जुस्त words

So an innocent and caring schoolteacher in the Sudan has been arrested and faces charges of Blasphemy and possible flogging or prison or both, and for what? Allowing her children to name a teddy bear with the name of a prophet.

It is no wonder that the world is in it's current parlous state, with the mediaeval and barbaric regimes that run one half of the world, and the bleeding hearts and Christians the other. The two "cultures" are so far apart that it is impossible to imagine that the two might ever meet, yet alone agree on anything other than arms deals and oil purchases. If there was a god, can anyone believe that he would, sorry she, would give the oil to one half and the intelligence to the other? Maybe, just maybe but she would require a sense of humour and be prepared to take all the flack at some time.

It seems that the days of free speech are gone. Even the Oxford Union is having problems allowing those with racist views to air their opinions. For goodness sake, an opinion is just that and surely in a civilised society, all opinions are allowed and should be aired and maybe even shot down in flames if necessary. To silence people simply drives them into an underground where their views can be cultivated and grow in an unchallenged way.

Tory politicians have been forced into resignation recently for airing non PC views. It seems that the only people to go unchallenged in their statements are members of certain ethnic groups, who, for whatever reason are feared by the rest of the populace. I am all for Tories resigning, but not for simply speaking their minds. Let them speak, or we run the risk of living in a society where it will be illegal to call a pet pig, Maggie.

Without freedom of speech a society cannot be called civilised, and the world must learn that before it is too late.

रेअदेर्स Block

I started reading The Red Dog by Louis De Bernieres - for some reason i can't get past the first few pages!

42

My life is pretty uninteresting on the whole. I guess most people think the same thing and our own existence seems trivial alongside those of people that we know.

I have spent a significant part of this morning sanding down walls in the hallway in preparation for painting. Needless to say that decorating wasn't my idea - it rarely is these days. Oh I know it will be ok when it is done but I just find it hard to muster enthusiasm. Now i am covered in dust and so is the rest of the house no doubt. My lungs feel a little clogged and goodness knows what i have been inhaling.

While i am doing this job, I don't much feel inclined to start anything else and I am beginning to seriously doubt my ability to focus on anything much. Even this normally meaningless drivel seems more so than usual.

Some days i yearn for something out of the ordinary to happen, but I am always reminded of the Chinese curse - "May you live in interesting times" I guess that I have nothing to complain about anyway. Guess I'll continue to live in my head.

Music

Yesterday I did something that I haven't done in many months. I played my all time favourite CD, all the way through. The Division Bell is in my opinion the best thing that Pink Floyd ever recorded. I know that It is not really the original Floyd and that Waters' cutting edge is missing but that is all beside the point. The point is that I played it and did not need to turn it off part way through.

Music is evocative and there are so many pieces that have so many memories for me. Some are bad memories and some are the reverse, but most of my favourite music I can link to places, people or experiences in my life. A song can take me back to a point in time and enables me to conjure, smells tastes and even fingertip memories. Some pieces I associate with terrible times in my life and of course I avoid listening to them as some things are best left buried.

The Division Bell falls into a strange and bitter sweet category and that is why I have avoided it for a while. However i am glad that I have taken this step and can rekindle my relationship with a piece of work that has been underrated by many Floyd purists.
I did notice though that the disc is getting worn, the box it broken and i may soon have to replace it. Maybe, thinking about it, that would be the best thing to do in any case.

?

One of my worst fears was realised today.

Wednesday used to be a turning point in the week and thanks to one who was a friend, I think of it as hump day, even though my life has few humps these days, mostly I am freewheeling down the long hill. Anyway it started out ok, and believe it or not, the sun shone for a while and I could actually leave the house. So i took the opportunity to go and see my old friend Liz. I haven't seen her in a while, partly due to weather and partly idleness on my part. Anyway, she is fine, at least no worse than last time I saw her.

When i came home i decided to catch up on one or two things that needed to be done. One of which was taking out the vegetable waste to the compost bin. I opened the lid and my heart sank as i saw the leaves moving. I poked and prodded the pile - I really don't know why I do it - and of course the inevitable happened. A rat the size of a small horse, leapt out of the debris and disappeared between the bin and the house wall. Now if you have read my blog you will know that I hate and fear rats, more than anything else. I'd prefer it to be occupied by a lion, and so my mind replayed the last rat v me scenario. The rat won every round and I eventually gave up and moved house. Now i have to face the same problem over again. First I'll buy a trap and the little swine will learn how to get the bait off it or how to spring it without being caught. I'll get my fingers trapped again and then I'll resort to poison. That will be thoroughly ignored, or my rat will be one of the supersods that are resistant to it and so I'll be feeding it at great expense, while it gets fat and laughs at me.

I was quite pleased with my attempts at composting and now I feel a little differently about even opening the lid. Yet another of life's joys has deserted me.

ps i wonder if boiling water would do the trick? Or should I hire a cat?

deluge

Today it is raining once more. The sky is grey and the ground waterlogged. I don't envy those that have to be out in it, especially those whose living depends on being in the great outdoors.

I am indoors of course and at present am sanding down the walls of the hallway. Dust is the order of the day and I am covered in it. Because i hate wearing a face mask, my lungs are pretty well inundated too, so no doubt I will pay the penalty for that at a later date. In between sanding sessions I take breathing breaks and dive into my study hoping not to take the clouds of dust with me. This is my bolt hole really and my access to the rest of the world. here I can sit and think, or sometimes just sit, and as long as there is electrical power i can communicate to people that I know and care about.

It struck me that as i blog away, there are plenty of others out there who at some time in my life have meant so much to me and yet now, i don't even know if they are alive or dead. In all probability many friends from the dim and distant past are no longer with us and to many, their passing has gone unrecorded. The same will happen with me. When i shuffle off this mortal coil, there will be some who will miss me, of that I am sure. But the majority of people that I have come across in my life will not even know that I have passed on, unless I have advance notice and can email some of them at least. But most of us die un-noticed by the majority of our friends and acquaintances and that is a little sad.

People drift into our lives all the time, most drift out again and may never leave a trace of their visit. Others stay and others still, leave and either take something with them or leave huge scars that are constant reminders of their passing. Everyone that we interact with touches us in some way, and in some cases people have touched me without ever having met in the flesh. Physicality is just a part of who we are, but the main part, the real us, is deeply rooted in the mind. It is the mind that collects the scars as well as the joys and the memories.

I am very lucky to have shared in the lives of some truly wonderful people. Many of whom will stay in my life as long as I breathe, and I celebrate the roles that they have played and the roller coasters of emotions that they have shared with me. None of them will be forgotten. Well not just yet anyway.

Even rainy days have their bright side.

थे रिंग ऑफ़ fire

I remember my first curry very well. I came from a household that not only had little experience of anything exotic, but who were negatively discriminating in their approach to anything foreign. My first curry, real one that is, was experienced in the Bombay Restaurant, located almost next to the King's theatre in Southsea. The year was 1967 and I think that the cost of the meal was around ten shillings. In today's money that is about fifty pence, and it seemed a lot at the time.

I had for some reason attended a drama course audition that evening along with a friend, and as things tend to, they got a little out of hand. Before i knew what was happening, I was being auditioned too and damn me if I wasn't given a part in Under Milkwood. My Pakistani impression seemed as close to Welsh as anyone else's attempts and I was suddenly a member of the dramatic society. We all trooped down through the older parts of Southsea and there i was initiated into the fine cuisine of the east. From that point i was hooked, and still am, on all things spicy and firmly believe that I suffer withdrawal symptoms if deprived for any length of time.

By today's standards the Bombay was pretty basic and would struggle to escape the eyes of the public health people. The walls in parts were spattered with strange stains and to this day, I believe that some were blood!

It was a denizen for students, but also for other local lowlife, and so there were periodic conflicts - let's face it, no-one likes students except other students, and so we were seen as the enemy by many locals. We were never deterred however and would frequent our equivalent of an opium den whenever we could afford it, and sometimes even when we couldn't. I remember walking the three miles down to the Bombay after midnight, to pick up a few poppadoms and some free chutneys, just because we felt like it. It became a home from home over the months that followed and we became known well by the management, who strangely, although we were students, seemed to like us. Maybe they saw us as fellow persecuted minorites.

In those days of course it became the macho thing to eat the hottest thing that you could. It was supposed to impress, I am not sure who it was supposed to impress but to climb to the heights of the hottest on the menu was the aim of some of us.

The Vindaloo was ok. Having graduated through, the milder Kormas, and byrianis, we weaned ourselved onto the Madras and the Dansak before attempting the Mighty slopes of the Vindaloo. The secret is to keep going once you have started. If you drink water or stop for a breather you are lost without hope, and many failed before the halfway stage. To complete a vindaloo is an achievement and it is not for the faint hearted. The tell tale signs that someone had had a vindaloo the night before was that the next day they did not emerge from the toilet until mid afternoon, and all one could hear were moans and groans emanating from the cubicles. The vindaloo bites twice and the second is far worse than the first.

I did try the main peak one day - The Tindaloo and was so drunk that I managed to finish it. The next morning is best not spoken of. Suffice it to say that I remembered the meal for several days.

There was one time when we were sober and enjoying a sensible curry, when some really drunken locals came in and ordered the Tindaloo. Or ears pricked up - we thought we were the only ones to attempt this. The meal duly arrived and we watched in awe as this guy, shovelled the food in without batting an eyelid. He called the waiter over and complained that it wasn't hot enough. Open mouthed we waited for the next event. Minutes passed while the plate was taken away, and then the waiter returned, followed by the kitchen staff who watched and waited for this guy to eat. He did so while everyone gazed on in some sort of bizaare admiration.

I often wondered how he felt the following day.

Tripe

I don't know what drives me to do things. I never know that, and the reason I say this is that I am listening to Leonard Cohen, Suzanne, a song that I love,and one that has so many memories attached to it. So why did i suddenly get the urge to write? I literally have nothing that I want to say. Many people think about our lenny, as i am sure no-one calls him to his face, as a dreary and depressing singer, whose songs are best taken with plenty of razor blades. Ok he tends towards the melancholy on occasions and yes i confess that I am feeling a little that way today, but that is ok and i know that by the time i have finished the first bottle of wine all will be different.

I spent a part of today designing a christmas card of all things. That could account for a lot. The only reason i do it is because most of the cards we send are so bloody awful, i get embarrassed to send them. Oddly I don't get embarrassed sending out my own designs but I try not to include the usual hypocritical and insincere crap that i associate with this time of year. My greetings are succinct and yes i do wish my friends well and hope that they have a happy 25th of december, but not just that day. What is so bloody special about one day in the year?

Len is now singing so long Marianne, he does it so well and his pain is so easy to feel. Only a man in real agony could write a song like that. Ironic isn't it that I should only have happy memories associated with him.

चरिटी बेगिंस अत होम

I have been asked to design some posters and flyers for the local community club who are asking the membership to dig deep into their pockets in order to raise money for some new windows. I will of course enjoy the challenge and produce something that will suit their needs.

It made me think about the fund raising that goes on all of the time now. It seems that there is never a day that is not devoted to some special case or another, and it is impossible to walk the streets without being collared for a donation to any charity that you can imagine. Has it always been like this? or are we suffering from a glut of open hands, applying a type of blackmail that eases money from many who can ill afford to part with it.

Many door to door collectors focus on the less well of as they know that they are more likely to get contributions from them. The National Lottery sells more tickets to those on benefits than to anyone else and I guess that is why, by and large that the poor stay poor and the rich don't!

I donate to charity and could probably afford to give more but i do find it wearisome when i get pleas through the post, over the telephone, people at the door, on the radio, on the TV, even for goodness sake in the pubs, where dubious people come around selling roses at inflated prices via a haze of emotional blackmail and alcoholic fuzz. When they have gone the Salvation Army come around with their Watchtower, hoping to prick the consciences of the merrymakers on a weekend night.

There must be more charity collectors than there are contributors, especially if you count the sellers of Big Issue and why is it, I'd like to know that they always have dogs and they all wear a neck scarf and they all look the same?

I know that most charities are functioning well and that they do a great job by and large but I just feel totally and utterly bombarded by the constant fire, to the extent that I hate to answer the phone or even the door - well it's my excuse anyway, So if you call and get no answer, I am working on the posters and can't hear you!

speed

For some reason the web seems very slow today. We have become very impatient and expect everything to happen instantly and no longer are we prepared to wait for anything. It seems that we all want everything and we want it yesterday.

As a child, I was brought up to be very patient. Partly through having spent a long time in bed, but also because we had very little to anticipate, and almost no money. In those days if you wanted something you waited until you could afford to buy it. No-one was foolish enough to lend you money and mostly it was a case of living hand to mouth. Expectations were low.

I fished a lot, largely as an escape, and in all weathers, i would wander the riverbanks looking for the elusive or even non existant big fish. They rarely appeared but it didn't seem to matter much. Time went by and eventually I guess i grew up. Some may argue that I never did, but I don't really care what anyone thinks anymore.

I have bought yet another computer. Not because I needed one but because I rather fancied one and besides, I may not be around by the time the next upgrade comes along and so I just bought it. Partly because it is bigger and sexier than the old one, but also because it is faster and will help me to do very little but I will be able to do it so much faster. It is still a Mac and has a lovely 24 inch screen, so I can see much more of the hardly anything that I do. Planning for the time when eyesight fails one might say.

So it is fast and powerful and yet I still want it to be faster and bigger and more powerful still. I do not yearn for a fast car or much else really but that extra speed could save me whole nanoseconds every day and just think of the use that I could put them to. Whoever said that life was futile?

remembrance

November is a time of remembrance, for Europe at large as well as for me personally. In November both my brother and my father died, and of course, on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month we remember those who died in wars that were meant to change the world forever.

I recently drove accross France to Germany, and on that trek along the pristine French Motorways, came upon frequent reminders of those conflicts as whe whizzed through the locations of ancient battles and historic sites that are forever linked with the tragic deaths of countless men and women. There is something very moving about the vast plots filled with identical graves, filled with the remains of persons mutilated and butchered in the name of ........ what exactly? Wars to end wars? It doesn't seem to work does it? Looking at the sheer numbers of dead, makes one grateful; to them for their sacrifice, though I guess many must have not been there through any choice, and grateful that I will never have to kill another human being in the name of someone else.

How many lies were told to those sent to die?

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas!Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent14 for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Reunions

Looking back over my blog history, I notice that I have been very inconsistent in the frequency of my entries. I am not sure why, though I guess that I have used this vehicle to gt things of my chest and by and large it has been of benefit. On the other hand there have been times when it has felt so utterly futile, and such a waste of time. However on balance I have to say that the plusses outweigh the minuses and I will try hard to get down to writing more.

I had got as far as College days, and I still see them as some of the most influential, if not happiest days of my life.

The re-union weekend went well and although the old college has long since gone the way of all things, the Halls of Residence are still there and still in use. Some sweet talking to the bursar, got us into the building and a very kind assistant gave us a tour, even letting us into our old rooms. How odd to stand in that room on the seventh floor, seeing a view that had changed little in all those years. The rooms had changed, not only did they seem smaller - they were smaller as they have added en-suite facilities that we never had. I think I preferred it the way it was, but then I would wouldn't I?

The city was much the same too, and many of the old haunts were still recognisable. We even had a Curry in the old Bombay Restaurant, no longer the Bombay but the food was excellent and the service wonderful.

Maybe in 40 years we'll have another reunion, but I don't suppose it will be in the same world.