Wednesday 31 August 2011

INTO THE DARK

And so the year ticks around and, with the inevitability that the clockwork universe brings to our tiny and insignificant human cycles, we are swiftly plunged into the darkness again with a summer fading fast and only the hope of another spring to drive us onwards. Sadly we are already probably well aware that the next time we step out of the dark, things will probably remain just as drab as they seemed to this year, and so it goes and so it goes.

I’m always amazed at how swiftly the dark mornings follow on the heels of the last cough and spit of August. It’s really like someone’s just switched the lights off and turned down the thermostat, and all on such an arbitrary thing as a date in the calendar. Sadly, this time of year brings with it a sombre and melancholy feeling in those of us who suspect that we might be SAD or possibly just far too overtired, and I find that, instead of bright reds and golds, the autumnal blues are upon me and all my thoughts turn to ash in my mind.

I have a number of pieces already formed and ready to share with the world, but I looked at them this morning and, inside my head, whilst they once might have seemed sparkling or witty or mildly interesting, they were now all worthless and dull and without the remotest speck of merit. It all suddenly looks as tedious as hell and yet I know fully well that, in the absence of anything brighter, any shiny nuggets of hope amidst all the greyness, eventually I will still present them simply because I have nothing better, and they will be seen and judged to be the pointlessnesses I believe them to be already.

Confirmation, affirmation. They’re all the same to me.

The brain is fogged by a sense of ennui and fatigue. The sense of illness persists and turns into doubt and the doubt turns into fear and so on and so on, ad nauseum.

I truly dislike it when the “real world” intrudes into my carefully laid plans. It makes me tetchy and rude and can generally leave me wishing that I could pull the curtains and tell the rest of the world to just go away and leave me alone but, because the world is the world and it forces me to engage with it whether I like it or not, instead I end up grumping around and managing to piss everybody else off instead.

It must be the time of year. The bizarro world of roadworks comes to haunt me as they pop up seemingly from nowhere. Where there once was none, suddenly they’re everywhere and in the most helpless and hopeless of places. When the roads were quiet, they were all clear of such things, but as they begin to get busier as the holidaymakers return and begin the slow process of paying for it and forgetting they had ever been away, suddenly the roads have all collapsed, or that new cabling needs to be laid or that gas main springs a leak and the red and white safety barriers and orange blinking lights leap into life like it is almost the anti-spring and my eyes behold a host of orange traffic cones. A short pop to the station now becomes a minefield of contraflows and temporary traffic lights and awkwardly formed queues where it hasn’t been quite thought through, and suddenly a simple task becomes a battle for survival and the spirits plummet in reply.

My mind turns to thoughts of the consequences of thinktankery and how those wise and foolish old heads of the work-wizards will conjure up their plans and schemes and pat themselves on the back for a thought well thunk, but never take into account the people who actually try to do the work and how they might already have enough to do without taking their bright new idea aboard and proving how hopeless it might be. Similarly the prestidigitators of the highways see a hole that needs to be dug and wave their wands and so mote it be indeed dug and, as if by magic, the traffic grinds to a halt and a million blood pressure levels soar towards the top end of the safety limits.

I finally make it back to my desk and discover more tales of magic and wonder from the bigger, wider, darker world. An 86 year old man impaled upon his garden shears becomes a headline for a while and I just wonder whether it intrudes upon his civil liberties for his x-ray pictures to be posted all over the internet. Is that not an infringement of the Hippocratic oath? Shouldn’t patient confidentiality forbid such things? Or did the poor old man sign a release form so that his tale could be sold to the news otherwise the shears were staying right where they were. Are we all to be bought and sold for the entertainment of others? If I am to believe what the giddy fools show me in today’s headlines on my television, then I can only conclude that we are indeed, and the darkness that falls outside is only matching the darkness I feel within.

Welcome to the dark. Somehow it suddenly seems the best place to be.


Tuesday 30 August 2011

A LIGHT ON THE FESTIVAL




It might be easy to mock when a flyer for the local September arts festival comes through your door, and the content doesn’t quite seem as thrilling, diverse or entertaining as some of the larger and more well known arts festivals that you might have heard of. I mean it’s hardly Edinburgh, is it, or even Hay-on-Wye…? It probably wouldn’t even cause the stout denizens organising the equivalent event in Buxton to tremble in their boots, but, bless them, they’re trying to make things more exciting around this forgotten little town, but reading through the list of exciting arts-related events happening once more during this year’s version on the familiar theme, I couldn’t help but wonder to myself how many of them would have been going on anyway but have somehow got themselves lumped in with the notion of a festival to make everything sound just that bit more exciting.

Ah well, I suppose it all makes for extra publicity for all the events featured, so it can’t really do much harm to any of their prospects for getting an audience.

Lanterns seemed, rather unsurprisingly, to feature strongly, but then they always seem to.

In fact when I mentioned that the festival events flyer had arrived, the first question was “Will there be lanterns?” to which the answer is, as always, “Yes, of course there’ll be lanterns” and, in a few short weeks time, the air no doubt will be alive with flickering flames as those very lanterns drift quietly, majestically and hopefully safely across the night air, unless there is torrential rain, that is. I do wonder whether, over the many years they have featured, any have drifted into a barn or a haystack as the “oohs” and “aahs” of the watching dozens have transformed into frantic diallings of 999.

You have to accept that lanterns play a large part in the whole event. The first four things listed in the pamphlet involve lanterns. Presumably this persistence implies that there haven’t yet been any lantern related health and safety disasters in the past, and so they will continue to feature strongly until the lantern-maker in chief decides to retire or, if they pass on their skills to another generation, possibly forever. There’s lantern making training, lantern workshops, a lantern procession and a workshop to make the lanterns to light the lantern procession.

We are, apparently, very big on lanterns hereabouts.

The second question asked after “Will there be lanterns?” tends to be “Are they fish lanterns?” to which the answer is more ambiguous. The theme this year is “nature” which makes me suspect that indeed, as in previous festivals, fish lanterns may feature quite heavily.

I rather suspect that someone is rather keen on the concept of teaching people how to make fish lanterns and somehow each year, they are encouraged to do so once more. Perhaps it really is the only collective creative activity that is possible in these here parts, or maybe there really is only one person hereabouts who is interested enough in getting people involved in doing anything much at all in a community spirited kind of a way, and they just happen to be a lantern maker. Either that, or the festival is actually just an annual one person vanity exercise for someone who owns a lantern shop.

But it’s not really fair to mock. After all, I’ve never attended one single festival event in all the years it has been going, and I’m sure it makes a lot of people, especially those with children to amuse very happy indeed, and I’m sure the flickering flames drifting through the autumnal evening makes more than one special memory.

Sadly, the rest of the events listed don’t exactly excite me very much or make me circle any dates in particular on my calendar, but not much gets me out of the house anyway these days. Ramblers’ walks, knitting installations and celebrations of the local football club hardly seem likely to stimulate the likes of me and seem aimed at an age group much older than I currently am. An open day at the allotments or an evening listening to the brass band won’t find me sitting snugly in their demographic either, as do very few of the church based events or the alternative health clinic.

It is after all an eclectic list. “Apple-focused fun” in the community orchard will probably not be Mac-related. Songs of Praise do not really tempt me, and I suspect there’d be much thanks for that raised up to the heavens by anyone who ever heard my attempts at singing. A tour of the hydropower scheme doesn’t strike me as being particularly “arty”, although the sciences are well-represented by “Exploding Custard” and other “awesome” do-it-yourself science experiments. A talk about lost railways and an evening hearing someone playing the 1914 Binns organ stuck out amongst the whist drives, book chat, craft shops, quiz nights and themed evenings at the restaurant, but all-in-all it sounds a pretty low-key affair.

I did wonder, just for a second, as to whether I should try to present one of my plays next year, but decided that I was hardly likely to motivate myself towards such a thing, never mind anyone else.

Oh, it would be so easy to mock. Maybe it would be too easy to sit around contributing nothing myself and mocking all that effort being made by others, and that energy put into it. After all, what do I do to enrich the world around me? Well done to them for trying. Well done to them for succeeding, and shame on me for all my failures.


Again.


Monday 29 August 2011

I11

Oh, I don’t feel well. You could say I feel positively unwell if that wasn’t an oxymoronic construct, but then I usually feel like a pretty moronic construct so there you are. I’m so tired but it’s not just that. The beloved went drinking but I woke up feeling like I had her hangover. Actually, I didn’t wake up at all. Not like I usually do. You could say I had a lie-in but it was less than that. The long-awaited holiday weekend is upon us but I feel lousy. Dog tired. Sleepy. This may have made me trawl my way around the murky depths of geekdom. The more I see of the world the less I feel part of it. The boots are made to fit. My “Full Moon” arrives and is a thing of beauty. Eighty pee and traveled half way around the world. Where’s the profit in that? How anyone could doubt our visit there is beyond me. Beyond faking. They’re idiots. The last “Hour” is stylistic but fails to live up to its promise. Somewhere in there is a fabulous series waiting to get out, but that wasn’t it. If it had been a longer series would it ever have been brave enough to just transmit a 1950s style episode in black and white? “Huffity Puffity, Ringstone Round”. Was it really just a period version of “Studio 60” anyway? “Beautiful Downtown Burbank”. Wilfred now just scares me. Everything scares me. I look across and fear I’m going to be left alone again. That scares me more than you could know. Twenty Twelve is funny but hits the same beats. Maybe the world outside is flooding my brain and trying to tell me something. Torturing my soul. How to get out of events without causing offence. Tired. Dozy. Dopey. I have to sleep. I need to sleep. No, more than that, I need to feel clean again. Forgot to take the pills this morning. Reading about Gemini spacewalks and Apollo accidents. I seem to have been on that book forever. Chipping away. Chopping up vegetables but the main ingredient isn’t there. Mental shopping list. Just write it down or you’ll forget. Improvise. Eat. End of “the Chocolate Factory”. “Fringe”. “Nelson to Seaview, come in Seaview…” the end of “Thunderball”. Connery ends five of his six “proper” Bond films in a boat, you know? So much to do today and none of it got done. Interesting that you can spot a 1960s boat just by the trimmings. Why aren’t film stars allowed to look like real people any more with all their flaws and blemishes and body hair? There’s a storm coming and its name is Irene. Hammond sitting in front of a blue screen in a room with no atmosphere trying to be amusing and failing. Ah Mels is Melody is River. Hitler is locked in a cupboard and stays there. “Apparently there’s this thing called summer when things grow, and a thing called winter where they don’t. Who knew?” Why do they try and make Rajesh Koothrappali seem such an unpleasant and obnoxious character nowadays? Jarvis never ages. If you pick a simple look for your hairstyle and clothing when you’re twenty and don’t follow fashion, you’ll always look the same and avoid having as many of those stupid photographs of yourself in your albums. All the musicians look like Primary School teachers nowadays, but the John Deacon always did look ever so slightly uncomfortable with it all. F-1-11. The world keeps turning and all those people seem happy but I can’t relate to the lives they lead. I don’t understand it. I feel apart from it. Removed from it. One day I’ll just be removed and it won’t make any difference to anyone very much. I can’t concentrate. The brain stumbles on from thought to thought and they all hurt. Wading through treacle. Wading through jam. Am I getting a cold? Do I have a cold? Where would I get a cold from? The limbs ache. My spine aches. The fatigue is crushing and overwhelming. Rest, I need rest. But the brain is ticking. Tocking. Ticking and it all feels fuzzy, detached, removed. There is no pain I am receding, my head feels like a balloon. There’s another bloody great spider to capture and remove. How do they get to be so big at this time of year? Into the soup carton and out into the cold wet night with you. Stagger to bed. Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire. Go to sleep, young man. Go to sleep.

Sunday 28 August 2011

COUNTING NEW WHOZZZZZZZ


Oh, what the hell…? I did say it had the air of abstract freeform poetry about it, so, after yesterdays idiocy, here’s a ridiculous way to remember all of “New Who” in order from 2005 up to the end of this latest lot. I suppose the principle would work just as well for remembering all the Beatles or Bowie tracks in order, if you were so inclined, but this weekend I'm embracing my inner geek...

Rose End…
Unquiet Aliens…
World War Three.

Dalek Game…
Father’s Child Dances…
Boom Bad Parting.

Christmas New…
Tooth School Girl…
Rise Steel Idiots.

Impossible Satan…
Love and Fear Her…
Ghosts Doomsday.

Runaway Smith…
Shakespeare Gridlock…
Manhattan Evolution.

Lazarus 42…
Human Family Blink…
Utopia Drums Last.

Voyage Partners…
Fires Planet Ood
Stratagem Poison.

Daughter Unicorn…
Silence Forest Midnight…
Left Stolen Journeys.

Next Planet Dead…
Waters End…
Part One and Two.

Eleventh Beast…
Victory Time…
Flesh and Vampires.

Amy’s Hungry…
Cold Vincent…
Lodger Opens Bang!

Carol Astronaut Moon…
Spot Wife Rebel…
Almost Wall.

Hitler Terrors…
Waited God…
Closing Wedding.

Saturday 27 August 2011

COUNTING WHOZZZZZZZ


Whenever I can’t sleep, I don’t spend any time counting sheep. My granddad once told me I should try to picture a blank blackboard but that’s never really worked for me in much the same way as those relaxation tapes that tell you to let various parts of your body relax have never really worked for me either, because I can never make that mental leap towards total detachment or successfully picture a mountain stream on a summers day, a meadow or a stream. The most thinking about a stream ever does is make me want to go to the loo again.

Some people choose to play mind games. Six degrees of separation or suchlike, connecting one random movie to another by means of actors common to both, but I find that this sort of thing only really boots the brain up into action and is just as likely to find me getting up to search the Internet Movie Database to solve the problem instead of letting me drift off into a trouble free sleep.

What I sometimes do to try to focus the brain is to attempt to list all the classic Doctor Who stories in order of broadcast because it’s quite possibly the only information hardwired enough into my brain enough for me to approach it like a mantra, dating as it partially does back to that much treasured “Radio Times Tenth Anniversary Special” printed when I was nine that still sits on a shelf between those photographic plates and held in place by that Acco Fastener passing through those sacrilegious holes I punched through my copy. Some people can list all the US Presidents, or the British Prime Ministers or all the State Capitals… well, with me it’s this, okay? It might be a bit sad, it might be a bit obscure, but you can only work with what you’ve got, can’t you…?

Sometimes the order gets a little vague, but there are 29 Hartnells to begin with, followed by 21 Troughtons, 24 Pertwees and 41 or 42 Bakers depending on how you feel about “Shada”… If I’m still awake after that there are 20 Davisons, an indeterminate number of (Colin) Bakers that is either 8 or 11 depending upon how you decide the “Trial” should divide, and a dozen McCoys to round it all off.

After that, there’s the McGann movie and you get into the tricky world of Eccles, David and Matt which is probably hard-wired into minds a lot younger than mine, but hasn’t quite sunk in to my aged synapses. Mind you, at least these newcomers don’t have all the ambiguity about titles that those of us in the sadder, older generations had. Those stories having individual episode titles and their use in that very special magazine I mentioned put an awful lot of worms into an awful lot of cans for future generations to pointlessly debate.

The story titles I use are the ones I use, and I’ll cut them down anyway in my own mental shorthand when I’m trying to list them as I’m failing to doze off. Hey! It’s my head, I can do what I like, but, believe it or not, such things can still provoke furious debate amongst the more vocal parts of the fan community (you know - the ones who sound like they hate everything to do with this mad TV programme they claim to like…). My favourite fandom story is still the one about the fan who tried to sue BBC Video for false advertising because they had edited out a few seconds of the black screen during some fades to black and yet were advertising the tapes as being “complete and unedited” and, despite not one frame of the actual images or dialogue being lost, he felt this was an outrage…

Okay, here we go… Hartnell starts off easy enough with “Unearthly”, “Daleks” and “Edge of Destruction”. There’s a lot of 1960s “Who” missing from the film archives, so the general air of unfamiliarity of some of them means that I really have to think hard to get the correct transmission order, but the first year or so is vivid enough in my head. It might be all those plotlines linking into the next story from the days when the series was still an unfolding adventure, or just because a lot of it is fortunately still around, or even maybe just because the swinging pendulum between stories set in the “future” and the “past” helps to make the pattern easier to recall, but putting year one into the correct order is easy. “Marco”, “Marinus”, “Aztecs”, “Sensorites”, “French Revolution”, with “Planet of Giants” and “Dalek Invasion” kicking off year two.

Once grand-daughter Susan’s gone and run off with her resistance fighter boyfriend, she’s replaced by Vicki, the space girl from the future, who turns up in “The Rescue” before there’s a run of  “Romans”, “Web Planet”, “Crusade”, and “Museum” up to “The Chase” where Ian and Barbara return to 1960’s London at last. Peter Purves becomes a companion called Steven Taylor for “Meddler” and “Galaxy Four”… and that’s season two over and done. Year three starts with a sequence of “M”s that gives future girl Vicki a life in the ancient past – “Mission”. “Myth”, “Masterplan”, and “Massacre” which brings in Dodo, followed by a tricky little sequence which goes “Ark”, “Toymaker”, “Gunfighters”, “Savages” and “War Machines” which introduces the fab and groovy pair that are Ben and Polly. “Savages” is the tricksy one as it’s almost so obscure that I nearly always forget it, although it does see the mighty Purves depart just a few weeks ahead of the soon-to-be-extinct Dodo.

William Hartnell bows out with “Smugglers” and “Tenth” at the start of year four, with Patrick Troughton taking on the mantle for “Power” and “Highlanders” where Frazer Hines as Jamie joins up to jostle for screen time with Ben and Polly. Then there’s a run which I can never seem to get right in my head unless I really think hard about it, which goes “Underwater”, “Moonbase”, “Macra” and “Faceless”, probably.

After Ben and Polly are history, we’ve got screaming Victoria on board for a set of stories that gets muddled in the middle because of all the ones set in snowy wastelands. “Evil”, “Tomb”, “Abominable”, “Ice”, “Enemy”, “Web” and ”Fury”. Wendy Padbury’s Zoe is then aboard for another run that’s awkward to get in the right order but which goes “Wheel”, “Dominators”, “Mind” and… er… well I know it finishes with “Seeds”, “Space Pirates and “War Games”, but is “Invasion” before “Krotons” or after? Some day I’ll try and work out an easy way to remember that…

Still awake?

Into the Jon Pertwee years then, and it’s really a doddle from now on right through to the Colin Baker years where there’s a tricky memory lapse as to whether “Two” is before or after “Mark”. There are four with Liz Shaw, “Spearhead”, “Silurians”, “Ambassadors”, “Inferno”… then Jo Grant tags along for “Terror”, “Mind”, “Axos”, “Colony”, “Daemons”… “Day”, “Curse”, “Sea Devils”, “Mutants”, “Monster”… “Three”, “Carnival”, “Frontier”, another “Planet” (of “The Daleks”) and “Green”. This is starting to gain the air of abstract, freeform poetry. Sarah Jane arrives in “Warrior”, there’s another “Invasion” (of “Dinosaurs”), “Death”, “Monster”, “Spiders”… Now it’s the mighty Tom with “Robot”, “Ark”, “Experiment”, “Genesis” and “Revenge”… “Zygons”, another “Planet” this time “of Evil”, “Pyramids”, an “Invasion” of the “Android” persuasion which finally sees off Harry (and his duffel coat) first seen in “Robot”, “Brain” and more “Seeds” of “Doom” not “Death”… (It’s got a rhythm and sinister beauty all of its own, this stuff, don’t you think...?).

“Masque” and “Hand” see off Sarah Jane (for a while), an “Assassin” is faced alone, then we meet Leela for “Face”, “Robots” and “Talons” are followed by “Horror”, “Invisible” (introducing K9), “Image”, “Sun Makers”, “Underworld” and another “Invasion”, this time “of Time”… sees Leela left on Gallifrey. Then there’s the whole “Key to Time” saga with Romana 0.1; “Ribos”, “Pirate”, “Stones”, “Androids”, “Kroll” and “Armageddon” followed swiftly by a switch to Romana 0.2 for “Destiny”, “City”, “Creature”, “Nightmare” and “Horns” and you can decide whether or not to include “Shada” here before the final run for Uncle Tom which goes “Leisure”, “Meglos”, “Circle”, “State”, “Warriors’ Gate”, “Traken” and “Logopolis” which see Romana and K9 disappear and first Adric, then Nyssa and finally Tegan all arrive to clog up the works.

The lids are finally starting to flicker now as Peter Davison takes over with “Castrovalva”, “Four”, “Kinda”, “Visitation”, and “Orchid”. “Earthshock” sees Adric finally going splat before a “Flight” comes along… “Arc”, “Snakedance”, “Mawdryn”, and “Terminus” finish off Nyssa but introduce Turlough, “Enlightenment”, “King’s” and “Five”… “Warriors”, “Awakening”, “Frontios”, and a “Resurrection” sees off Tegan to a happier place, “Planet” (of “Fire”) and “Caves” bring Peri aboard but send Peter Davison on to pastures new.

Uncle Colin’s in charge now for a brief run including “Twin”, “Attack”, “Varos”, “Mark”, “Two” (if that’s the way around they go), “Timelash” and “Revelation”. The long, long “Trial” is next, although that could also be thought of as being “Mysterious”, “Mindwarp”, another “Terror” and “Ultimate”. Those stories swap the teenage boy fan’s favourite pin-up Peri for Bonnie Langford, before Sylvester McCoy nicks Colin’s keys for his dozen stories which go “Time”, “Paradise”, “Delta”, “Dragonfire” (where Bonnie runs off with a bit of space rough and slightly hip street kid Ace takes over), “Remembrance”, “Happiness”, “Silver”, “Greatest”, “Battlefield”, “Ghost”, “Fenric” and “Survival” and finishes off twenty six years in barely seven paragraphs although I’m hopefully fast asleep before I reach that point or else I’ll be wrestling with the whole new set of memory problems that the new show brought with it, not least the fact that I sometimes forget about some of the episodes completely.

Well, that worked, didn’t it? If I’m not asleep yet, I’m sure anyone reading this strange insight into the whirring cogs of my mind now is. I still don’t really know how my head got so full of this stuff, but it does, at the very least prove that, sometimes, having a mind full of useless information really does have its uses, however obscure those actual uses might be.

Incidentally, if you want a rather fabulous “non-fan” take on watching old “Doctor Who” right from the beginning of the black and white days, this http://bit.ly/jtGCvn is rather fabulous if you like that sort of thing, and this “alternative history” http://bit.ly/rdC1Vi is just hysterical (if you prefer that sort of thing instead…).

Sleep well.


Friday 26 August 2011

A BAZAAR EXPERIENCE


After a couple of days watching television coverage of a certain sector of society’s idea of “shopping” which seemed to basically involve smashing a window and grabbing whatever they could, it was rather nicer to stroll into a supermarket a few evenings later and see the more normal understanding of a retail transaction taking place. People were queuing up at the checkout, putting their choices onto the conveyor belt, allowing the checkout staff to bleep it through and actually paying for it.

For a moment there, it began to look as if this was going to become an unusual event when the mob had taken it upon themselves to rob from the whole of the community, sometimes with no apparent sense of the actual understanding of the monetary value of the stuff being nicked. Whilst I can kind of understand why someone on a limited income could see the appeal of getting themselves a “free” TV set that they might struggle to afford under more normal circumstances, seeing someone nabbing themselves a multi-pack of potato crisps from a “pound” shop does rather confuse me.

Mind you, the English have always leapt at the chance of a bargain, even if that bargain isn’t really a bargain at all. Why else have those so-called “pound” shops become so popular? We seem happy enough to accept that something is crap just as long as it’s cheap crap.

Shopping experiences in different countries can seem very bizarre no matter what bazaar you happen to be tempted into. American shopping always managed to catch me out due to my misunderstanding of local taxes. In a lot of cases, the price on the ticket isn’t the price you pay because the local “sales tax” is added at the checkout. Coming as I do from a country where the price on the ticket includes the centralised VAT in the price you see, this always manages to throw me a little, as I can never quite work out how many dollars are going to get taken from me. Add into that the bizarre vaguaries of the exchange rate charged to your credit card and that “nice little bargain” can end up costing you an arm and a leg.

However, I still prefer that system because I actually understand it. Comparing it to my rather pathetic experiences in the Souk last year whilst traveling in the middle east, it at least made a kind of sense. This is not to denigrate the systems in place over there for a moment, it’s just that if it’s not what you’re used to or have grown up with, you can very quickly start to feel a bit like a rabbit trapped in the headlights of an oncoming juggernaut.

Strangely, I really feel intimidated by a system where you simply don’t know what price you are expected to pay rather than simply having to guess. It bothers me. Already you are in an unusual mental place by trying to calculate the exchange rate in your head as it is, but you can very quickly start to convince yourself that the local currency is merely Monopoly money and lose all track of what you’re actually being asked to pay. All the flattery and schmoozing that seems part of the process doesn’t help when you’re being offered a cup of refreshing local tea and a few jokes to guilt you into hanging around. Add into that the need to possibly offer a paltry counter-offer, the sort of thing that a dyed-in-the-wool traditional idea of a typical Englishman might consider socially “awkward”, and you know that you are going to walk away with some goods you’ve paid far too much for and feeling wretched about it, if you’re that kind of person. Wealthier, more self-confident folk seemed to stroll away positively skipping at having put one over on the locals, and I didn’t much enjoy seeing that happen, either.

You see, there is such a lot of abject poverty to be seen in certain quarters of these countries, it seems churlish to resent putting a few more pounds than necessary into the local economy. After all, the money you manage to save might be as little as you might pay for a round of drinks at the bar, but could keep an entire family fed for quite some considerable time. One of the most bizarre things you can see in the bazaar is an obviously wealthy tourist attempting to barter by offering the kind of pittance for an obviously quite valuable item that might appear to be an insult if someone offered it to him for something like a Mars bar. Sometimes the disconnection from the way things work in the “real world” back home is unbelievable.

Unhappily, I returned from my own shopping spree with sense of having a rather bad taste in the mouth, knowing that I’d been taken for an fool and paid far, far too much for the tat I’d acquired. Happily, later on that same day, someone with a lot of local knowledge took pity on us, took us under their wing and escorted us through an exciting evening in the Souk which not only taught us a lot and made us feel a lot happier about how the whole system actually worked, but left us feeling a great deal happier with regard to our entire opinion of the country we were guests in.

Still, no matter how intimidating I found that experience in the bazaar, I would still prefer it to being faced with the kind of mob rule that was on display in my own country recently.


Thursday 25 August 2011

JOB SATISFACTION, NOT LEMONADE AND PERFECT RAINBOWS

It turned out to be an odd evening, really. Not exactly an evening of “miracle and wonder” as the songs might have put it, but a decidedly odd one nevertheless. Small incidents combining to weave a textured web, you might say, or perhaps just nothing very much at all.

If life gives me lemonade...
I'll still manage to turn it back to lemons
In the first instance I went to the supermarket to do the weekly grocery shop for my mother and did my usual trick of grabbing a sandwich and a drink, which we might just have to call my evening meal. No miracles there, and my Cajun Wrap was never likely to have to be called upon to feed the five thousand, but my usual lemony drink, “This Water”, had sold out, so I reached for what seemed to be the next best thing, the “Still Lemonade” and popped that into my trolley instead, and went on my way.

A few minutes later, I was at my mother’s house and the groceries had been put away, and I had settled and devoured the remains of that helpless spiced chicken, and drunk my lemonade and, because it’s the slightly more interesting thing to do sometimes, I started to read the label to my drink bottle. I was rather surprised to find out that what I thought was clearly a bottle of still lemonade was actually “A refreshing blend of apple, sweet grapefruit and lemon” which all sounds rather lovely until you remember that the pills I take every day expressly forbid the drinking of grapefruit juice and that I have avoided that particular citrusy delight for more than two years now.

I made a point of hanging on to the bottle, after all, you never know what information might be useful when you keel over and they’re whisking you away to the emergency room, do you? Perhaps, I thought, I would be dying of ignorance and mislabeling (Although that couplet from “Horrible Histories” did start to echo around my brain: #“Stupid deaths, stupid deaths, they’re funny ‘cos they’re true. Stupid deaths, stupid deaths, hope next time it’s not you! He-heh!!!”#) but, in the end, there was, rather naturally, nothing to be really alarmed about, and so that was a tiny miracle of sorts, I suppose.

In the car later, still wondering whether that strange feeling in my gut was the result of impending grapefruit-related doom, or just indigestion from eating my sandwich too quickly, we swung into the car park of the local D.I.Y. Superstore to look for a few bits and pieces because there is, after all, a bank holiday weekend about to occur. The talk was of H.R. departments and annual appraisals and how the “bean counters” nowadays like to streamline departments into areas of speciality and, in the process, somehow remove any and all of the variety and interest in an otherwise mundane way of working away your years on this planet.

Sometimes, I decided, it is worth reminding these people that some people do actually try to get some kind of job satisfaction from the work they do, and if you remove all the interesting bits, you might just end up losing the person who so willingly does it and find yourself scrabbling about looking for a more reluctant somebody to take it on instead. Then, of course, I rolled into the D.I.Y. place which was full of  people looking precisely as if they’d rather be working anywhere else and realised that this was where many of those “streamlined” out of their interesting jobs had ended up.

“At least”, I mulled over to myself “They are not the children currently coming up with “brilliant” ideas like having the elderly be prompted to take their pills via their smartphones…” My mother had mentioned hearing about this rather ludicrous sounding idea on her radio whilst I was reading my “killer” label, and it seems to be the kind of suggestion that could only be made by a tech-savvy youngster about a lifestyle they will know nothing of for another fifty years when trying to cut costs and make savings.

Many, many years ago, I used to do a bit of cartoon work for the Department of Age and Cognitive research at the University of Manchester, usually trying to demonstrate how young engineers and designers seldom designed their shiny new devices for use by the elderly, despite them being a growing sector of their potential market for these goods. For example, back in those days, video machines required the operator to crawl around on the floor and adjust the tiniest of buttons and read tiny little text in order to follow complex routines and programme them, at a time when the biggest potential sales group were precisely the kind of people most unlikely to want to crawl around on floors and deal with tiny, fiddly buttons and suchlike.

Maybe another miracle will happen when someone finally realises that those grey haired folk currently shuffling around the aisles of the superstore might be better off working in the think tanks because they know a few things, and the whiz-kids should spend a few weeks cruising the aisles and learning a little about life in the real world.

Anyway, I left the D.I.Y. Store and was greeted by another miracle, something that, in many ways, became the quintessential symbol of a miracle as, beyond the car park which has a perfect panorama of the entire town, the perfect full arch of a rainbow had formed, picked out perfectly against the dark skies beyond, and, at that precise moment, a beam of sunlight picked out an aeroplane on final approach. This time, instead of savouring the miracle, I was merely left to wonder why I never seem to have my camera with me at those moments.

Later on in the evening, a (relatively) huge spider had a miracle escape of its own when my foot just caught it as it crossed the kitchen floor. Wondering what I’d trodden on, I looked down to where it had been, only to see it scuttle off towards the bin. Happily, I was able to trap it in an old soup carton and deposit it outside, and I was left once more to wonder about the complex web of incidents making up my evening.

At least it didn’t bite my toe.

Images from old comic-books of radioactive spiders nibbling into unsuspecting innocents and turning them into night-time crime-fighters flooded my brain  (#“Spiderfoot, spiderfoot”#), but when I woke up I found that I was still unable to climb the walls with my suddenly adhesive fingertips, or swing  from a thread of my own making. On a happier and (possibly) more realistic note, I hadn’t developed eight legs either, and more importantly, hadn’t found my toe had swollen up like a grapefruit, so that’s another miracle escape, if you want to think of it like that.

Wednesday 24 August 2011

ON CRACKLES, TELEPHONE ENGINEERS AND PHARMACIES

In much the same way I find myself wondering why do people driving those huge 4x4 vehicles just seem to assume that you will get out of their way, without seeming to take into account whether you can get out of their way, yesterday I tried to get to the pharmacy just as it opened to get my monthly supply of pills, only to be barged (or nowadays should that be powerboated?) out of the way by an iPod wearing girl who seemed oblivious to the world surrounding her.

As the door was unlocked after a brief but necessary wait, she blatantly ignored the rest of us, most of whom had been patiently waiting long before she sauntered up, opened the door as it was being unlocked, entered ahead of everybody else, and stood expectantly in front of the counter, earpods still in place with that flint-like look in her eye as if she was daring the world to ignore her.

It was as if none of the rest of us queuing up there even existed.

This, I suppose, is how people are taught that the way to get on in the world is nowadays. Take what you want and ignore everyone else and you’ll be successful. I blame reality TV shows myself, but then, don’t I always?

Thankfully, the assistant whom I had previously spoken to through the glass of the door when she apologised for not opening up on time because there wasn’t yet a pharmacist present was savvy enough not to fall for that old trick and served me first anyway, despite the elderly lady behind me who had had tried the old “I need to get through for a pen” ruse which nobody else held any truck with either, leaving her to slink back towards the back of the queue in shame and disgrace, or whatever else it was she was feeling. I suspect she really just went back with her pen and filled in her prescription, but sometimes I do like to over dramatise things.

For similar reasons, I like to think that the young girl was so desperate to get her “morning after” pill that she was completely focused upon her own plight, but I suspect that, in reality,  we just live in a country that is getting ruder. Strangely enough, I like to imagine that I would have had the good grace to be polite enough to let her go in front of me anyway as she was first into the shop had it not been done so blatantly and brazenly. As it was, my irritation mode was engaged (isn’t it always…?) and heels were dug in and I left feeling vindicated if just a little bit cautious that the fates were going to take their revenge and pounce on me and make me wish that I’d stayed put for the extra five minutes and avoided the inevitable consequences of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Anyway, for whatever reasons, I got home safely, despite the huge 4x4 that just about gave me time to pull into my parking space before barging its way along the road as if nothing could possibly provide any obstacle. You may have already noted that this incident also vexed me a tad.

I got into the house to find that, in-between intermittent bursts of line death, an email had made it through the connectivity minefield to inform me that I needed to call the phone company again because, despite all the evidence to the contrary, they were still insisting that my telephone line was working perfectly.

I called the customer service number again and once more spoke to a pleasant gentleman in Bangalore, India who managed to retain his easy-going manner despite any resentment he might have held because of recent unbearable results on the cricket field that one of our countries might have committed upon the other. He accepted that the line was indeed almost unbearably crackly and finally agreed that an appointment should be made for an engineer to call. Of course, this was with the proviso that should any of the problems by the fault of my equipment, hefty penalties would have to be paid. Sadly, my insistence that emailing me might just be a little bit pointless at the moment didn’t seem to get through the many crackles, and so he persisted with taking an email address to confirm the appointment, even though there was a less than 50/50 chance that I’d be able to read it. Mind you, that’s been a bit of an issue lately in many areas of my life; I’m ringing to report a fault on my broadband line and the pre-recorded voice keeps insisting that I should visit the website to deal with it.

Hmmm…

See my recent posting on why I really need to get a smartphone…

Still, the efficiency of the mighty telephone company swung into action, and a prerecorded message duly appeared on my message service, which, I was able to decipher between crackles confirmed that the engineer would be with me that very afternoon, and, at ten minutes before the appointed five hour window of opportunity, and against all my expectations (which, as you’ll know, are seldom high), the engineer rang and told me he would be with me soon.

Again, I think that’s what he said, but with all the crackling, it was hard to be sure.

“Soon” in a “waiting in for service personnel to call” sense can usually mean anything, I’ve found over the years, but, ten minutes later, the engineer was upon my very doorstep and, happily for me, was already telling me that the cabling he could see outside had perished and that this was therefore their problem and there would consequently be no charge.

Joy and indeed rapture!

An hour and a half later, both the engineer and the crackles had gone and I was left to reboot all my systems with the renewed hope that all would now be well, and indeed all my telephone calls were suddenly crystal clear and crackle-free. Well I say “all” but there weren’t all that many, to be honest. There rarely are.

Meanwhile, the broadband was kicked up and… remained unbelievably slow. Consistently connected, at least, but painfully chuggy. I find myself looking fondly back with rosily-tinted lenses upon the days of dial-up, when I did, at least, expect things to be this slow, but I suspect that I’m just going to have to accept that, despite all your best efforts, you can’t have everything, I suppose, no matter how hard you try (This explains, by the way, why these ramblings are currently coming to you unillustrated with anything to break up the monotony of the dull dry text, but, sadly fails to explain why the text is currently and consistently remaining so dull and dry). Greater problems, it would seem, are being dealt with in unknown rooms somewhere. Maybe the copper cables have been stolen by opportunist metal thieves, or perhaps someone else more appealing and forceful of character and will has jumped the queue, or, quite possibly, the driver of a bloody great big 4x4 has finally realised that the roads aren’t actually quite big enough for them to be able to avoid using their brakes all the time and they’ve careered off into a telephone cabling substation causing untold havoc hereabouts.

I suspect none of these three possibilities is true, but then I did admit earlier to a tendency to over dramatise, but hopefully normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.

If the all the idiots in the world will let it, that is.

Tuesday 23 August 2011

NUMBER ONE


So, the England (and Wales) Cricket Test Team have finally made it to the very top of the test rankings after a long hard slog from the very lowest of levels, and are, at least until South Africa play again in a few week’s time, the number one side in the world, and the team to beat. They even have the I.C.C. Mace to prove it, and, even though statistically it was already the case a week ago, I suppose it’s nice to finally have the proof to roll off the mantelpiece.

After thirty odd years of watching and listening to the various versions of that particular team being rather rubbish, or at the very least, seldom living up to expectations, I suppose that it is a rather satisfying feeling to now have, even though the true pessimist in me knows that the only way to go now is down…

Strangely now, after gaining all this surprising momentum (and to we dyed-in-the-wool followers it is truly a surprise that defeat hasn’t, for once, been snatched from the jaws of victory) they won’t play another test match for more than four months which, for even the best of us, would probably leave everyone feeling a little rusty when they strapped on the pads again and went out to face the first ball.

Still, for those of us who find such things an entertaining distraction despite so many of our friends and colleagues trying to tell us how “really boring” it is (an opinion that I now find so “really boring” in itself that I can’t be bothered arguing with it any more…), there’s still plenty of cricket to be enjoyed before the Autumn chill finally sets in and the willow and leather have to be stashed away until springtime.

There’s a whole series of one day international coming, and anyone who thinks that India, as the current world champions, are likely to be just as much a walkover in that format might be in for a rather rude reawakening. England (and Wales) seem to have always struggled in the one-day game and, to be perfectly honest, I’m not expecting that to change any time soon. After all, despite a lot of people not realising it, the skill set, concentration and ability required for the five day version of the game are simply not the same for a one-day match, or indeed a Twenty20 one either. They are about power and speed whereas building a test innings requires a different kind of thoughtfulness and guile. I’ve really not taken to Twenty20 at all myself. All that “razzle-dazzle” and the shouting and the music just doesn’t say “cricket” to me in the way that the clunk of leather upon willow and a gentle ripple of applause on a lazy summer’s afternoon does, but I know that it’s an outdated point of view in this era where spectacle and performance seems to mean everything.

So it is with a heavy heart that today I wake up and realise that already the last day’s test cricket of the summer has come and gone, and for me that can only mean the onset of Autumn and the gloomy days of winter to follow. I know there’s still a lot of play left in the season, but for me the year is now pretty much over and, like the morning after a particularly riotous party (not that I’ve experienced too many of them) it’s all over bar the clearing up. That said, the actual morning after had that slightly autumnal feeling in the air which, whilst it’s difficult to describe why, always leaves me with a slight sense that we’ve reached a “proper” and “grown up” time of the year, and it’s time to get practical and down to business. In some ways, despite the loss of having no cricket on the radio to ease me through the longer, duller days, it still manages to remain one of my favourite times of the year.

The distinctive rhythms of “Booker T” will sound again to introduce T.M.S. of course, but there’s always a little melancholy connected to the knowledge that I’m hearing the tune for the last time in a test match context for the year, and so, despite all the eventual celebrations, it did still feel a slightly melancholy day to me, which probably says more about my shortcomings in the “happy-go-lucky human being” stakes rather than anything else.

It was rather sad, too that Sachin Tendulkar, the so called “little master” failed once more to get that increasingly elusive 100th international hundred that has been so much anticipated throughout both the world cup and this summer’s test series. Ah well, there are still plenty of chances left, what with the one day series coming along, and despite him being at the tail end of a long and magnificent career, surely his date with destiny can’t be too far away.

It’s also very unusual, and one of the quirks of language I suppose that someone worked out that “Sachin Tendulkar, little master” is an anagram of  “Still at the centuries landmark” which is both a perverse thing for someone to take the time to work out, and massively ironic, given the circumstances.

But it remains a strange game that can cause the most unusual things to happen. It’s pretty certain that non-cricket fans, or even those coming to it new after hearing about the recent successes, might still be surprised that a team that have proved themselves so adept at one form of the game might still prove themselves rather hopeless at another. I only hope that if that is the case for England (and Wales) later on this year, then the achievements in the rather beautiful and elegant five day version won’t be quickly forgotten by those whose only enjoyment of any sport seems to come from winning at any price and can only remember as far back as the last humiliation. The irony of the team that can be called “the best in the world”  having a hopeless day is really only the stuff that cynics and headline writers can really find any joy in.

Watching the highlights of the final day’s play in the final test last night, however, did a lot to restore my faith in human nature after recent events, or at least that part of the human race that seems to appreciate the values of fair play, appreciation of a game well played no matter how poorly the team you are there to watch may be playing, and mutual support within a crowd of impressive ethnic and age diversity. I suppose I can also be impressed by something that has usually eluded me in life and which is what (I presume) people find so fascinating in all the other team sports; A group of people working together to achieve a common goal and trusting enough in each other’s abilities to do their bit. It may be old fashioned of me, but all of these things restore my hope.

Just a little.

Monday 22 August 2011

DISC ANXIETY

I’ve always enjoyed a bit of good telly. Or at least I thought I did, but recently telly has been rather on the back burner and I’m starting to suspect that I may very well have fallen out of love with it or, perhaps, I’m starting to realise that I haven’t got the time to waste upon slouching around on the couch catching up with all those programmes that I’m not really bothered about watching all that much anyway.

I can’t be, can I? Otherwise I would have watched them by now, wouldn’t I?

Anyway, there’s still; a backlog of box sets on shiny disc to plough my way through, as and when and if I ever get the chance to.

The brave new multi-channel digital world that is so ably juggled using the DVR has started to devour more than its fair share of my free time. Or, at least, you might think it would. However, the DVR is currently over half full of things I still haven’t got around to watching yet and the available space to put new stuff onto it is starting to border on the critical…

A whole stack of “must see” programmes are lurking within its digital memory, waiting for the right moment or a suitably free evening to come along for it to put on its jester’s hat and try, however feebly, to entertain us. “Landmark” dramas from the last half year or so like “The Road to Coronation Street”, “Christopher and his Kind” and that drama from last Christmas about Morecambe and Wise all lurk on there unwatched and, with little time likely to be found to do so, my finger lies twitching over the “delete” button trying to consign them to oblivion but not quite daring to.

Not yet, anyway.

Entire series like “Luther” are just sitting there unwatched and unloved whilst other, simpler fare gets devoured and binned on an almost daily basis. “Luther” was always going to be a hard sell for me as I thought the first series bordered on the preposterous and I only really set it to be recorded because it ended in such a bizarre bonkers way that I thought that I might care how on Earth they chose to sort it out.

It seems that I don’t and my deletion finger hovers once more.

Meanwhile, ongoing new dramas like “Torchwood” and “The Killing” are set to “series link” and are racking up the hours without ever actually tempting me to actually take the time to watch them…

At the same time, the old problem of my almost insatiable desire to acquire old shows on shiny disc shows no sign of abating and seems to be getting worse with the summer sales to tempt me and so the backlog continues to grow at a rate exceeding the available number of hours to actually sit down and watch the ruddy things.

Suddenly there’s a positive stack of boxes just sitting on shelves waiting for the day to come when I can settle down for a nice old fashioned “box set blitz” of some old rubbish that no-one else would really want to watch with me and so the available viewing slots for such things are limited to whenever I’m left alone or suffering my insomnia, caused no doubt in some small part by this very disc anxiety itself, but nowadays I find that there’s always something else that I’d rather be doing with that time than watching a bit of cruddy old TV.

And then, of course, it’s the summer and so the Test Matches devour much of my available weekend hours and I find myself rattling around with the earpieces tuned to 198 LW and unable to sit down in front of the telly, and more possible catch-up time is consumed by the highlights of what I’ve just been listening to, sometimes broadcast whilst they are still actually playing the match itself. Meanwhile the weekday evenings are never easy to schedule as they tend to be swallowed up by shows that are actually on, and personal viewing choices have to fit around them rather than finding their way into the increasingly limited hours left in the DVR memory, or else they must compete with one or other box sets that we know that we will both enjoy, which are the obvious preferential choice over rather some strange old 1970s cop or spy drama or some ancient American show that I start to imagine only an old weirdo like me would ever give house room to…

And I’ve not even begun to consider the backlog of documentaries… or the latest arrival from LoveFilm… or all the books I really need to read…

Thank God I don’t watch any soap operas or talent shows or I’d have to give up the day job just to keep up…