the brilliantly leaping gazelle

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August 22, 2015

A deadline looms, so here for your aural delectation are some of my favourite cover versions….

LEGAL DISCLAIMER: I do not own the copyright pertaining to any of the music, and no infringement is intended.

(Just in case you were thinking that I did.)

As the title explains, I’m taking the lazy way out again this week. Although it was disheartening for a cookery recipe I put up a couple of weeks ago to get well above my average number of post views.

NB – If you like the original and are worried that hearing a cover version will besmirch your enjoyment of it evermore, then don’t. Which is kind of obvious really, but still. But if you love any of the the originals, and want to hear them recreated in a different style, then you’re in for an eargasm. (Which is a word I thought I’d never use and won’t again.)

So we begin with a cover of Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance’ performed by twin sisters Camille and Kennerly on harps.

Next up the Sabres of Paradise classic ‘Smokebelch II’ performed by Maxence Cyrin on a piano. Simply beautiful, this one.

Staying with the dance theme, here’s Daft Punks ‘Around The World’ given a latin makeover by Señor Coconut. Bizarre yet brilliant.

Find Aphex Twin’s status as some kind of musical wunderkid baffling? Does it all sound like a gunfight in an underground car park, constant beeps and loud noises? Here’s Phillip Glass with his interpretation of ‘Icct Hedral’. Glorious violin action!

Being a teenager at the time when acid house was in the middle of it’s drug fuelled party, I loved 808 States’ ‘Pacific 202’. So imagine my joy upon hearing this live at the Royal Festival Hall. It’s acid house, but done by a brass band. Perfection. A ‘Desert Island Disc’ for me, this one. Sort of. This version is from the second release of the epic ‘Acid Brass’ album and is a tad slower than the one on the first. Did you need to know that? No. But I am a trainspotter when it comes to music I love and that just proved it.

One of my many contentions is that the measure of how good a song is, is how well it lends itself to a brass band interpretation. As I write this, and as if to underline the point, the neighbores have inflicted the noise of a thumping bassline, some beats and what sounds like a woman being violently assaulted. My ears know how she feels.

Here’s something altogether much better, ‘You Only Live Twice’ performed by Ray Davies and the Button Down Brass.

Here’s Garbages’ ‘Only Happy When It Rains’ by Richard Cheese. A cover far and away superior to the original, methinks. You may not.

A male choir performing New Orders ‘Blue Monday’? Okay then!

The law against promoting homosexuality in Russia isn’t strictly enforced, as this police choir show, whilst performing Daft Punks’ ‘Get Lucky’. (It isn’t your computer. The sound quality improves after 10 seconds.)

Much as I loathe U2, this version of ‘With or Without You’ by the Scala female choir, is ace

And we end on some disco magic, courtesy of Inner Life and their take on Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrells”Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’.

Next week I might inflict upon you my favourite show tunes and brass band covers. You lucky people!

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August 15, 2015

As I’ve got other things to be getting on with, here are some one-liners…

He wasn’t so much pushing the boat out as launching an armada.

It is said that Helen of Troy was so beautiful that she launched a thousand ships. You’re so beautiful you could launch a yacht.

I wouldn’t say she’s fat but she’s certainly no stranger to the light of the fridge at midnight.

Anyone can be wise after the event, but the trick is to be wise before the event.

The things that were sent to try him always found him guilty.

Her rags had never been glad.

When he was apportioning blame, he gave her seconds.

He had a face not even his mother could love.

She looked like offal dressed as mutton.

An I.Q smaller than the radius of his kneecap.

If he hit every branch of the ugly tree on the way down, then the tree in question must’ve been a Giant Redwood.

Of course he’s bisexual; the only way he gets any sex is by paying for it.

The biggest sexual favour she could do you was not to have any sex with you.

I need some chains to contain my excitement.

As much use as a glass trampoline.

As much use as a sponge hosepipe.

As much use as pair of chopsticks in a sugar bowl.

As much use as a marshmallow axe.

As much use as brick lifejacket.

As much use as porcelain football.

Rock music is actually well named because when you hear it, you immediately want to cave your skull in with one.

Isn’t it odd that if disco music has no redeeming qualities whatsoever and rock music positively abounds with them, that no one ever listens to a disco record and hears voices telling them to commit suicide?

She had a chest like melon smuggler.

A definition of child cruelty? If she had triplets and you were bottle-fed.

She looked like an oil painting. By Picasso.

I’m as tolerant as the next man. As long, that is, that the next man is Alf Garnett.

I believe in equality. I hate everybody, equally.

I wouldn’t say she’s fat but when she has a mud bath it looks like a nature documentary

He’s not fat but when he jogs it reminds me of a jelly in an earthquake.

She was as deep as a puddle.

If manners maketh the man then he is positively Neanderthal.

He was a practicing homosexual in the sense he hadn’t got the hang of it yet.

If cleanliness was indeed next to Godliness he was an atheist.

I do value your friendship. The value being £5.

He’s so stupid that if he owned a flower shop, he’d close on Valentine’s Day.

For her it wasn’t so much the menopause but the menofullstop.

As much fun as sharing a thin bed with a fat woman.

You wouldn’t be wanted even if there was a poster offering a reward.

If you lived by your principles, you’d be a zombie.

If you were a voucher who would bother redeeming you?

All he amounted to was loose change.

He was a self made man, one that hadn’t bothered to read the instructions.

She didn’t have emotional baggage as much as a walk in wardrobe

If talk is indeed cheap then he got his at a jumble sale

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. Unless, of course the word is “fire” and given to your firing squad.

If his mind took a flight of fancy, then it wouldn’t be long haul one.

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August 8, 2015

I’m on holiday, so for one week only, and in the best tradition of ‘Blue Peter’ – here’s one I made earlier – you get an easy to follow recipe for a warm bacon, prawn and feta cheese salad. With croutons…

Warm Tasty Salad

Quantities depend on how many you’re feeding. Obviously.

You will need for the salad:

Bags of mixed salad leaf
Cucumber
Assorted peppers (red, yellow or orange to add colour)
Cherry tomatoes
Capers
Prawns
Bacon
Feta Cheese
Garlic

And for the croutons

French Bread
Rosemary
Pumpkin seeds
Olive Oil

And for yourself, as you create this feast:

A bottle of agreeable Red Wine

Preparation:

So much more time efficient if you do this first, as everything is to hand and, much more importantly, ready at the critical juncture. Or you could always just fanny about. It’s up to you.

But make sure you’ve at least six receptacles to hand for this!

– First things first. Open the bottle of red wine and pour yourself a glass of it.
Check that you’ve got all the ingredients and the kitchen area where you’ll work is
clear of any unnecessary detritus. Drink some wine and congratulate yourself that
you’re going to create a tasty masterpiece. Finish the glass of wine.

– Cut the cherry tomatoes into quarters and decant into a receptacle.

– Cut the assorted peppers into then thin strips. Length-ways or not, it’s up to you!
Again, decant into a separate receptacle.

– Cut the cucumber lengthways into quarters, re-assemble and dice into quarters,
about half an inch or less thick and then decant into yet another receptacle.

– Pour yourself another generous glass of that very agreeable red wine. Have a sip or
two.

– Remove the fat from the bacon and cut the bacon into two-inch wide horizontal
strips. (A pair of kitchen scissors helps immeasurably with this bit.) Decant into
yet another receptacle.

– Roughly tear up the French stick into generous strips width ways. Tear the strips
open. Bung them in a large deep baking tray.

– Finely dice the garlic. How much to dice is up to you, obviously, but I tend to use
a whole clove. But that’s just me.

CLEAN UP THE MESS YOU MADE PREPPING. TRUST ME, THERE’S MORE MESS ON THE WAY.

Assembly:

– Open the bags of salad. Bung into salad bowls and bung in the cucumber.

– The strips of French bread. In the large deep baking tray? Bung in some rosemary,
pumpkin seeds and liberally douse in olive oil. Give it all a thorough stir. The
strips should be well saturated, but not sodden, by the oil, and generously
covered by the seeds and herbs. Bung in the oven at something like 180 degrees.
(Gas mark who the f*ck cares.)

– Heat a frying pan with a small amount of olive oil. On a lowish heat bung in the
chopped tomatoes and gently stir until they are softened but still have their
shape. Decant back into a small bowl.

– Using a thin baking tray, artfully place the pepper strips on it and season with
salt and pepper. Bung in oven, checking on the bread as you do so. If the bread
is drying to a crisp, add more olive oil. Actually, add some more anyway, then
stir and return.

– Using the same frying pan you used for the tomatoes, add a dash of olive oil and
a third of chopped garlic and under a low to medium heat, bung in half the bacon,
stirring as needed so it doesn’t stick to the pan, until it goes nice and crispy.
(This will take a while, so have another sip or three of that wine and don’t
worry if you need to pour the contents into a sieve over a sink at least once to
drain off fluid. This is wholly expected!). Decant crispy yumness into a bowl.

– Check on the French bread. If needed add olive oil and stir thoroughly. Don’t
scrimp. Also check the peppers. Don’t let them shrivel to a Quentin. When they’re
nicely blackened, yet still have colour, decant.

– Repeat the process you used to such great effect with the bacon with the other
half of the bacon and another third of the garlic. Decant into the same
receptacle where the other half of the bacon is, and while you’re at it, have
another sip or three of that very agreeable red wine with a small handful of the
bacon. You know you want to! After all, who is immune to the smell of fried
bacon?
A demented wrongcock, that’s who.

– Using the same pan, add a small amount of olive oil and some garlic. On a
moderate heat, warm – WARM – the prawns through (if you need to repeat the
drainage a la the bacon, do so- hey you knew it might happen). Decant into a….

– Check on the French bread again. The French bread should be golden and crispy.
If not, add more olive oil and give it a stir, and use the time to clear up

Because…..

NOW IT ALL HAPPENS AT ONCE, SO I WOULD SUGGEST YOU HAVING SOME
MORE WINE, BUT YOU NEED YOUR WITS ABOUT YOU. SO I WON’T.

– Get the salad bowls ready. Drain and add the capers and the peppers to the salad
bowls.

– Heat the largest frying pan you have and with a small amount of olive oil and the
rest of the garlic, On a moderate heat bung in all of the bacon until nice and
tasty. (You’re cooking, so you decide when its tasty)

– Then add the tomatoes to the bacon, warm them, stirring carefully to
keep their shape and then add the prawns.

– When the prawns are cooked, give the whole thing a gentle stir and a minute, then
add the whole lot into the salad bowls.

– Now things get messy. Crumble the feta cheese into the chaos that is the salad
bowls. the heat from the tomatoes, bacon and prawns will melt the feta and
negate any need for dressing. Give the salad a thorough stir to ensure equal
distribution of tasty yumness .

– Take out the French bread strips from the oven, which by dint of olive oil,
herbs, heat and your above all, your careful ministration, have become croutons.
Bung in a serving dish.

SERVE AT ONCE WITH THE CROUTONS

These instructions whilst comprehensive, are informed by my own experience of recipe instructions whereby they’d be vague to the first timer, who needs clear guidance. And also advising one to do something one should really have done earlier.

It really is quite simple, honestly, depending as it does on that well known martial art,ti ming.

By the way, this was all nicely formatted until the WordPress editor f*cked the whole thing up. I’ve tried twice to rectify it, but to no avail. And, as the sun is shining..

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August 1, 2015

A couple of weeks ago I visited Moorfields eye hospital, ostensibly to have my eye checked but in reality more to satisfy the concern of my housemate, Old Blue Eyes, who was concerned for my eye health. The cause for this concern was a faint red line that was either a burst blood vessel or something indicative of a more serious problem. Initially skeptical about the whole enterprise, looking back on the results I’m bloody glad I did so.

Now I will admit that everyone has their own experience of the National Health Service but I have to say this experience was outstanding. From the initial check in assessment, cursory eye examination and then being seen by a doctor, took less than two hours. Which in anyone’s book is very good going and a worthwhile investment of one’s time, especially when eye health is concerned. The examination of my eye revealed that there was no major problem but what was really interesting and of use was what followed next.

In the course of outlining the procedure for taping up the eye at night – a lubricant applied to the eye, then taping it shut, then carefully affixing cotton pads to the closed eye to keep it closed before firmly fixing the whole thing in place with plasters – the doctor was mystified. Had I not considered using a moisture chamber? Given that this was the first time anyone had mentioned moisture chambers to me I was both ignorant of what they were and how they might be of use to me.

Given also that I’ve been to Moorfields numerous times since my Bells Palsy diagnosis and repeatedly explained this Heath-Robinson approach to taping the eye shut at night to them, I was astounded. Especially as on one occasion my secondary goal was to outline the whole rigmarole to a doctor, who would then send us a letter setting out the procedure as medically authorised so as we could present to a district nurse. Who as individuals – in their personal lives – may be bastions of common sense, but as a collective –in their working environment -they’re just bast*rds.

Anyway, a moisture chamber is a way of enclosing the eye, so that dry air doesn’t come into contact with the eyeball and thus the eye remains moist. In practice what this means is as I write this I’m now wearing a pair of swimming goggles. Not only do the suction cups on the goggles provide an airtight seal to trap the moisture in the goggles, they also have the benefit of having blue lenses that compliment perfectly any number of my outfits. I’ve also got a pair that not only have blue lenses, but a blue strap. And two with different shades of purple.

This point is of no little concern to me, as anyone who’s read any of my previous posts will no dobt be aware, I pride myself on my colour coordination. Therefore swimming goggles afford one a most excellent opportunity to do so. As with most things a little effort goes a long way. I was mindful of this when I was looking up moisture chambers on the interweb. A company in the U.K made moisture chambers in the form of ordinary blacked out glasses with suction cups on both eyes. Which were as ungainly as any pair of blacked out glasses would be. However the search also revealed that in the United States a manufacturer had made a moisture chamber eye patch that one could wear at night.

This neatly illustrates the difference between the respective healthcare systems in the United States and the United Kingdom. In the United States healthcare provision is patchy at best, based primarily on your ability to pay for care. Whereas in the United Kingdom access to healthcare is free, based solely on need. Granted these are generalizations to make a point, but really, ask yourself, ‘Where would I rather have emergency surgery?’ But it is when one is looking for aids and devices that might assist in the recovery process that it really hits home. In America there seems to be a plethora of inventive products that imaginative solutions to every assistance, whereas in the United Kingdom there is a dearth of them.

However, the fact that incompetent bureaucracy knows no boundaries, was bought home to me – quite literally – when I to found my discharge sheet from my initial visit to hospital where my Bells Palsy had been diagnosed. The diagnosis was made by a specialist from the stroke team. As such she would have been well versed in all aspects of neurological care by the hospital, so it was with no little amazement that I learnt that the hospital was in fact a center of excellence with a specialist neurological unit for the South East of England. That further more one of the consultants had a specific interest in Bells Palsy. My flabber was well and truly gasted! Seemingly no one had seen it worth their while to impart this information to me.

However back at Moorfields, the doctor moved on to discuss possible future options for my eye. Observing that my current treatment regime of lubricating the eye throughout the day was unsustainable for much longer, he suggested that if no significant improvement had been made in three months then an internal eyelid weight would be fitted. An internal eyelid weight is much like the filling in a kebab, if you imagine that the eyelid is the pitta bread and the surgeon cuts the eyelid in the same way that the ‘chef’ slits open a pitta bread. This creates a cavity into which the greasy meat and derisory salad will go. The eyelid weight is the kebab meat! Only its very slim – less than a millimeter thick – and gently curved to the eyelid. Of course naturally my worry is that at the moment when the surgeon applies a scalpel to my eyelid he will have a coughing fit!

Next week..As I’m on holiday, you’ll get my recipe for my Warm Tasty Salad, you lucky people…!

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May 8, 2015

This country is now governed by a bunch of illegitimate counts…..

Frankly, I’m gob smacked. My flabber has been well and truly gasted. I stayed up until 8am this morning watching the election results, and they seemed nothing less than to be mourning the death of socialism in the UK. This is so not what this county needs right now. This country doesn’t need a government of illegitimate counts.

In what possible universe can David Cameron claim any legitimacy to preside over a government of a united kingdom, when it so plainly isn’t. A cursory look at the election results map confirms this. Only one Conservative MP in Scotland. A 36.9%share of the popular vote earned the Conservatives 331 MPs whilst Labour who won 30.4% of the popular vote earned 232 MPs.

Even worse still is the fate of UKIP. Now anyone who reads my incoherent ramblings will be aware that I’m not a huge fan of UKIP, but I’m even less of a fan of an electoral system that gives a political party with 12.6% of the popular vote, just one MP. One thinks, as one does, of Malcolm X, who said “I’ve got a plate in front of me, but nothing is on it. Because all of us are sitting at the same table, are all of us diners? I’m not a diner until you let me dine, then I become a diner.”

Up until now, the main political force pushing for proportional representation has come from the left. Mainly because their share of the popular vote hasn’t translated into MPs. But now pressure will be coming from UKIP as well. And the Green’s – 3.8% of the vote, equals one MP. And Labour will realise, that after the decimation in Scotland, they cannot ever win an election under the present system. A form of a proportional representation would revive their electoral fortunes.

I’m sure I’ll have more to say about this, how Ed Millibland would’ve fallen on his sword if only it hadn’t been so…blunted, how last night was, from a Lib-Dem point of view, a tartan bloodbath, how the current electoral system doesn’t invite all the parties to the party, and more if I wasn’t feeling so forlorn right now.

This sums up exactly how I feel.

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February 13, 2015

The Albert Einstein Guide to Blogging…

What is more depressing than writing about ones depression in a blog? Not having many people reading it that’s what!

When I first mentioned to someone I was toying with the idea of writing a blog they asked me what would happen if I didn’t get that many readers. Flushed with enthusiasm for this venture, I replied optimistically, that quality was more important than quantity when it come to readers.

How I laugh at those words now!

Because whilst I feel I have interesting things to say and interesting ways to say them it would seem that hardly anybody is interested in reading them. According to my subscriber lists most of my subscribers are based here in England but a glance at my stats for last week proved that hardly any English interweb users read my blog. This leaves me to the rather unpalatable conclusion that an email notification of my blog goes direct into their junk mail folder. And I’ve yet to get my head around harnessing the power of social media to publicise my blog, because whenever anyone tries, this happens

It put me in mind of Albert Einstein. When he was asked to describe his theory of relativity in language that could be easily understood his quote goes something like this. “When you are sitting on a bench next to a pretty girl an hour seems like a minute but when you are sitting on a hot oven a minute seems like an hour!” The amount of time it takes me to write a blog like the one I wrote about my depression is inversely proportionate to the amount of time people will spend reading it.

Another thing that works against me is that I don’t have a single, unifying theme or subject matter to my blog. It alternates – one week about me and coping (or not) with severe brain injury and the next about something altogether more interesting. Before my injury, lots of many things appalled, bewildered, fascinated or amused me about life, sometimes all at the same time. Quite how my change in circumstance has changed my outlook is beyond me. This blogger encapsulates the dichotomy rather well.

I know that such concerns only highlight the abject lack of any other meaningful activity in my life. As if to prove the point yesterday I had a trip to Moorefield’s Eye Hospital. I was fully expecting them to examine my eyes and to comment favourably on the relative health of the eye and that whatever ministrations I was receiving that they were working, namely keeping the eye well lubricated. (I could make a rather crude and obvious joke about eye’s elsewhere on the body being well lubricated, but I won’t!) I was not however expecting a consultant to suggest that I needed part of my left eyelid sown shut to prevent any damage to the eyeball caused by the eyelid not closing properly. And for good measure the consultant also added that after three months she would have expected to see more movement in the left side of my face. I was reminded not in a good way of my physiotherapist at the rehabilitation unit when he said to me that most gains are made within the first few months and after that it is a series of rapidly diminishing returns. I asked him if he was available as a motivational speaker! (No really, I did!)

Thus I went from being very low at the start of the week to be very, very low at the end of it. And given that tomorrow is Valentines Day (or V.D as I call it!)

Here are a couple of ideas for you.

Cajole a member of the opposite sex who is single and a good friend of yours to engage in an act of public theatre. Book a table in a restaurant on Valentines Day and proceed to have a nauseatingly good time, laughing loudly and with frequent displays of affection with big smiles to other diners. This of course, will have the effect of making everyone else feel thoroughly wretched. Or on the other hand if might unit them in a shared antipathy towards you, either way it’s a win win!

The other idea – which I’ve used many, many times – is a cheapskates guide to romance. If you are an urban dweller no doubt there are many fatal car crashes or fatalities involving cyclists or pedestrians near where you live, some of these see impromptu memorials springing up on the nearest lampposts. What I used to do was to find one of these near to my house with a fresh looking bunch of flowers and take the name tag out and present them to my significant other.
Although what it was signifying was another matter!

Next time I hope I’ll be in a less misanthropic mood.

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February 7, 2015

Depression and Bells Palsy? What could possibly go wrong?

I could start by offering a similar warning to the one I offered here namely that “This is about MY personal experience of depression, how it makes ME feel and should not be misconstrued as advocating any course of action by any other person. Sorry about that, but there are some vulnerable people surfing the interweb and one has no idea who might stumble across this when they’re at an especially depressed state,” but since the amount of people subscribing to this is (barely) into double figures – and less than half of them are real people _- by that I mean NOT bloggers selling lifestyle / recipe / self-help nonsense – I don’t think I’ll bother. Not when this blog doesn’t feature high on any Google searches which means the chances of someone stumbling on this by chance are as remote as the creationist myth being anything other than trumpery moonshine.

Of the many things I’ve recounted in my blogs about my Bell’s Palsy, perhaps the most obvious omission is the most relevant. My mental health. Or, to be more exact, the lack thereof. When the villain in the last Bond film ‘Skyfall’ is captured, he recounts how after months of being tortured by the Chinese – and realizing that M had abandoned him – he decided to break open the cyanide capsule hidden in a tooth. Which didn’t quite do the job leading him to angrily point out, “Life clung to me like a disease.”. I know how he feels, because they may well have saved my life after the accident in the strict technical sense, but insofar as the practical day-to-day mechanics of life, what I’m left with is a cruel imitation of one. All I amount to now is loose change.

The Bell’s Palsy only worsens this, because not only does it highlight my own lack of fine motor skills – the ones that help your fingers distinguish between shaving your face or conducting an orchestra with the requisite precision needed for both – also by doing so, for an added confidence eroder, amplified my dependence on other people. The fact they do so selflessly and with good humour only makes it worse. At the hospital they gave me a prescription for eye cream; the fact that due to my lack of fine motor skills I couldn’t apply it was neither here nor there. Their records would show I’d been given a prescription for cream, told how to apply it and so they were in the clear.

However, as I alluded to in a previous blog, a hospital is perhaps the only place where less than bad news is interpreted as good news. My symptoms could easily been indicative of a stroke, so further tests could until conclusive proof to rule out that possibility, and until the results of a CT scan were known, I was outwardly as calm as one could be, but inwardly thinking, ‘Fine. If it is a stroke, we know exactly what we’ll do. We’ll enact the plan whilst I have sufficient function to do so’. The plan, it need hardly be said, is not a plan one communicates. Suicide is, when you take away all the emotion and break it down to its constituent parts, an achievable goal that just requires some thought. Mine has been refined such because I know it’s both viable and foolproof, I don’t dwell on it.

Meanwhile, back in hospital I just waited as thoughts – none of them cheerful – multiplied in my head like an aggressive virus. Not that my head is a good place to be at the best of times – and that certainly wasn’t the best of times. Winston Churchill famously called his depression ’The Black Dog’ and mine is more like Battersea Dogs Home. It has been with me ever since I woke up from the coma. Darwin, how I wish I hadn’t. But wake I did, and even though my waking thought some mornings is ‘Why did I bother waking up’ nonetheless I have a ‘functioning’ depression – one that gets me out of bed, partaking in my rehab (not the Amy Winehouse kind) and subjecting this on you. – rather than a’ debilitating’ depression where you can’t see the point of anything resulting in you not doing anything. Nevertheless, it is always there; sometimes more pernicious than others, but a constant unwelcome companion. And the irony is that due to the nature of my brain injury, most anti-depressant drugs are contra-indicated. Which in itself is depressing!

I don’t often write about my dark thoughts not just because it does me no good to do so, but also more importantly there are far more interesting things to occupy my mind. And therein lies the problem. To look at, I seem relatively normal. It’s only when I try to speak, or stand or do anything that requires smooth controlled muscle co-ordination, that one realises that the relative in question is a distant cousin I’ve never met. Never has the phrase ‘The mind is willing, but the flesh is weak’, been more apposite. My mind is as sharp as it ever was, but now the means of transporting it from A to B have been blunted.

When I was young – and not so young – when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, or what my ambition was, my reply was always the same. “Happy”. And this so isn’t happy. When I get in these moods, I think I should really take a long walk off a short pier. It all depends on the length of the pier, as unaided my walking is haphazard. And that in itself alarms me, writing about it so calmly. Worryingly calmly in fact. I know I shouldn’t. If anything, that exemplifies just how fubar the situation has become.
I endured childhood for this?

My childhood was a fairy tale. A Grimm one.

As I wrote earlier, whilst the depression has been with me since I woke up from the coma – and I have only a memory, of being happy, I have nonetheless learned how to live with it.

Despite, that is, not enjoying living.

So, in order to lighten the mood, a little musical treat for you, there being no similarities whatsoever between The Cures ‘Close to Me’ and George Michaels ‘Faith’.

Go on, hear for yourself.

Next time..Sports ‘news’ might well be an oxymoron but one that provides an easy to understand alternative to proper news….

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January 10, 2015

How Charlie Hebdo is distantly related to Nick Griffin…

I know that this is a rather ambitious claim to make in the light of recent events but bear with me and afford me the opportunity of making my case. After all, much has been written about the atrocity at the offices of Charlie Hebdo, not least that it was an assault upon free speech, so in the spirit of free speech I make the following observation.

It was widely suggested that the ability of cartoonists and anyone else that blows a satirical raspberry to lampoon the great and the not so good was itself under attack. It has also been argued that any attempt to curtail people’s freedom of expression is a fundamental affront to democratic norms which we in the west hold inalienable, a line in the sand which cannot be crossed.

Except of course when it can.

Free speech is easy to defend when you agree with what the person is saying or writing, but less so when you find what they’re expressing offensive. That is the dichotomy of free speech. If you believe in it you have to believe that it applies to everyone or else it applies to no one. As Voltaire said “I may not agree with what you say but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it”. This simple and rather obvious truism has been lost in the tsunami of words all championing free speech in the light of the murders at the offices of Charlie Hebdo.

If anything this championing of free speech displays an almost enviable amount of breathtaking hypocrisy in some sections of the media and some politicians. Whilst they agree with free speech, it is only the free speech of people they agree with. They have seemingly forgotten or more likely never heard of Voltaire’s maxim.

Some speech, it seems, is freer than others.

And now, for the first and I hope only time in my writings, will I call forth Nick Griffin as an example of how the critics of the attack on the offices of Charlie Hebdo were conspicuous by their absence in launching a robust and forthright defense of Nick Griffin. Early in 2009, you will recall, Nick Griffin, who was at that time leader of the British National Party and an elected member of the European Parliament, was invited onto BBC One’s Question Time. Cue inevitable media outrage and handwringing at this. Basically, it was felt that by giving Nick Griffin an opportunity to espouse his views – which incidentally I find abhorrent – the BBC were in effect giving him a platform that they shouldn’t have.

In all of this there were a couple of things that were conveniently overlooked. The first is that he was a democratically elected member of the European Parliament and no matter if you disagree with his policies or the way he chooses to express them, nonetheless the fact is that he had garnered enough support to win an election. The second more worrying aspect to all of this is that in attempting to deny Nick Griffin a platform to speak they were in effect handing him a tailor made opportunity to make the claim that ‘THEY don’t want you to hear what I have to say because THEY deem it so prejudicial to the established order of things because if you heard what I’ve got to say, you’d question everything.’ In effect that is precisely what one achieves doing when you prevent anyone from speaking. You make their silence so much louder than their words. His appearance demonstrated he should’ve been wearing a mouth nappy. So when I write that the atrocity at Charlie Hebdo is distantly related to Nick Griffin I am not comparing the two. The atrocity at the former is in no way comparable to the latter, but it is distantly related. They are two extremes of the same principle; one can’t defend one without the other.

Which leads me nicely on to Section 57 of the Crime and Courts Bill 2013, which replaced Section 5 of the Public Order Act 1986. Under the 1986 Act ‘A person is guilty of an offence if –
a) uses threatening, abusive or insulting words or behaviour, or disorderly behaviour, or (b) displays any writing, sign or other visible representation which is threatening, abusive or insulting, within the hearing or sight of a person likely to be caused harassment, alarm or distress thereby.

Under Section 57 the word ‘insulting’ was removed. Free speech campaigners saw this as something of a victory, whereas I would contend it was nothing of the sort because threatening or abusive behaviour is highly subjective and is not clearly defined What you might find as such I might not and vice versa. This led to the farcical situation where in 2005 a student protestor was arrested by the police for asking a mounted policeman “Excuse me, do you know your horse is gay?”

Or this, more recently, when someone accused Katie Hopkins of committing a hate crime by calling her fat. In doing so, she proved that the only thin thing about her was her skin. You might find that rude, but then, if you believe in free speech……

Next time…I’d try putting a brave face on my Bell’s Palsy, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve got temporary facial paralysis….

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December 22, 2014

My Christmas present to all (!) of you…Christmas Liffs…

As I in no way wish to dampen your festive mood, I present for your delectatation my own Christmas Liffs. Liffs are, as I’m sure you need no reminding words than describe a feeling for which no word yet exists, by using place names (These are all places in the United Kingdom I assure you!)

No doubt you’ll have heard of the phrase “As camp as Christmas and so for your added enjoyment, I suggest reading this while listening to the musical expression of that sentiment here.

A’Chill
What one gets from rashly agreeing to a Chila.

Acha
People on a Chlia clearly having a nauseatingly jolly time, which you think they’re purposely doing to wind people up

Acha Mor
People engaged in Chlia, obviously wearing presents.

Adlestrop
Realising that nobody has picked up hints dropped in the run up to Christmas about what you’d really, really want.

Alcol
When the life and soul of the party has had too much to drink and then becomes thoroughly obnoxious.

Azeley
The worried looks which express concern for the mental state of the teller of a Fanellan after a Fazerley.

Badcall
Leaving it so late that by the time you get to the buffet at a Christmas party, all that remains has been pawed, breathed and touched by everyone else, before they decided they didn’t want it.

Buck’s Green
A feeling of increasing jealousy that occurs when your partner is on the opposite side of a crowded room and watching them enjoying the company of an attractive stranger rather too much for your liking.

Bucks Cross
A Bucks Green that is magnified when, after being distracted by long Maunby, you cannot see either of them.

Chiia
The name given to the post Christmas dinner walk, which is claimed to “Be just the thing we all need!” but seldom is.

Chislet
Duration of the dilemma one feels about the probity of asking if the receipt has been kept for a present that is wholly not what you need, want or ever choose to own. Duration of which is proportionate to relationship with giver.

Chittlehampton
The feeling of nausea that is felt either watching someone sitting opposite you eating their Christmas dinner in messy and off putting way.

Dacre
When an someone experiencing a Alcol proceeds to boorishly holds forth on a subject on which they clearly knows nothing but which you have considered, reasoned and well thought out opinions and which you can defend articulately, so much so all you want to do is punch his lights out.

Edith Weston
The elderly friend of the family whom your never told exactly how and in what capacity they’re a friend of the family, as you only ever see them at Christmas.

Enochdhu
Stony and awkward silence that greets a joke that you found on sickipedia and that everyone else you’ve told it to found hilarious.

Fackenham
Exclamation frequently heard at supermarket checkouts when the grand total of the Christmas food shop is revealed.

Fanellan
An often repeated, interminably long anecdote concerning people whom you don’t know but whom nevertheless you are meant to find fascinating. Sometimes delivered by an aged relative, normally in a very tired and emotional state.

Fazerley
When the thread of the Fanellan has gradually drawn to end, although one isn’t quite certain, on account of increasingly lengthy pauses accompanied by wistful eyes and sudden bursts of laughter.

Feckenham
Frequently heard repeatedly and at full volume by householder one month after Christmas upon opening of a utility bill and realizing that your partner’s relatives had taken the invitation “to treat our house as your own” rather too literally

Foeck
Just before you enter a room, hearing a parent exasperatingly observe to your partner, “But darling, that’s what you say about all of them!” only for them both to become all smiles when you appear.

Freeby
Knowing that the relationship is only being kept alive just so you can get a free holiday, and you will end after Christmas. Until then, and for utterly mercenary reasons, you maintain the fiction of happiness to her them and their family.

Fulking
Moment when the pleasure one gets from an unexpected visit from relatives becomes irritation at them being in your house, and them showing no sign of leaving.

Funzie
A Fulking exacerbated by knowing you have somewhere much more enjoyable to go to and that the longer they stay, the less likely it is you’ll go.

Glamis
A female relative of advanced years that dresses in a manner more befitting someone at least twenty years younger and behaves accordingly.

Glenis
Male equivalent of a Glamis.

Gonalston
Playing Trivial Pursuit with members of your partners family who know rather too much about things you consider irrelevant.

Gospel End
The curious silence that descends on a gathering by osmosis when carol singers can be heard nearby.

Grimmet
Whereby food that really should’ve been thrown away by Boxing Day, mysteriously finds its way into sandwiches.

Gushmere
An awkwardly affectionate and long lasting welcome hug from which there is no extrication from, usually given by a Glamis or a Glenisa to an attractive partner of a much younger relation.

Hasings
Presents wrapped in a ham-fisted and slapdash manner, indicative of a being done in rush, suggestive of a recently being undertaken after Sheet

Herstonceux
A cook who believes that what Christmas dinner lacks is the wow factor. And therefore convinces themselves that condensed milk glaze for the turkey together with balls of stuffing with centers of sherbet is going to achieve this.

Hipswell
The embarrassing dance at Christmas party that a Glenisa does, after which he proclaims “Oh yes, I’ve still got it.” when he just proved the very opposite.

Hurtiso
Accident caused by rather enthusiastic pulling of a Christmas cracker.

Huish Episcopi
Being introduced to your partner’s distant Eastern European relative whose name sounds like a Latin name for an infectious disease.

Hynish
Suppressed rage when exhorted to open something you’d wanted to do either a Worthington or a Littleworth to.

Kippax
Assorted excuses to avoid partaking in a Chlia which conceal the fact that is one is perfectly content to slob out in front of the television in an agreeably comfy chair, where it’s warm, and where one possibly snatch a bit of shut eye.

Lagganlia
Regression common in adults when entering childhood homes

Littleworth
Effusive thanks that conceal the fact that an unwanted present of little financial worth will be re-wrapped and passed on next year

Mark’s Cross
Usually following a gonalston, saying to your partner later that you’d have a far better chance of winning if you’d been playing on your own, and when the conversation becomes an argument, rashly suggesting that they were “mental pygmies who’re as thick as a whale omlette”

Maunby
A pervading sense that you are stuck with the most boring person at a Christmas party.

Memus
The trepidation one feels throughout Christmas dinner when an aged relative repeatedly accepts brussell sprouts and cabbage.

Minnigaff
When the person who made the Terrible Down realises their mistake and brings the call to an end to preserve their own good humour

Morphie
Despite everyone sharing the same opinion of the Dacre, when you cannot take anymore and challenge him on every point, displaying a knowledge they lack, the Dacre inexplicably becomes the recipient of everyone in the rooms’ sympathy.

Nasty
The sudden and almost violent gag reflex one experiences upon entering a toilet which someone has recently done aTrumpington in.

Neaton.
Presents wrapped in an overly elaborate and neat way, suggestive of an O.C.D.

Netherhoy
The cheerily effusive Christmas greeting that one gives to neighbours that one quite happily ignores for the rest of the year.

Nevern
When you meet your partner’s parents for the first time at Christmas and immediately know from looking at them that marriage is so not going to happen.

Patching
The art of decorating a Christmas tree that is twice the size of the one you normally have, using the same decorations.

Patchway
Concealing a Patchway by only decorating the front of the tree.

Phantassie
The Christmas truce between a married couple that are on the brink of divorce agree to in order to maintain the fiction that all is well when out visiting.

Sexhow
Even though they know you live together, your partners’ parents have seen fit to put you in single bedrooms located at the opposite ends of a creaky wooden hallway, of which their bedroom is located in the middle.

Readymoney Cove
A person who notes the disparity between the value of gifts given and those received, causing them to think they’ve been the victim of a Littleworth

Runtaleave
The belief that one can plant this years Christmas tree in the garden when finished with and dig it up and use it again next year.

Raggra
The suppressed anger one feels when, having given individual presents to a married couple and their children, one gets one in return.

Shatterling
The interval between you unwrapping a Christmas present, wearing it, and then it being permanently and prominently stained.

Sheet
Person who leaves it until Christmas Eve to all their Christmas shopping.

Swaffham
Guests to a Christmas party who bring cheap alcohol and then drink much better quality alcohol throughout.

Terrible Down
A phone call made by a caller on Christmas Day, throughout which they have to repeatedly shout in order to be heard over the sound of boisterous party, to wish a Happy Christmas to someone who clearly isn’t having one.

Trashbush
The amount of alcohol required so that a Glamis will permit a Glenis who has earlier done a Hipswell to have sex with her.

Trumpington
The noxious, prolonged and inevitable percussive accompaniment that follows soon thereafter a Memus.

Worthington
Effusive thanks which conceal the fact that an unwanted present of financial worth will be going on eBay, as soon as one can get online.

….and whatever – and whoever – you do, enjoy it….

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December 11, 2014

Is Ebola doing to humans what humanity has done to the planet…?

Charity is a wonderful thing. Indeed so wonderful that one cannot say a word against it. Therefore I’m going to say quite a few words against it, specifically the Band Aid 30 single, ‘Do they know it’s Christmas’ (DTKIC) Leaving aside the rather obvious fact that the people currently suffering from Ebola are not likely to celebrate Christmas, there’s also the equally obvious fact that of course there won’t be snow in Africa this Christmas, mainly because there never is! (Although, actually, it er…does, as I discovered after writing that, only hardly ever and winter for us isn’t winter for them.)

And don’t for one second imagine I’m making light of the very serious humanitarian crisis that’s facing everyone confronting the horror of Ebola. However, what I am making light of is the somewhat patronizing attitude of some ‘pop stars’ – admit it, you have no idea who the vast majority of them are either – who under the guise of seeking to do the right thing, do the right thing by their careers. Oh what a happy coincidence! Only a cynic of the very highest order would suggest of course, that all of the artists taking part have a vested interest in being seen as concerned individuals who are doing their bit to help – hey, they’re just people too, they watch and read the same news we do – which is all very laudable as far as it goes.

However, let us examine the actions of Bono.

Whilst he exults everyone to try and make poverty history, certainly no one can accuse him of not practicing what he preaches, insofar as he’s made his own poverty history. This, after all, is a man whose estimated net worth is $600m. And has transferred for more advantageous tax purposes, any payments to him from Ireland to the Netherlands thus reducing the amount of tax he is liable to pay. I am not suggesting that he has done anything illegal in this, but one wouldn’t have to be cynic to point out that someone who channels their income through a more tax efficient country is hardly best placed to pontificate about the need to eradicate debt. They say ‘charity begins at home’, which for Bono must be something of a headache, because he’d got three of them (and they’re not too shabby either!) Mind you, fairs fair, it’s his hard earned money, it’s up to him what he does with it but…

Equally I cannot find any information about exactly how much from every sale of ‘Do they know it’s Christmas’ actually goes to help combating Ebola. Given that even if it was the full £3.50 – or 99p if you download it – it would still have to be a massive seller to make any substantial difference to charity. But the biggest selling record of this century sold 1,790,000 copies and if DTKIC equaled that, then it’d raise just shy of £6 million. Perhaps the assorted ear botherers’ could instead have each donated 1% of their income. That would have made considerably more money – Chris Morris time, only two minutes long this one! – and another thing, shouldn’t a charity single by definition, be given away for free?)

With this in mind one has to hand it to Adele, who was condemned in the press by Sir Bob for not taking part in his single. However it emerged that Adele had made a private and anonymous donation to Oxfam and that this was made in lieu of her taking part. Similarly Mark Zuckerberg (you know the Facebook bloke!), Zuckerberg faced criticism for not doing anything to help the victims of Ebola. Only for him to respond to that by pointing out that he donated $25m to the Ebola fight.

Lest you’re thinking I’m quite happy to criticize others but what has he done in the last few months? Well I’ve donated funds to the White Helmets – volunteers who race into bomb hit buildings in Syria to rescue survivors – so that they can purchase essential life saving equipment and I’d urge you to do the same and to ‘Save the Children’. I mention this only because when one considers my charitable giving as a proportion of my income –which is only benefits – I would contend that it’s much higher than Bono’s.

(Maybe Bono is heavily into charitable giving? He might be! And anyway, can’t you write it off as tax deductible?)

In a similar vein, one feels some sympathy for Katie Hopkins – the former Apprentice ‘star’ who was hired by ITV to be a controversialist on the This Morning programme. When she tweeted something entirely rational regarding Ebola – basically Ebola might be seen as a preventative check on population, citing the work of Malthus, – she was widely condemned on Twitter. But just not to be controversial or anything, but from a purely objective standpoint, when one considers the global population’s rate of increase and the effect on the planet, is it too far fetched to see what the Ebola is doing in Africa is small payback for what humanity is doing to the planet?

Equally there is the irony that this Christmas is going to be a boom time for retailers, with an estimated consumer spend of £90.7billion. This makes me think of Karl Marx, Robert Cialdini and Black Tuesday. Bear with me here. In his book, “Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion” Professor of Psychology, Cialdini identified six universal themes common to retailers to persuade consumers to buy. Scarcity was one such technique, by which he suggests that the less there is of something, the more we want it. This want, he elaborated, can be enhanced by time limited offers and discounts. And then one thinks of the chaotic pandemonium of Black Friday, where shoppers acted like savages in their desire to get a bargain. Given that, seven people have died in the U.S. during Black Friday bargain hunts, it puts a somewhat macabre meaning of, “It’s simply to die for, darling!”

Karl Marx predicted that the working class would become ‘the grave diggers’ of capitalism. Witnessing the scenes of mayhem over heavily discounted merchandise, one thinks not only that this capitalism at in its basest and simplest form, one thinks of the grave diggers Marx wrote about. And we spend more on sales than we do on saving lives. Indeed, shoppers are the grave diggers of capitalism.

Except that if you die of Ebola, your body has to be burned.

 

My next post will be altogether a lot jollier, as it is not the time one wants to think about less than cheery things, so it’ll be nothing more than a collection of Christmas Liffs. And as everyone wants to open their presents early, here’s a few….

Barmouth
The exact moment when the life and soul of the party has had too much to drink and then becomes thoroughly obnoxious.

Dacre
When a someone experiencing a Barmouth proceeds to boorishly hold forth on a subject on which they clearly know nothing about, but on which you have considered, reasoned and well thought opinions which you can defend articulately, so much so all you want to do is punch his lights out.

Fackenham
Name given to an expletive laden outburst traditionally heard at supermarket checkouts when the grand total of the Christmas food shop is revealed.

Feckenham
Name given to an expletive laden outburst by householder one month after Christmas, upon opening of a utility bill and realizing that that partners relatives had taken the invitation “to treat this house as your own” rather too literally.

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