-eyed undertakers, they’ve got to mean it too. Mediocrity and being completely devoid of substance are not qualities that should be admired. Personally, if I had children, I’d be happier for them to listen to The Sex Pistols than Westlife. At least punk stood for something, at least it had spirit and could provoke a reaction. The only reaction I have to hearing a Westlife song is vague uneasiness and deep disgust.

I blame Keating for this, he set the benchmark with his own inoffensive and clichéd muzak - predominantly cover versions that are identical to the originals apart from his horrible squawking voice over the top. They’re utterly pointless, tapping in on the familiarity of already established music to make money. When he does come up with something ‘new’ it’ll be soulless and obvious. ‘Life is a rollercoaster, you’ve just gotta ride it’. Really, Ronan? Wow, what an original and thought-provoking idea. I’ve never considered that before, you’ve made me look at things in a completely different way.

I’m not saying that there isn’t room for pop music. It’s not what I choose to listen to but I can totally accept the disposable tunes produced by Girls Aloud, Kylie Minogue and the like. They’re catchy, well crafted songs and I understand why people like them.

There’s no reason therefore, why pop music has to be as crap as Keating’s. The fact that he’s been so successful is a sad reflection of the things that are wrong with today’s society. Namely, that it doesn’t matter if you’ve got a shoddy product just as long as you market it relentlessly.

And boy, does he market it. Whenever he releases a record he saturates the media; appearing on every radio show, TV programme or magazine that can possibly be used to peddle his CD. I get sick to death of seeing his weird, pointy face.

Of course, there’s always been promotion, but this total bombardment approach was pioneered by The Spice Girls. They weren’t so much as a band, more of a brand – their songs were mere jingles to sell themselves as a product. Their desire for media exposure smacked of desperation and they were willing to do anything to keep themselves in the limelight. Keating’s the same. Just look at the clip of Boyzone at the start of their career when they appeared on Gay Byrne’s Late Late Show in Ireland. They’re a new band, they’ve got no song, but here they are anyway. Dance, monkeys, dance! Most of them at least appear to be a little uncomfortable and embarrassed at being humiliated on television but not Keating. Look at him go in his silly hat, he’s loving it!

As much as I adore that clip, there are sides to Keating that I find a lot more sinister and manipulative. For example, I object to him exploiting the exposure generated by his involvement with Comic Relief to flog his records. Is it just a coincidence that he had a single coming out at the same time as he was climbing Kilimanjaro? Also, his new album entitled ‘Songs For My Mother’ – is it just by chance that it’s appearing on the shelves a week before Mothering Sunday? His marketing ploys are horribly transparent and it worries me that other people see him as being a harmless figure when he typifies such cynical opportunism.

When you hear him interviewed – as you undoubtedly will do over the next few weeks – you’ll hear him boast about how little he’s seen of his family because he’s been working so hard. Also notice how many times he uses the word ‘industry’. I don’t dispute that he works hard, most people do but we don’t have the audacity to call ourselves ‘artists’. The way he talks, it’s more like he’s slaving away at a coal face rather than being creative and self-expressive.

With the phrase: ‘music industry’, Keating’s emphasis is firmly on the second word. To justify his position, it should be on the first. If he put half as much effort into writing his music as he does into promoting it, perhaps the songs would be good enough to sell themselves.

Some Icelandic Folklore

Necropants
Firstly, the sorcerer must make a pact with a wealthy man who’s willing to let his body be used after death. Then, as soon as the man dies, the sorcerer digs up the body and skins it from the waist down being very careful not to tear or make any holes in the skin. These are the necropants and they can be used to generate money. This is done by stealing a coin from a poor widow – it’s got to be a poor widow because…well, it just has ok? The widow’s coin is then placed in the scrotum of the necropants. After that, the scrotal sack will periodically fill up with money provided that the original coin stays in place. I’m not making this up. Before the sorcerer himself dies, he must be careful to pass the necropants onto someone else who carefully steps into them one leg at a time. If the sorcerer doesn’t pass on the necropants, his body will become infested with lice – something presumably far worse than being dug up and having your knackers used as some kind of magic purse.

Tilberis
To get a Tilberi, a woman has to steal a rib from a corpse in a graveyard on Whitsunday. She walks around the grave a bit – so many times clockwise, so many times anti-clockwise – puts some blood on it from her left big toe, then wraps the rib in wool. This is then kept nestled between her breasts. On the next three Sundays, during mass, she must spit her communion wine into her cleavage and onto the rib. After the third gobfull, the thing starts to grow until it’s too big to conceal and she releases it into the countryside to steal milk for her. To feed the Tilberi, the woman cuts a notch in her right inner thigh and raises the flesh to produce a nipple which it can suckle on. When the woman is finished with it, she sends it out to collect the lamp wax from three counties and it eventually explodes from exhaustion. It’s tempting to think that all this is made up to amuse tourists – it certainly seems a lot of trouble to go to for some free milk. However, there is documented historical evidence that in the 18th Century, several women were convicted of keeping Tilberis. It’s doubtful whether they actually did of course, but the interesting thing is that people must have believed in the existence of the creatures at the time.

The Fisherman of Stokkseyri
‘As everyone knows, seals love pregnant women’. When an audio-commentary starts like that, you’re going to carry on listening aren’t you? Unfortunately, it turns out that seals don’t like pregnant women for any nice, cuddly reason – instead they prefer to tear them to pieces and eat the unborn babies. A fisherman who lived on the shore decided to exploit this weakness by keeping his wife permanently pregnant so that seals would be lured into attacking her. Before the seal had chance however, the fisherman would leap out, kill it, and have a plentiful supply of food and oil. This worked brilliantly for twelve years until one day, the fisherman was delayed and the seal got close enough to his wife to ‘stroke her fiercely’. She survived but could no longer produce children – something I imagine she’d be rather pleased about after being pregnant for twelve years.

OK Computers

After ‘iTunes Thursday’, when an unknown virus completely wiped all the music off my PC, I devised an elaborate and convoluted system to ensure that it would never happen again. To put this needlessly paranoid and obsessive system into place, I went to the Apple store fully prepared to spend about £300 on new equipment.

However, every item I picked up and asked advice about, I was talked out of by a member of staff. I ended up buying nothing and coming away with some useful free tips about how to get some of my music back.

Obviously, after building myself up for a big purchase, I was a little deflated at not getting anything (I had to buy a shirt instead) but the staff’s attitude was very refreshing. They could have just taken the money that I was waving at them and said nothing, but instead they were useful, informative and genuinely willing to help. That only served to increase my admiration for Apple – which was already pretty high anyway.

As a graphic designer, I’m automatically in love with Apple Mac computers. Have you ever tried designing anything on a PC? Don’t bother. When you’ve learnt how to use a computer on a Mac, PCs seem lumbering and illogical; there are too many limitations, too many helpful hints that aren’t helpful at all. They seem to assume that they know what you’re trying to do better than you do yourself. Macs aren’t like that. They give you all their power and let you use it to do whatever you want. They don’t second guess you, they don’t patronize you and they don’t tell you how to do everything. They know that if you’re intelligent enough to buy a Mac in the first place, you pretty much know what you’re doing.

However, before iTunes came along and made them popular, I was worried that Apple’s time was up. My industry was practically the only one resisting the pull of the PC – Microsoft was like the evil empire, with Bill Gates as Darth Vader. Apple was the plucky rebel alliance, winning little victories against an overwhelming force. iTunes was their Luke Skywalker.

I know they’re a huge, multinational company, but I still believe that all of the people who work for Apple are like the staff they have in their store: it’s not just about the money; they genuinely care about their products. Look at their packaging, for example. It’s so sleek and elegantly designed. The way it all slots together; the achingly simple, beautiful photography. Now compare that with a Microsoft box, busy with colour and horrible typefaces, logos plastered everywhere. Putting aside price, which one do you want more?

I know that that’s part of the advertising but there are other little touches and flourishes too. The way a file disappears in a little puff of smoke when you move it to a recycle bin. The little alien that walks on from the edge of your screen and zaps your selected text with a multi-coloured laser when you press a combination of keys in Apple’s version of Quark. These things aren’t geared towards selling anything, there’s no reason for them to be there. The fact that they are there shows a love of the product in the designer.

Someone once told me that the reason why Apple Macs don’t suffer from viruses is because only Macs are advanced enough to develop the necessary coding and the designers don’t want their beloved computers corrupted. I doubt that’s true – but I wouldn’t be surprised.

Platform Performance

There was a lad, probably in his late teens, seeing off his girlfriend on the platform at Birmingham New Street. I’d hazard a guess that they hadn’t been seeing each other for very long otherwise he’d have just gone when she got onboard. As it was, he must have been trying to make sure that she left with a good impression of him because he was determined to stay until the train pulled away.

Only it didn’t. The train was very busy. It emptied and refilled with passengers and it took a while for everyone to find their seats, take magazines or iPods out of their bags and stow their luggage away. I could only see him, I couldn’t see his girlfriend; she was obscured by rows of seating and the backs of heads. She must have been near the window though, as he could see her from where he stood. He gestured to her through the window – about how busy the station was, to call him when she’d arrived, how cold it was – the usual sorts of things. It was all fine while there were plenty of people milling around and there were a few topics that could be easily mimed.

But the train didn’t move.

The people in the carriage settled down and the platform emptied. There were no views to distract the passengers and it was too early in the journey to start reading or listening to music, so everyone watched him absentmindedly. It must have been like being on stage – but he was all alone and he didn’t have a script.

The train still didn’t move.

I could tell the lad was starting to feel a little embarrassed. There was a pressure to entertain. He coped well though, making a big show of checking his watch, smiling a lot, pulling a few faces. He even took something out of his bag to fool around with – I couldn’t see what. I presume the girl was responding to all this but it was a lot easier for her. She wasn’t so completely exposed; not as many people could see her, squashed up against the window.

The train still didn’t move.

He was struggling. There’s only so much you can say to someone through a reinforced perspex window. He gamely pointed at a few things and laughed at something she did but that laugh looked more forced now, the smile painted on. His cheeks were redder. He was losing his cool, starting to feel silly. He couldn’t leave the platform now, not after waiting so long.

The train still didn’t move.

It was horrible. I didn’t want to see him lose face like that in front of his girlfriend and I turned red and squirmed on his behalf. I was desperate for that train to leave and I think the whole carriage breathed a sigh of relief when we eventually pulled away. We all recognised that feeling – it’s the same feeling you get when the camera stays too long on someone after a television interview and they’re left looking foolish because they don’t know how to react. Everything that needs to be said has been said and a proper ending has been delivered at a natural point. When things go on longer than they should, they become unbearably awkward.

I bet however much that lad cared for the girl on the train, in his head he was screaming, ‘Go now, just go. Please, please fuck off.’

Buckley, Vonnegut & Despair

When you’re depressed and you happen to mention to someone that you’re listening to a lot of Jeff Buckley, their first reaction is usually to come round and hide all your knives.

However, I see Buckley’s music as being something that is capable of bringing me out of my despair rather than making it worse. It’s his voice. It triggers something in your head and makes you realise that however bad you’re feeling, you could be feeling a hell of a lot worse. There’s some depth of emotion, some unimagined pain that you’re lucky enough not to know anything about.

I’m not just talking about Hallelujah which is the song that everyone knows, it’s Grace as a whole. Then there’s the other stuff that’s sadly unfinished and less polished – Opened Once; All Flowers In Time Bend Towards The Sun, a duet with Liz Frazer; and his version of Dido’s Lament which is impossible to listen to without turning into emotional mush. He hits the mark and pulls something out of you too often for it to be an accident. The only thing I’ve ever encountered that’s comparable is seeing Sigur Ros live. There’s something there that affects you in an almost subconscious way, emotions that are raw and primeval that make you realise that, in the big scheme of things, how you’re feeling is insignificant.

I take great comfort in that, it gives life some sort of perspective. It’s good to think that I’m largely irrelevant, that the world isn’t affected in the slightest by whatever decisions I make or however miserable I am. On bad days, it’s only by listening to Buckley and reading Kurt Vonnegut that I’m able to get out of bed at all. Vonnegut adds humour, he knows that life can be cruel and miserable and unjust, but manages to say ‘fuck it’ and laughs at it all. Catch 22 has the same sort of effect and if I’m having a particularly bleak day I reach for Camus. The Outsider is pretty much a miracle cure for everything.

As I start to come round, I’ll switch from Buckley to Elbow. I can identify with Elbow’s lyrics, they’re comforting because they make you realise that what you’re going through is relatively normal – others have experienced the same things and have survived it alright. I suppose many people view The Smiths in the same way, that’s why they’re so enduring – the lyrics speak to the listener in some fundamental way.

From Elbow – Radiohead. They’re another band that are accused of being depressing but I find them anything but. I think it’s only the people that don’t take the time to listen to them properly that dismiss them as easily as that. It’s a cop out, a lazy response to music they don’t understand. I like Radiohead the most when they’re being cynical and threatening. Additionally, the band members themselves; how they approach things and their attitude gives me a tremendous confidence boost. OK Computer and The Bends are usually enough to soak up any residual depression. After that, I can listen to Cathy Davey, Pulp, and The Kings of Leon with a clear head and a renewed pleasure in being alive.

Then i’m at my best again; I’m able to look at my life with as much flippancy and detachment as if I was a character in a novel. Nothing really matters so I might as well do whatever I want.

I’m lucky to have found the things that make me feel better. Some people use religion in the same way, others write or paint or lean on their friends. It’s just a matter of finding out what works for you personally and fits in with your own beliefs. Everyone needs a crutch from time to time, the real problems occur when you haven’t got one.

Musical Jervis Cake

First, prepare the base:
- Mix together 2 cups of A Forest by The Cure, and 2 cups of Let Down by Radiohead.
- Now stir in a big dollop of Every Day Is Like Sunday by Morrissey.
- Add a few sprinklings of Creep by Radiohead to the mix – not too much though as it has a strong taste and may overpower the rest of the flavours. Creep sprinklings are heavier than the rest of the mixture so will sink to the bottom providing a solid base for the cake to sit on.
- Stir thoroughly.
- Place in the oven on a low heat for several days. You could even try stewing it for variety.
- When the base is properly browned off, spread a thin layer of Ride of The Valkyries to the top before preparing the upper and more substantial layer of the cake.

The upper layer:
- Take a full 3 cups of Float On by Modest Mouse and stir in some Cold Man’s Nightmare by Cathy Davey.
- 2 tablespoons of Leave Them All Behind by Ride.
- 1 tablespoon of In Pursuit of Happiness by Divine Comedy.
- Pour in lashings of Running The World by Jarvis Cocker, and squeeze in some Four Minute Rebellion by Matthew Jay to take the edge off the harsh taste.
- Finally add 1 and a half teaspoons of Can’t Be Sure by The Sundays.
- Don’t stir the mixture too thoroughly, leave some of the ingredients a bit lumpy and solid. It’ll be an interesting effect when you bite the cake and get a chunk of some random, unexpected flavour.
- Put in the oven at a very high heat, at least gas mark 28.

Now, place the upper layer on top of the base. You should be very firm with this, squash the base down so that the top layer is almost twice the depth of the lower.

Apply a liberal coating of I Am A Rock by Simon and Garfunkel to the whole thing and garnish with Blister In The Sun by The Violent Femmes and a pinch of Eternal Life by Jeff Buckley.

Serving Suggestion:
The cake may have a rather bitter and overpowering taste so it’s advisable to eat with a nice glass of Lilac Wine as an accompaniment.

Hello there

I'm not a huge fan of the Blog thing.

There seem to be too many people who think that their point of view is so fascinating and relevant that they've just got to share it with the world.

I know why - it’s the media and the internet’s fault. You get all this information, all this news that inevitably makes you concerned or angry. But the impact is all one way. You work yourself up into a state over something that’s happened on the other side of the world and you’re so disconnected from the actual event that there’s nothing you can do about it. Unless you detach yourself from things you just end up feeling impotent and useless.

So, for the people who haven’t yet come to terms with the fact that they’re nobodies, Blogs are a way of getting their point of view across – a way of pretending that they matter. I suppose it’s a good way to get everything out of your system from time to time. It’s better than letting all that frustration fester and swell until you can’t control it anymore and embark on some kind of killing spree.

However, there are a lot of people blogging who think they’re a lot more interesting than they actually are. Too many people using pompous language and needlessly long words that are usually spelt wrong – as if they were journalists writing for publication. Well, this isn't a publication; it's a blog - and nobody's reading it.

Having said that, I thought I'd stick my oar in as well.

I did the 100 words thing last month and, more than the discipline of coming up with something every day, I found that I was thinking about topics and the whole process of writing a lot more too. That’s got to be a good thing hasn’t it? Usually 100 words were enough to get across whatever I wanted to say, but occasionally I could have done with a few more. A blog isn’t so rigid in its restrictions, I can expand a bit on here. Also, it’ll be appreciated by my friends who are no doubt tired of reading lengthy, rambling, and largely irrelevant emails from me when an ‘OK, see you at 8’ would probably do. Might as well stick all that extra nonsense on here instead.

Won’t that be fun?