braingunk

We've Moved

2010-04-14T13:38:00.009+01:00

COME FIND US ON OUR NEW DEDICATED WEBSITE

http://www.braingunk.com/

The Last War

2010-04-02T01:27:00.001+01:00

'What's the difference between a biscuit and a machine gun?'

'I don’t know Sir'...

'One makes a tasty tea treat, while the other gets the enemy to makea hasty retreat. Now stop eating, grab your gun and get over to thatbarricade before I start to lose my fucking sense of humour Private'.

Pete knew better than to answer thesergeant back. 'Sir yes Sir' was what he was expected to say so he didand then ran off to do what he'd been told. These days if you pissedoff a superior officer they were more likely just to shoot you in theface and step over your body than bring you up on charges. Littlethings like court marshals had gone the way of the dinosaurs once theFrogs had started making their move for London.

Since they'd secured Dover and Brightonthere was nothing to stop the bastards just shipping more and moretroops and equipment across the channel. They were experts atamphibious landings, it had been their speciality since the start ofthe war. By now their forces would be large and well equipped, and nowtheir tanks had started rolling towards London.

He lookedaround at the pitiful Croydon defences. They'd mustered half a dozenold tanks and maybe ten field guns half of which were almost out ofammo and all of which were straight out of a bloody museum by the looksof them.

They were going to get slaughtered, there was no wayout of it. Pete wondered if the air-force still had anything left thatcould fly. He thought back to the start of the war, the sneakybastards had knocked out ninety percent of England's militaryfire-power in the first five minutes of hostilities, and all the whiletheir bloody ambassadors had still been talking about peace.

FuckingEMPs and micro nukes all over the place. They literally came out ofnowhere, smart as ya like, VAP and they'd taken down everything thatwasn't totally shielded. Planes fell out of the sky, tanks stalled andnever ran again, shit, even the latest assault riffles had packed up. He looked down at the relic of a weapon he'd been issued as areplacement. It was some nondescript machine gun for which he hadabout four clips of ammo left. Fucking thing had been barely up to thetask in the last war let alone now. The sergeant's joke about forcingthe enemy into a retreat was just that… a fucking joke.

TheFrogs were gonna come rolling right in with their fully equipped andstate of the art tanks and kick the living shit out of anyone stupidenough to get in their way. Croydon was going to get flattened andhe'd get flattened too if he hung around here for too long. He'd makea break for it once the fighting started, a lot easier to slip awayduring the chaos of combat than it would be right now. If he tried itnow and got caught he'd just end up with a bullet in the back of hishead. There was no mercy for deserters these days, he'd seen that whenhe was stationed in Southampton. He lost some good mates down there,most to the enemy but some to the firing squads for desertion.

Therewas no way Croydon was going to hold and he didn't want to be aroundwhen it fell, it would be a bloodbath. Without air support they didn'tstand a gnat's chance. He'd have to make a run for it, maybe head forhis aunt's place over in Wimbledon.

It still amazed himthat the Frogs didn't have an air-force. It seemed impossible thatthey could have accomplished what they had without control of the sky. It was, he thought, the only piece missing in their military arsenal. The only countries that had put up a good resistance had been thosewith decent air support.

Germany had been a walk over andthose fucking chickens in Italy had surrendered without even firing ashot. Not like those poor pig headed bastards in American. Now theyhad put up a damned good fight and they certainly knew the benefits ofa good air-force. But now most of their country had been nuked to shitjust to teach them a lesson and to send a message to the rest of theallies.

Seemed like the Frogs had spent a long time planningWorld War four and they'd also spent a hell of a lot of time justthinking about how to make really good tanks. He'd seen them in actiona few times now and boy were they impressive killing machines. Nothingthe allies had, came even close to being able to stop them.

Therewas a low rumble in the distance, maybe ten clicks to the south, thatwas them, they were getting close now. He turned and surveyed the restof the troops around him, bright eyed and bushy tailed kids mostly,straight out of basic training. Most of them would be dead in an hourhe guessed.

The field guns would start firing soon trying toslow the advance of the tanks, but it would do no good. He'd seen howineffectual field guns were against their tanks, it was like trying abring down Rhinos with pea shooters.

He decided that once thetanks started blasting the crap out of everything and everyone washopping around like headless chickens, getting blown to pieces, he'dslip off and make his way up the old railway tracks. There were notrains running these days of course but the tracks would lead him in apretty straight line right back to London. From there he could headwest out towards his aunt's place, maybe find something to eat alongthe way on one of the abandoned farms, some carrots or cabbages maybe.

Hetook his cap out of his pocket and pulled it on. He didn't normallywear it as it didn't fit over his ears properly. But that was theproblem with most things these days, they weren't really designed forthe likes of Pete or anyone really… they'd be designed for humans.

"TheGenetic War" or World War Three if you wanted to be pedantic, had donea lot of good for sure. The acceleration of the lower species hadprobably been part of some human master plan, but like so many of theirendeavours it had turned around and bitten them, bitten them hard. Nowthey were extinct but quite kindly they'd left all of their cities,technology and possessions behind for those that came after.

Inthe here and now though the upshot was that there were an awful lot ofEnglish rabbits like Peter walking around with badly fitting hats anduncomfortable trousers… he didn't even want to think about the state ofhis tail. None of the races that came after the last human war wereparticularly suited to their clothing come to think of it. The Frogsprobably had similar problems, he wondered if their problem was gettingshoes to fit?

Someone shouted "here they come" and the fearsuddenly gripped his heart like it always did… "Don’t freeze up andstand here staring at them when they come,,, don't freeze up", hewhispered to himself.

The field guns started to fire… and then the Frogs leapt into view.

Edge

2010-04-02T01:24:00.002+01:00

You ever had that feeling that something's not quite right with the world? You ever get the feeling that in someway you're not like everyone else, that you're different and that everyone else knows it? Ever get the feeling you're constantly being watched, like a rat in a maze?

I went to a psychiatrist and he told me I was just being paranoid and I should just get on with my life. I didn't like that, it didn't make things any better, it made them worse . I went for a second opinion and the new guy said almost the exact same thing… paranoia, forget about it, get on with your life. I felt like they were trying to steer me away from something, something important. Didn’t think it was worth talking to him after that, that was until I started to notice the homeless guys.

There are a lot of them in my neighborhood, you know the type, guys dressed in too many layers, dirty, piss soaked clothes, dirty beards, dirty hands, guys you don’t want sitting near you let alone next to you. You see them while you're waiting for the bus. They see you watching them, they know when you're watching them and then they zone in on you for a hand out, sometimes you give them some change just to make em go away. They're like ghosts, they're not like everyone else and that's why I started to notice them. They're outside of everything and that's exactly how I feel too.

I'm booked in for another appointment later today, and I'm gonna ask that bespectacled bastard what's with the beggars? What's special about them, cos I know there's something. How come nobody does anything about them, how come the cops don't take em off the streets and put em into a program or something, how come the mayor's happy to spend millions keeping the streets clear of litter but never seems to do anything about the human trash in the gutters? How come? Because they're special for some reason is why. They round up the homeless dogs, they spend millions keeping the fucking rats under control, but the bums… nothing. They're caught up in everything somehow I fucking know it.

I go to work and sit there filling out insurance reports nobody cares about, hundreds of the damned things every day and I'm convinced the moment they leave my desk they get deleted. I look around at the people who work on my floor. Not a one of them I'd call a friend, shit most of them don't even say hello when I arrive in the mornings. Fuck them, they're in on it too. It's all a big fucking joke, I'm like a performing monkey, or a white lab rat.

That fucking Wendy is one of them I know it. She looks over at me sometimes, she thinks I don't notice but she's watching me. It's my birthday today. They always forget my birthday. Everyone else gets a card and sometimes someone brings in cake or donuts or something. Been here fifteen years, not one fucking card and not one fucking cake. I don’t care, I'm on to them. They're testing me, pushing me to see what I'll do, they've been doing it for years, but I'm wise to them now. That Wendy and that fucker Phil, my supervisor, they're in it together, they're the ring leaders, they're trying to make me crack, pushing me to see if I'll go over the edge. Pushing me any way they can to see what will happen.

Went to the water cooler for a drink and she was there waiting for me. Yeah she even said Hi and smiled at me, big fucking joke whore. I know what you're doing, I'll fucking show you what happens when you push me too far.

Leaving early for my appointment, told Phil it was the dentists, he frowns before grudgingly let me leave. He knows I lied, I could read it in his face. I don't give a shit. Got another headache, getting them a lot recently. She watched me go, didn't say a thing, just smiled as I walked past pulling on my jacket. Didn't ask where I was going cos she fucking knows already. I bet the headaches are their doing, I bet they've got some kind of fucking machine up on the tenth floor, tuned in to make my fucking brain swell up, like a giant fucking microwave boiling my brain. Making me twist and squirm while they watch and smile. She didn't say a thing, just fucking smiled.

Walked through the city, cant stand the subway in the winter, always packed. Having to press up against people in rush hour, their faces, their smell. Just the thought of that combination of body odour and cheap whore's perfume in my nostrils makes me retch. There's always beggars trawling the trains for easy money from a captive audience, bastards probably make more than I do.

As I walk I see one in a side alley going through garbage cans like a rat looking for his dinner. There's another sitting next to the ATM. I draw out fifty dollars for some shopping and he asks me for spare change, I want to scream "fuck you, you piece of shit, fuck you. I know what you are, I know what the fuck you are", but I just walk away pretending not to have heard him.

I buy a cup of coffee from a street vendor. It tastes like warm shit. I drink it anyway and smoke a cigarette. Another fucking beggar asks me if I have a spare, I give him one. He limps away leaving me the smell of rancid rotten flesh and stale piss as reward for my charity.

I count yellow cabs (36) and then decide to make my way over to my appointment with the psychiatrist. I stop in at a hardware store to buy a hammer, outside again I tuck it through my belt.

I walk the remaining four blocks and start to build up a sweat. I'm still fifteen minutes early so I sit on a bench by a bus stop nearby. A woman with black hair and a light blue coat smiles at me, I stare at her and rest my hand on the handle of the hammer. She moves away.

I can feel everyone looking at me while my back is turned, I can feel their eyes, they know about the hammer, of course they know. I bought it in one of their stores. Mistake.

They're watching, waiting to see what I'm going to do.

It's time. Time to show them. I walk to the building and announce myself to the receptionist, she's a fat, middle aged woman with graying hair, she's wearing too much make makeup, she reminds me of a clown. I wait until I am called and enter the psychiatrist's office.

The session goes exactly as I anticipated, he asks me how I've been and I tell him. He asks me if there's anything I'd like to talk about especially and I ask him about the beggars. He tells me he has no idea what I'm talking about but he's lying. I smash his head with the hammer, it takes five or six hard blows before he stops moving. He lays in a slowly spreading pool of blood on the floor. The receptionist enters, alerted by the noise no doubt. I smash her hard in the face with the claw part of the hammer, amazingly she doesn't fall but screams and tries to turn and run. I quickly lay another backhand blow on the side of her head (the motion reminds me of throwing a Frisbee). This time she falls spinning onto the floor. I stand in silence and watch as her legs continue to twitch for almost two whole minutes before she is still. I wipe my fingerprints from the handle of the hammer on the hem of her green patterned dress and then toss it onto the floor next to her. I do not know why I do this.

I have about twenty minutes of my time left so nobody will find them for a while but when they do they will be coming for me. I try to disguise myself as best I can with what's to hand. I take the doctor's jacket from the back of his chair and put it on over my own.

I leave the building and have walked for almost five minutes before I realize my hands are covered in blood. I push them deep into my pockets, everyone is looking at me.

I walk home but when I get arrive there are two police cars parked outside of the building. I head back in to the city. I can never return home. I find a dumpster behind a clothes store and salvage several items which I put on. I feel hot at first and I sweat, but I don't care. As the day goes on though I start to feel the cold. I throw away my credit cards and everything else in my wallet except the cash.

It is dark now and very cold, I can feel it seeping into my bones, I follow an old bum to see where he goes. He sees me but doesn't seem to mind. He leads me to a place where there are some heat vents blowing warm air up form underground. It is still very cold. He speaks to me. He is hard to understand through his drunken slur. He says the world is not real, he says that people like us are the only real people left. I realize he is right.

He offers me some of this wine. It is foul like tainted vinegar. I give him twenty dollars. He looks astonished and motions for me to keep the rest of his disgusting drink in exchange. I drink it all down. The night is so cold. I piss myself to try and keep my legs warm. The sensation somehow feels like being born.

Tomorrow I will kill Wendy.

The Last News Update

2010-04-02T01:16:00.003+01:00

It's been a busy week for braingunk. The new web site is well and truly under construction and should be going live in a week or so (exciting stuff). Once it's up and running this blog will move but don’t worry, through the power of the redirection you wont have to do anything except enjoy the host of new features and articles.

I'd also like to welcome another new writer on board. Iain Laskey will be churning out some gunk and heading up the first braingunk cover feature called "Man's Man" where we'll be examining… well you'll just have to wait and see.

News gunk 2

2010-03-22T22:42:00.012Z

The best thing about writing braingunk is the feedback I get from you the readers. As you can imagine, holding down a full time job in the day and a full time drinking habit in the evening isn't easy, and trying to be creative (and lucid) in the gaps between, is no walk in the park. What makes it worth doing though is the great messages I get from you, so I just wanted to say thank you for your continued readership and support.

No doubt there's a million and one things that fill your day, so it's quite flattering you find the time to drop by and take a little dip in the braingunk once in a while. And with that in mind I'm pleased to announce that the braingunk pool is about to get a little bigger and better.

The search for additional contributors is off to a good start. Mike Elliot an accomplished artist, designer and writer, has expressed an interest in both pumping out some random braingunk and taking on some of the writing for "Mystery Circus".

"What the hell is Mystery Circus?", they all screamed. Well that's the current working title for braingunk's comedy, illustrated serial drama concept. The (probably) bi-monthly publication that will introduce you to the amazing talents (and exquisite brown corduroy jacket collection) of temporally displaced and permanently under appreciated private investigator Gary Mason in his fight against the totally sinister, and quite possibly evil "Global Criminal Activity Syndicate" (GCAS).

Pencilled in to help take care of the illustrations (did ya see what I did there) is Jaid Mindang, multi talented art master and art director of the ultra cool Curve Studios. Rumours that Mystery Circus will be available both on-line and in a limited edition printed format can not at this time be confirmed.

In further news, the construction of a new website infrastructure for braingunk has begun. The new site will hopefully move braingunk out of the "just another blog" category into a more professional and expandable magazine style environment. We'll be having a party once we go live and yes there will be cake, but it's going to take a while to get things up and running so don't start starving yourself in anticipation just yet.

Amazing braingunk fact 1:
This post (along with many others) was written, edited and posted exclusively while riding on trains through a magic combination of wires, old laptops and mobile phones.

Amazing braingunk fact 2:
No wifi connection has ever been used at any stage in bringing you the braingunk.

And that as they say... is the news.

:)

News gunk

2010-03-12T13:28:00.003Z

Greetings gunk junkies, just a short post today to let you know how all the various braingunk projects are coming along. This is the first time braingunk has published a "news" piece, so read it… it's bloody history in the making ;)

The Encyclopedia of Lies
The most serious (although ridiculous) project at the moment continues to grow. Adding entries every day is still both easy and fun and a great fall back when I find myself in one of those "I can't think of anything to write" moments. Getting a few new ideas from a friend as well who's turning out to have quite an eye for the bizarre.

New Writer/s
I'm looking for a second writer to regularly contribute to braingunk and anyone who'd like to maybe just send in the odd article. If you're interested or know someone who might be then get in contact. Applicants should have something to say and should not be afraid to say it.

ELO Out of the Blue Project
This project is slowly but steadily growing, with about one new member per day, and a steady trickle of new photos, which is great. Keep em coming.

Click Here to visit the Project Facebook page.

Blog Layout

There are plans afoot to change the graphic layout and look of braingunk... still finding it difficult to find a good theme though.

Level4 Magazine Short Story
I was recently asked if I would like to submit a short story for a printed magazine called Level4. The magazine bills itself as "the magazine for culture vultures" and is a great outlet and forum for creatives of all types. The editor, who is an old friend, dropped the bombshell though that if they were to publish a story, it could be no longer than 500 words. Another writer who was there at the time stated that they would find it very difficult to convey anything in 500 words , but I leapt at the challenge eagerly.

The story is now finished and to be honest getting it to fit into 500 words was indeed quite a task, but it's done now and I'm quite proud of it. It's called The Familiar Stranger and once I have cleared it with Level4 I will publish it here for you to read.

Click Here to visit the Level 4 Facebook group.

Store
The braingunk store sale is now finished and to be honest sales were a little disappointing and when I say disappointing I mean almost nonexistent. The store is due for a major overhaul soon and many shirt designs are going to be removed and consigned to the vault, so if there's something you've had your eye on for a while, grab it soon before it vanishes.

Click Here to jump to the store.

Gunk Buddies
And while we're on the subject of the store, I'm pleased to announce the "gunk buddies" section is now up and running. There are currently three of braingunk's buddies with their own shirts, mugs, bags and items available through the braingunk storefront.

Click Here to visit the gunk buddies.

Graphic Designs
It might surprise you to know that braingunk has dabbled in a little graphic design from time to time. Usually just for friends and never for a profit (heaven forbid). The latest efforts have been for The Ferrier Operatic Society promoting their latest production of The Sorcerer.

Click Here to find out more about their show and get a glimpse at the braingunk poster.

Mystery Circus
Still in discussions with various people about this retro inspired, modern day, pseudo comedy Victorian crime serial, now possibly to be done in comic form. Will keep you posted.

And that's about it for now. Once again thanks for reading braingunk and thanks for all your emails, messages and comments. Will squirt more braingunk at you when there's more to squirt.

Tomorrow Never Knows

2010-03-09T13:36:00.007Z

There are no such things as time machines. There, I admitted it. There are no such things as time machines and so there is no way to travel back in time and see the Beatles play live.

But last night… well… I did just that.

Last night I did exactly that, I shot back through time to the 1960's and witnessed something that I've always wished that I could. Last night I saw John, Paul, George and Ringo, take to the stage and play to a packed out house.

I, like so many people who were either very young or not even born during the sixties, owe my appreciation of the Beatles to my parents. The early and repeated exposure to their music, like so many things between parents and their children, could have fostered a resentment, or even an irrational dislike of the very thing my parents were trying to share with me… but thankfully it didn't.

Thankfully perhaps, among the many things that a caring mother or father tries to teach their offspring, an interest in the works of the Beatles is in some way very special, so special that it can break down the seemingly impenetrable barriers between generations.

Now, as a parent myself, I believe there may be some truth to that. Both of my sons, one in his late teens and the other just under but about to enter those genetically programmed years of rebellion, both have openly expressed their liking of the Beatles after my efforts of introduction. To have these two agree on anything is an unusual event but to have them both agree on a matter of musical taste shared with myself smacks of being a full blown miracle. And I was able to witness that miracle playing live, together once more, on stage last night.

OK as I said there are no time machines, so I'll come clean. I didn't really travel back in time and I didn't really see The Beatles play live… but I did however see the very next best thing. The Bootleg Beatles.

Obviously as someone who has danced around the edges of the musicians lifestyle for many years I was aware of them. They are the longest running and most successful tribute band in the world, over 30 years of gigging and still going strong after all. I guess, in the past, I probably thought that they were (like most tribute bands) just another bunch of reasonably talented musicians, incapable of sparking their own light of inspiration and so basking under the spotlight glare from someone else's… But no I was wrong.

The Bootleg Beatles are more than that, they are far more than just a cover band gigging for cash and kicks. After witnessing their performance and understanding the unbelievable effort and attention to detail that it must have taken to accomplish, I realized that they had taken it upon themselves to do something more than just work up a show for the sake of their bank balances. They have taken it upon themselves to become the keepers of a special kind of history, the purveyors of a unique kind of magic and an experience that I am so very, very glad that I had the opportunity to witness.

You see normal, every day history is dry. It's fossils, it's old musty books, it's museums run by guys in cardigans who care about something you don’t have the time or inclination to care about. But that is not what I witnessed last night. What I witnessed was collection of live slices of time, more sharply defined than any recording could ever hope to compete with. An experience drenched in more emotion and care than any movie could ever convey. What I saw was real, what I felt was real, what the audience and the band shared was real. The people on stage were more than just a bunch of guys banging out some golden oldies.

You see they were conveying something other than just notes and words. They were saying if you were around when the Beatles were playing, remember how it felt and smile. They were saying if you were too young to be there for real, then here is what it felt like. They were saying the same thing that my parents had said to me and they were saying the same thing that I have said my sons and they were saying the same thing that I hope (one day) my sons too will share with their own children. What they were saying was this:

Listen to the Beatles…

Why?

Shhhh… just listen and you'll see.

The Top 5 things you say that make you an idiot

2010-03-03T22:14:00.011Z

1: Why don't you watch where you're going.
Generally used when two pedestrians collide with each other. It's meant to imply that the person you're saying it to wasn't looking where they were going and that you were… I mean it'd be exceptionally hypocritical for you to tell someone else to look where they're going if you were not doing it yourself.

Why does this make you an idiot?
Well if you were looking where you were going why did you collide with the person who was suffering the obvious disadvantage of not looking where they were going? What this phrase really implies is that you are prone to walking into people deliberately, like a fucking idiot.

2: I'll be with you momentarily
This one gets me every time. It's used frequently (especially in the retail, hotel and service industries) and I'd say about 99.9% of the time people use it incorrectly. In fact I'd say that this phrase has been misused so frequently, by so many people and for so long, that it may actually have to have it's definition redefined to match what people think it means.

Why does it make you an idiot?
Momentarily does not mean "in a short while" it means "for a short while".

3: I'm not being funny but…
Often used just before imparting some form of (generally unwanted) advice or opinion that could be considered offensive or insensitive.

Why does it make you an idiot?
People who say this, don't need to say it, as they never follow it with anything that could ever be misconstrued (even slightly) as being "funny". Rude yes, personal yes, inflammatory most certainly, but never, EVER funny. A common and annoying misuse of the word funny.

4: Can you fix my computer?
This one is especially irksome to me and it is something that I get asked often. I know how to use a computer so the reasoning usually goes that I can instantly tell what is wrong with any fucked up computer system (and usually over the phone), with the absolute minimum of information (probably described by someone who doesn't know how to describe what is wrong) and then be expected to direct them (again over the phone) how to make it all good and shiny and working again.

Why does it make you an idiot?
I know how to use the kitchen sink… but that doesn't make me a plumber.
I know how to watch a television set … but that doesn't make me a TV repair man.
I know how to drive a car… but that doesn't mean I could strip down its engine (actually I could but that's beside the point).

The Idiot's guide to getting things fixed:-
Sink broken + Call a plumber = Smart
Television broken + Call a TV repair man = Smart
Car broken + Call a mechanic = Smart
Computer broken + Call a writer? = Idiot.

5: Do you want another beer?
This really is the most idiotic thing you could say.

Don't be an idiot, just get me a pint of Stella and save your breath;)

The Out of the Blue Project

2010-02-23T13:56:00.007Z

A long time ago a young and innocent boy of around eleven was wandering through a busy market when he happened across a stall selling records. Now this wasn't a stall selling old records like the ones you see from time to time these days, no it was selling brand new records. To be honest the boy had never really had an interest in music before, but a single glance in the direction of the record stall was about to change that.

Sitting bright and proud near the front of the stall was a record… a record with a cover like nothing he'd seen before. Put quite simply it was a picture of a spaceship. A brilliantly detailed and marvelously colourful spaceship. He approached the stall with trepidation, there were numerous adults milling around examining the myriad of other wares and as he drew closer he began to feel that he was stepping into their world. He felt out of place, but the record called to him and a moment later he found himself reverently standing before it.

He wanted to lift it up and examine it, to turn it over and look at the back cover, but he had no idea how much such things cost, it looked as if it would be very expensive and so he was worried he might not be allowed to, so he contented himself just looking at the front for a few minutes.

The spaceship had large windows that hinted at a view of a fantastic interior, it had an open docking bay with a smaller ship floating outside, the smaller craft was obviously reasonably large in itself, which just emphasized the vastness of its mothership. There were a million and one tiny details that made the boy's eyes bulge like saucers as he took it all in as best he could. Eventually he overcame his nerves, he simply had to see more. He carefully lifted it out of the rack and holding it with as much care as he could muster he started to examine it. He turned it over and saw that the picture continued onto the back of the record. Then with a slight shock the boy realized that it was a double sleeve, a gate-fold sleeve, like the two covers of a book and inside was yet another fantastic futuristic image that instantly absorbed him.

He decided right then that he simply had to own this wonderful work of art no matter how much it cost.

That small boy was of course me, and the record was of course Out of The Blue by The Electric Light Orchestra.

I'd never heard of ELO before and I'd certainly never heard this album. In fact neither I nor my parents even owned a record player at that time. But to me that was irrelevant, I needed to have this record just so that I could look at the cover. My wonderful parents gave me the money to buy the record that day, why I am not sure. To buy a record when you have no way of playing it and when you have no idea what the band are like seems like a leap of faith but as it turned out it was faith well placed, because once I finally did get a record player to play the record, it turned out to be a musical work of art too which complemented perfectly that wonderful and inspiring cover.

And so here we are over 30 years later. I still have that record, I still play it and even sometimes I'll spend a moment or two looking at the cover, in wonder just as I did when I was a boy.

A while back I posted a Life Tips 101 blog that said one of the things you could do to improve your life would be to spend some time tracking down a vinyl copy of Out of The Blue and I still believe that to be true. The hunt and the satisfaction of completing it will provide you with one of those rare moments of happiness we all crave, and if you have any taste at all you'll also come to love the musical content of the album which should provide you with many more of those moments (it has for me).

As you may have noticed there is a slide show here on the blog showing various people holding that ever so fantastic album. At first I just thought it would just be nice to see others who share a love for this record so I asked a few people if they could send me a snap. But as is my way (I guess) small ideas often turn into bigger ideas and now the Out Of The Blue Project has begun I want to see how far it can go. I want to see if I can find fans of this album from all over the world and get them to submit photos of themselves with it. I've set myself the arbitrary target of 1000 photos. It seems a large enough number to make an impressive collection but also an attainable one. There will of course be an obligatory facebook group for people to submit their photos through and view the collection.

There is of course one photograph that would be the proverbial cherry on the cake… and that would be a photo of the man himself Jeff Lynne with the album. If the project goes well, who knows, he might get to hear about it, now wouldn't that be cool.

In a world where music has become generally antiseptic and disposable, I hope that we can show definitively that 'they don't make em like they used to' and that nobody ever made one quite like this one.

So come sign up and be a Wild West Hero. Tell your friends, photograph yourself and your family with the album and post them up to the facebook group. Bother your work buddies and get snaps of them too. Try and find copies of the album in your local thrift store or market. Can you get an unusual photo with the record, an action photo? Is there anyone out there with the album on cassette? Get a photo, post that photo ?

Only with your help can this collection grow so please, please do what you can to help spread the word. In time hopefully it will become one of those self sustaining little internet oddities where people have come together for no good reason except simply for the fun of it… Out of the Blue.

CLICK HERE to visit the facebook group.

The Dirty Glass

2010-02-11T13:29:00.022Z

Cold and stark morning light shone across the bedside table,

Lighting there upon its path,
A half filled glass of water that so able,
Did best attempt to quench drunken thirst the night before.

A smear of dirt caked upon its side,
And kissed the rim with what seems to be a filthy pride and long awaited surprise.

No doubt lifted from the dirty wash bowl,
And lightly rinsed with flowing cold and transparent gold,
Before returning to duty in the hands of the inebriate.

Disgust at first that through such filter,
Did moisture pass to my lips,

Who knows how altered,
That now contaminated water.

But then remembered the quench'ed thirst
And soothing relief delivered in the hour so desperately needed,
The now cloudy remnant,
Was a bliss to the drunken man,
Despite its sediment.

Yet would knowing of such grime,
Have halted the thirst in need of quenching in past drunken time?

I wonder?

Lift the glass to lips for one more sip,
And then when no fate of pain and death anticipated falls,

I lift the glass...
And drink once more.

The Encyclopaedia of Lies: Blog 1

2010-02-09T14:00:00.002Z

It's been in the planning stage for over five years. Work has been done on and off fairly sporadically. My personal interest in the project has from time to time flagged to the point where I've almost forgotten that it exists. Yet every time I mention it to someone or dig it out just to see how far along it actually got, I always end up with tears in my eyes laughing at the content. Some of you have no doubt had some of it read to you, others may have heard myself or my collaborator Graeme talking about it. Well today I decided to put my foot down and begin work in earnest on this project and continue to do so until it is completed. I'm telling you this now because I should imagine that a great many posts from now on will be on this subject. So come with me now on a journey of discovery and toil… or something.

I'd like to officially introduce you to The Encyclopaedia of Lies. It started out as a running gag and then turned into a competitive surrealist sparing match. It is (or will be once it's finished) a book. It's format (as you might guess) is that of an encyclopedia, but with the obvious difference that nothing in it is true. Actually there will be one true entry in the book for reasons I will reveal at a later date (once it is closer to completion).

So far I have yet to find a person who does not end up laughing their ass off after reading even just a small portion of the work in progress document, so I am fairly confident that it is a saleable concept. The intention is to find a publisher willing to put it out in an appropriate format as one of those Christmas stocking filler type comedy books. However the plan is not to actually take it to any publishers until it is (in my eyes) complete. This is for two reasons. Firstly I'm currently holding down a full time contract designing computer games and if the publisher starts changing the way I work on the book during its development, that could theoretically interfere with my daily routine and work. Secondly I hope that I am critical enough myself, to get the whole thing into a reasonably publishable form before I show it to anyone, which will with any luck reduce any editing time needed to finish it off.

The book itself has already changed format many times over the years. It's been stored as a remote and a local database, a remote and local word document, a spreadsheet and even an online repository. Now however I think I've finally got it into a format that is both convenient and secure and a format that will (hopefully) prove to be suitable until the whole project is completed.

Currently the EOL has 151 entries, by the time it is finished I hope to have expanded that to around 400. As it stands every letter of the alphabet has at least 3 entries associated with it (most with more), but in the end I hope to have a minimum of 10 per letter and in general once again more.

There is one part of the project that has not yet been started at all, the illustration. In fact I am not even 100% sure if I want the book to be illustrated at all. I suspect that this decision will be down to any prospective publishers who may be interested in putting The Encyclopaedia of Lies out there. If however in time I do decided that there should be at least some illustrations, then I dearly hope to be able to employ the talents of one of the many great artists I already know, rather that leave it up to a complete stranger.

To be honest, as this is my first endeavor of this nature I have no idea what the hell I'm doing but we shall live and learn I guess.

Keep reading.

Time and Time Again

2010-02-07T01:53:00.027Z

There was a distinct possibility that the whole thing was going to start again from the bloody beginning. Alice turned up the volume on the shabby TV set, while on screen the President approached the microphone and began the speech that she'd heard over a dozen times already. It was the third time she'd sat through this particular President deliver this particular speech. Through the various temporal manipulations she and others like her had carried out, they'd managed to change the actual identity of the president several times by sending a butterfly effect rippling through time. But when she got back to this point in history the message had remained almost completely unaltered again. They'd hoped to change it, or more accurately change the events that led the President to give the speech in the first place.

She listened intently and at first it sounded as if there had been a few changes. She hoped desperately that her work had been fruitful this time, but as it drew on, it became apparent that the focus of this public address had not changed at all. The President was moving the country into a political standoff that would inexorably lead to a devastating war. A war which would in the long term, cost the lives of almost two billion people. She'd seen it before, she'd tried to stop it before and like this time it would seem, she'd completely failed before.

She looked around the dingy motel room she sat in and sarcastically mimicked the recruitment speech which had convinced her to sign up for the Agency "Travel through time to see the most interesting and historic moments unfold right before your eyes. Agency K making sure our yesterdays secure all of our tomorrows… yeah right".

She picked up the small K-Terminal sitting on the bedside table and tried to work out a new time vector from this date. The machine was highly advanced, in fact it was without a doubt the second most advanced piece of technology on Earth at this precise moment. The first, was wrapped around her left wrist. The K-Band looked like nothing more than a heavy duty diver's watch, its face showed a simple countdown timer in bright blue digits, currently reading 'three hours and sixteen minutes'. It was this innocent looking device that allowed Alice and all the other K-Agents to travel back and forth in time, correcting the errors that were destroying the future.

The terminal in her hands made a small chirp once its calculations were complete. It indicated that there were no solid time links to this moment from her original starting point in the far future, apart from the one she was already on. That meant she had to return to the Agency until they figured out where and when to send her next and she hated having to do that. Jumping from one time to another was simple and it just felt like a mild tingle over your skin as you shifted through the temporal framework, but to get back to her original time, she'd have to let the K-Band timer expire and that meant being yanked back and passing along her own timeline… and that felt like being ripped apart by red hot fish hooks… it hurt like hell. She checked the terminal again and then set it to do a complete multi-band, temporal breakdown of the current time frame. If she could find even a slight chance that there was something she could do to continue her mission without returning home she'd take it.

She glanced over to the TV screen again and thought of just how much she hated this time period. Things were advanced enough to make things difficult, but not advanced enough for anyone to accept or understand why she was here. She thought back to the last time she'd had to do a multi-jump operation and the hoops she'd had to leap through to complete that mission. It had started out simple, kill some guy with mafia connections called "Jack Ruby". Piece of cake she'd thought at the time, but it hadn't worked out as expected after the job was done (it never did). She'd had to do another two jumps and kill another two people just to get that particular time line back on track. First up was a nobody called "Lee Harvey Oswald" or something like that and when that didn't work out she'd had to go back even further and take out of all people a bloody President! It hardly surprised her at all when the word "Kennedy" popped up (she’d lost count of how many times that name made the mission lists).

The terminal would take a while to complete the full scan she’d requested, so she decided to fill out her mission report card. She should have completed it already, but she was always reluctant to do it… it wasn't in her best interest, the Hindenburg incident had proven that.

Mission report cards were supposed to be used in situations where something had gone wrong and an agent could not get back. The card was unusual, so unusual in its make up and content that it would almost certainly be filed with local authorities. That meant the K-Agency would be able to retrieve it in the future and find out what went wrong. But the Agency had used information from a report card before and taken things too far in an effort to correct mistakes. In the end they'd destabilised hundreds of timelines by destroying of all things a fucking airship full of people.

She finished filling in the card and placed it in its slot on the side of the terminal. She hoped nobody ever had to retrieve hers, because generally it meant the agent involved was dead. Suddenly the terminal started to bleep. It had found something. She hoped desperately it was something simple, this mission had gone on far too long. She carefully examined the readout, but what it showed was perplexing! It listed quite clearly something that should not have even been possible… it showed a clear indication of a recent temporal incursion… according to the terminal, another time traveller had arrived in this period. This was generally considered impossible, the K-Field generated by her wristband was actually larger than the earth and no other K-Fields could be stabilised within it. And yet there it was, right there on the screen as clear as day, a temporal incursion about 15 minutes ago.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door which almost made her jump out of her skin. She relaxed when she realised it was probably the motel owner again, he'd already called on her twice asking if she needed fresh towels or pillows. She guessed he'd taken a fancy to her. She stood up and crossed the small room and opened the door.

The first two bullets hit her in the chest, lifting her clean off her feet and slamming her across the room. The third carefully aimed shot hit her square in the middle of the forehead as she lay crumpled against the back wall of the dirty little room.

Dante entered and closed the door behind him. He waited a few moments to see if anyone was coming to investigate the noise. The gun was totally silent so that wouldn't have alerted anyone, but she'd made quite a crash hitting the wall. Once he was sure nobody was coming, he looked around and found her K-Terminal laying on the floor beside the bed where it had fallen. He pulled a small silver device from his pocket and held it over the clunky almost primitive terminal and then vaporized it along with her mission report card just as he'd been instructed to.

He hated missions like this, but it seemed they were becoming more and more frequent. He sat down and checked the L-Band on his wrist. It was without a doubt the most advanced piece of technology on Earth at this precise moment. The L-Band looked like nothing more than a heavy duty diver's watch, its face showed a simple countdown timer in bright blue digits currently reading 'five hours and eighteen minutes'. It was this innocent looking device that allowed Dante and all the other L-Agents to travel back and forth between Universes, correcting the errors that were destroying the Multiverse. He sat and waited for the butterfly effect to ripple through the cosmos and hoped desperately that his work had been fruitful this time. There was a distinct possibility that the whole thing was going to start again from the bloody beginning.

Top Ten Commuter Sins

2010-02-03T13:59:00.005Z

You get into a rhythm. For long periods you can cope, you can deal with it. Sure some days are better then others, but generally you get along and it's not too hard to forget that what you're doing would drive most normal people insane very rapidly. I am of course talking about commuting.

This coming August marks my fifteenth year of being a commuter. My journey has over the years altered route a few times due to job changes, but on the whole has never varied much in duration. I get up, shower, dress, grab a coffee, smoke a cigarette and then realize I'm going to miss my train… pretty much every day. I sit in the quiet carriage and quietly fume as people ignore the concept of a quiet carriage. I write or read or sometimes just doze until the initial leg of my trip is over. This first sequence of my commute from waking up to arriving in London usually takes just over two hours. Next there's quite a long walk through the (usually) rainy and (always) crowded streets of the city. Then there's a tube ride, then another walk before finally reaching my destination. It's never fun, it's either cold and miserable (autumn, winter and spring) or unbearably hot (summer) and it always involves trying very hard not to get angry. About two hours from door to door, give or take… then in the evening I do the whole thing again but backwards, which usually takes a little longer… but like I said, you get into a rhythm.

There are times however, when that rhythm breaks down. The journey becomes extremely tiresome and overly annoying when things go wrong. You get to the station only to realize you've left your ticket at home. A packed tube train is so full you can't get on and then have to wait twelve minutes for the next one… which is then also full. It's sunny when you leave home but pissing down with frogs and spanners by the time you get to the city or alternatively it's as cold as a witches tit when you leave the house and hotter than Hastlehoff's speedos when you get there. It's at the times like these where your inner voices start saying things. They start to goad you and cajole you and try to convince you that no matter what the alternatives are, they've got to be better than this commuting hell. And sometimes those voices can be very convincing… but like I said, you get into a rhythm.

Personally I feel that one of the worst things about being a commuter is not the stress of missed connections and running late for work (although that can be considerable), it's not the financial cost (again certainly substantial), it's not even the inconvenience and discomfort, it's simply the vast amount of time it takes.

Most commuters I know have a far shorter journey times than I do, but completing that journey as I have, back and fourth every working day for years and years on end, (somewhere in the region of six thousand times and counting), gives one an almost Zen like sense of how it affects your moods and the mood of others who are also going through the same thing. Commute for long enough and you'll start to see the aforementioned rhythm of it, something you won't understand when you're just starting out.

Once you've reached that point, you start to do things like work out just how many hours, days, weeks, months and yes even years you've spent waiting for or riding on trains. My commute running total is pretty startling; for every working day I spend, I spend about another half a working day traveling to get there and then get back home again afterwards (sometimes more). As I mentioned earlier I've been doing this for almost fifteen years… which means that I've spent about seven and a half working years just traveling on or waiting for trains. What I wouldn't give to have that time back. All the things I could have achieved in that time don't bare thinking about, all the extra sleep I could have had, all the time I could have spent with my family and friends… gone.

But there are a couple of things I have gained from the experience. Firstly I am now immune to the rigors of travel, I can go anywhere, endure any length of plane or train ride and feel exactly that same as I do every day upon conclusion.

The second thing I gained from commuting was the time to observe other people… a lot of people. And from my observations and with my clear authority as a seasoned commuter, I have concluded something. I have watched and noted the behavior of all sorts of people from all walks of life while they travel and I have slowly come to a point where I think I can speak with some authority. And here it is:

Most people… and yes I am 100% sure I mean most… most people are… (how can I put this succinctly)… most people are completely pointless, selfish, inconsiderate, arrogant, ignorant sacks of brainless and useless crap, who'd be doing the rest of the world a huge favour if they'd just throw themselves into a large pit and then set themselves on fire… like I said… most people, not everyone, but most.

There are of course many people who could (if they were so inclined) remove themselves from this particular bucket of social spume by simply adjusting a few little things in their lives. It is in the interest of such a concept that I now present for you the following list of commuter sins. Have a look down the list to see if you are guilty. If you've committed any of the heinous commuter crimes shown then please either make a conscious effort never to be a repeat offender or simply make your way to death pit six pleasethankyouverymuch.

Top Ten Commuter Sins Countdown:

10. Put your feet on the seats.
Don't care what you say… don’t care how clean you think your shoes are… you're a pig.

9. Forget to get your ticket out before you reach the barriers.
'I seem to have arrived at a barrier with twenty people behind me… how am I to progress… it would seem that some form of ticket is required to bypass this obstacle… oh yes I have one somewhere, let me look through all of my pockets and bag for a minute'… twat.

8. Sit in an aisle seat and put your bags on the window seat.
See it all the time… it's just a selfish attempt to hog two seats to yourself… die… die screaming.

7. Sit at a table seat if you've no intention of using the table.
On some trains there are loads of tables and finding a table seat is as easy as stumbling onto the train, but on those trains with only a couple of tables per carriage… do me a favour and don't hog one if you don't need it. I need to type some braingunk.

6. Drunkenly try to get a sing-a-long going on a train.
The last train home from the city invariably turns into a drunken wanker-fest, quite possibly including drunken singing and or random attempts to chat up women… if you do this and I get a chance, I'll push you down a bank into a ditch and piss on you.

5. Listen to a personal stereo.
No matter how quiet you think you have it, it's not quiet enough for the guy sitting next to you who's trying to sleep. He might look like he's already asleep but he's not… he's planning your murder… seriously he is.

4. Talk louder when you're on the phone than when you are off it.
A very common sin and one for which the only cure is a damned good slap.

3. Keep the key tones active on your phone while txting.
This one could quite conceivably get you stabbed. I've never understood the need to keep key tones switched on for any reason unless you're blind (which would be a valid and perfectly acceptable reason). Not blind… turn the fucking tones off retard.

2. Disregard quiet zones in any way listed on the sign.
If you find yourself in a quiet zone either on purpose of just by chance, have a read of the sign. It'll list all the things that are bad form. Oh and don't pretend you didn't realize you were in the quiet zone… there are signs everywhere and even the doors you passed through to get on have QUIET ZONE written in stonking great pink letters on them. Be nice and don't ignore it or I'll follow you home and burn your house down tomorrow… yeah?

1. Play music through your phone speaker.
It's unlikely that you do this one to be honest because if you're reading this… you're reading. The moronic munchkins who do commit this most cardinal of all commuter sins never look like they would have such a skill. You should never do it and you should teach your kids never to do it either… people have died for less and to be honest with less justification. It can only ever lead to bad things… oh and it sounds shit too.

And that's it, the top ten Commuter Sins. There were more but I thought I'd draw the line at ten for now…Got to dash… got a train to catch.

Don't ask me what I want it for.

2010-01-28T13:56:00.007Z

Well it's done… I hated every microsecond of it but thankfully it is now over for one year at least. The Tax Man has been paid.

I have a little problem you see… ok I have many little problems but one of them is that I cannot abide filling in forms, officious red tape or bureaucracy. And this can cause a little bit of a nightmare if you've turned freelance and have to do a Tax self assessment… as I have just done.

It all starts with the post. I don't in general like it. In fact unless it looks like it might be a birthday card there's a very good chance it'll never get opened if it has the misfortune of being delivered through my door. It'll join all of its little anonymous brother and sister unopened letters, which all live in a big stack on the corner of my desk. Needless to say because of my freelance status, I do from time to time get some serious mail that kind of needs to be opened… like the reminders about income tax deadlines etc.

Well as was expected I left it all right up until the last minute, opened them all, spent days trying to sort all of the letters into some logical and chronological order… then found out that my only option for getting my tax paid for the year was to do a self assessment and pay online … I'd left it too late for any other option.

Now as you can guess I'm a pretty heavy computer user (in both ways) and so having to deal with "an online form" shouldn't have been a problem right?… WRONG.

The Tax payment website needs a special password… and they have to send you that password in the mail (why I have no idea). So ok now time is very short and I have to wait for the once brilliant, but now totally bloody useless, British postal system to deliver me something without which, I can not continue in my endeavors to be a good citizen and pay my tax. Amazingly they delivered and I was able to log into the website with a couple of days to spare… that's when I really ran into trouble.

I almost suffered complete brain failure once I was on the website and had started to fill in the stunningly long forms required. In fact I had completed just 1% of the form (there is a handy little progress bar to tell you this) when I ran into questions I didn't understand and had no answers for. I forged ahead with the intention of returning to fill the gaps later. But after moving on, I discovered that pretty much the remaining 99% of the forms fell into the same category i.e. I didn't bloody understand them. This was when I almost completely gave up and crawled under a duvet. Luckily for me, a good friend realized my tax woes after seeing a couple of my desperate facebook status updates and offered to come round and help.

He did and blasted through the forms with stunning understanding and efficiency while sat and watched Superbad, drank beer and smoked cigarettes.

Now (at least for the next year) the tax man has been held at bay… and I am once more reminded that the best thing in the world, is having friends. Did I learn anything beyond that? Did I learn how to deal with my now yearly recurring tax situation… no not really. It still scares the crap out of me. I'm certainly not going to be able to do it myself next year. So I just hope my tax buddy doesn’t drop down dead in the next year, because if he does… I’ll bloody kill him ;)

Seriously though, thanks Iain, you’re a life saver.

Interview with a Misery Vampire: Part 2

2010-01-22T13:40:00.005Z

One of the dangers of encountering a Misery Vampire is not so much how they can change your life, but how much you can change it yourself if you decide to stand up to them.

When one of their number chose me as a victim, it was the realization that I was changing myself and that I was about to step outside of my own moral code that shook me the most. Thankfully, realizing that such a change was happening allowed me to take stock and stop those changes and in the end I think that might have saved someone's life while also saving myself from becoming something terrible.

Generally I'm not a violent person probably because I'm terrible at it, but more importantly I like to think that I'm a pretty easy going kind of person on the whole, "live and let live" and all that jazz. But thanks indirectly to the actions of a Misery Vampire I found myself consorting with people who had violence and even murder on their minds. Without thinking about the consequences of my actions I was helping them to track down someone who although obviously obnoxious, arrogant, annoying, provocative, selfish, spiteful and maybe even sick in the head… was at the end of the day, just another human being. Here I was on the verge of conspiring, aiding and abetting and assisting in a chain of events that could have ended in the crime of murder.

It hadn't quite got to that point, but it was defiantly heading that way. Luckily I realized what was transpiring in time before things could go too far and so I managed to stop that chain of events from continuing down its logical path. I pulled the plug on the network. I took a step back and had a long, hard think.

Now I know what you're thinking. I know because during the year that the Misery Vampire was rocking my particular apple cart, I heard the same piece of advice from dozens of people… "The best way to deal with people like that is just to ignore them". This may very well be valuable piece of advice if I had been dealing with a simple case of online Trolling or basic harassment… but that was not what I was having to deal with. You see a Misery Vampire is a whole different breed of pest to those known as "Trolls". I'm not going to go into great detail about what he did, but suffice to say that his efforts were pretty much a proactive attempt to destroy something that I'd poured hundreds of hours into creating, he was hell bent on bringing down and utterly destroying something that I (and may others) had spent well over a year working together on and something for which we had many long term plans. Those plans and everything that I and the others involved had worked for would quite simply be utterly ruined if I had taken the advice and simply ignored him. Ignoring him was not an option, it would have been like trying to ignore a bulldozer knocking down your house in an effort to make it go away. It would have been like standing in middle of the train tracks and ignoring the onrushing train in an effort to make it stop.

He was relentless and cunning in his methods and deceptiveness. He had subordinates that were carrying out his commands. He used dozens and dozens of aliases, fake and stolen identities to execute his sustained attacks. He got into peoples heads through deception and used their own good nature against them. He preyed on the weak and turned them into his puppets. He is quite possibly the closest thing to the incarnation of destructive, sociopathic evil that I have ever encountered.

Another suggestion made by many was also a non starter, "Get law enforcement involved… call the cops on him" and believe me that I and others tried. But even though he was guilty of online harassment, copyright and identity theft, personal deformation and business slander, prosecuting any of these crimes across international borders is both difficult and expensive… as part of my efforts to deal with the situation I consulted a very good lawyer friend of mine who laid out the reality (and futility) of the legal situation for me.

There was very little that could be done. Contacting the social network providers and seeing if they could block him or stop him also turned out to be completely useless as well. I lost a great deal of faith and respect for them based on their paltry efforts to curb his activities. No, ignoring him was not going to work and any legal method of dealing with him had proven to be completely impotent. There remained only two options; take the law into my own hands or let him win, let him destroy something that I'd poured a lot of time, effort and money into.

Initially I chose the former of these two options and started gathering information and collecting together the group of people who would ultimately lead to the position where I could if I so wished, strike down with great vengeance and furious anger upon my foe. I started to feel smug and superior as the net of my weaving closed around my antagonist. I started to relish thinking about the moment when he realized that he'd taken a step too far, that he'd been outmatched, that he had in fact totally misjudged the peril he'd exposed himself to.

It was only once I'd reached this point that I realized I had to stop…I stopped pursuing this course of action, because I realized he'd already won. His intentions to destroy me had almost worked, he'd almost brought about a change in me so profound that I'd started to think in ways that made me like him, and almost made me forget who I was.

He had turned me into someone else… into someone consumed by spite and hate and anger. Someone who was on course to being literally a heart's beat away from murder by proxy… so I stopped and I stepped back and let him have his victory. I stopped all communication with the network of people that were reaching out across the world towards his front door. I shut down the project that he wanted to destroy. I pulled down the shutters and I locked up the door and I walked away. It was the only thing I could do.

I don't want to be like Scott. I don't ever want to hate someone so much that what almost happened could happen again. If letting him win his little battle is the price I must pay to prevent that, then so be it. If allowing the bad guy to think he was right and to let him believe he has triumphed is what is needed to save myself from becoming a bad guy as well, then I have no choice but to do so.

And in the end I think I made the right choice. The work that I had lost was a small price to pay for what I had saved… I'd saved myself. Walking away was not easy, as I mentioned a lot of love and effort had gone into that which the Misery Vampire was trying to destroy, but to carry the Vampire metaphor through… the moment I found myself standing over his coffin, his vulnerable supine body laid out before me, the hard wooden stake of vengeance and the heavy mallet of anger in hand… I realized it was far better to simply lock the coffin and throw away the key… than to drive my point home with violence.

Interview with a Misery Vampire: Part 1

2010-01-20T18:43:00.005Z

"Misery Vampire" is I think, too charismatic a name for the people who exhibit behaviour that defines them as such. Pointless Puke Sack or Worthless Shit Hound are much more apt names, but are not nearly as catchy and memorable, so I guess Misery Vampire will have to do. If you’ve never heard this phrase before let me explain what it actually means. A Misery Vampire is a person who for whatever reason thrives on the misery of others. There are many reasons why a person might develop this type of personality and I by no means claim to understand or even know them all, but one thing is for sure… there is very little short of murder or becoming almost a complete recluse that can rid oneself of a Misery Vampire if one of them decides to latch their misery fangs into you.

There are possibly many people who fall into this category that I have known throughout my life, but most of them remained undetected. My ex-wife I think might very well been a member of their ranks, although my judgment on that issue is a little clouded as you might expect.

It was only relatively recently that I actually encountered a full blown, stand up and be counted, card carrying member of their breed and recognised them for what they were. However, over time I realised with great discomfort that this particular night crawler, this wretched, emotional leech of a person, had decided that it was I who would be a perfect supplier of woe and misery to provide them with their nourishment.

We'll call him Scott, (because that is his name). Scott is one of the more common types of Misery Vampire that exists, because he lives “on-line”. He spends inordinate amounts of time connected to the internet (far more than I do and that’s really saying something). I guess he has a lot of free time, because he’s mostly unemployed (which does not surprise me in the slightest). He has been doing some work part time here and there, but just the sheer number of hours he logs on the internet shows he has a lot of free time… more free time than can be filled with the nicer aspects of having free time, such as leisurely baths, getting plenty of sleep, watching old movies or massively long sessions of masturbation. These pastimes are clearly not enough for the likes of Scott. I can imagine that being unemployed and no doubt lonely for long periods of time could result in a situation where masturbation no longer holds the charm that it once did… a sorry state of affairs to be sure, but one I can see being possible.

So when one finds oneself in such a situation what then? What is there left to fight back the waves of perpetual boredom? If life has become so tedious and monotonous that a person fails to see that such free time could in fact be viewed as a gift from the gods in this modern age, and that such free time is in fact an great opportunity to explore almost any facet of oneself to the personal benefit of body, mind and soul… if one can't see that opportunity… then what?

Well this is, I think, the turning point at which Scott’s Misery Vampire gene became active. I suspect a deep rooted subconscious voice buried under layers and layers of a tedious life and a pointless existence suddenly piped up and whispered in his inner ear something along the lines of…

“You know what… you've got a pretty immense stock of frustration and disappointment welling up in here buddy you should do something about that. I bet you could palm it off on someone else if you put your mind to it. Yeah I bet annoying people to such an extent that they become emotionally unbalanced and lose control of themselves would be really entertaining too… I mean emotionally you yourself are pretty fucked up as it is (not that you'd admit it), so how cool would it be to see if you could actually push someone else far enough and hard enough to the point where they get frustrated and miserable too… maybe even lose their temper… and I mean like REALLY lose their temper, even better if they can’t do a damned thing about it. I mean as long as you're safe, detached and out of their reach with no possible repercussions, who gives a shit if they actually explode into a murderous rage… in fact that would be about as cool as it could get… you'd be the master of emotion, the ruler or rage, the father of frustration… you could literally drive people insane with anger, fear, misery, hate… any emotion you choose. You would be the god you've always suspected you could have been and they would be your shit puppet minions."

… or something like that.

And so the Misery Vampire is born within Scott’s mind, born of his own boredom, his own frustrations, his own failings, his own regrets and inner demons. He loses a part of his humanity, he has changed in a way that only the constant interaction with the powerful and deceptively anonymous internet could have made possible. He loses track of his true nature as someone who was (possibly) once a decent person and decides that he doesn’t give a god damn, flying fuck about how anyone else feels… nobody gives a damn about him so he figures it’s even.

Now let's get this straight, Scott is far from stupid (unhinged possibly, but stupid no), in fact he likes to think that he’s smarter than most of the people he knows online and for the most part he may even be right. He knows his way around the internet (he’s been doing it for years after all). He likes to spot the flaws in the social networks, something most people don’t even give a second thought to. He finds loopholes and design flaws and then his active imagination comes up with interesting ways to use or exploit them… maybe for no good reason except because it is possible. He understands that the big organizations like Facebook and Myspace have a lot of work on their hands dealing with literally tens of millions of account holders and the untold number of complaints that they must generate every day. He knows that these social networks are now so large that they almost resemble digital dinosaurs, huge and powerful creatures who have unknowingly sacrificed something very important to gain their power and their size. They have sacrificed their speed. He is but one single smart man, a tiny insignificant entity scurrying between the feet of the behemoths. Darting out of their reach, reacting faster than they can. Changing and altering on a whim, exploiting the weaknesses that they are obviously unaware of (or they wouldn't exist) while the monsters above have become slow and lumbering beasts, restrained by their processes and procedures, their priorities and profit driven politics. As an individual he is almost invisible to the very powers that have given him the means to misbehave and misuse their systems. He is a "non entity" to those that have provided him with the very tools to carry out his devious actions and spiteful play… he is safe from the monsters, he is safe to become his own kind of monster.

The Misery Vampire has found the fertile lands of the social networks… and in them, an almost endless supply of potential victims… a never ending food supply to satisfy his hunger. His life of boredom is over, he now has purpose. He now has drive, he's turned his existence around and he becomes very efficient at what he does, he fine tunes his weapons and skills to the point where he feels invulnerable to those fools who would ever dare to stand against him.

Now I must admit that the title of this blog entry is a little misleading. There will be no interview with Scott, as I would never stoop to engaging in any form of conversation with him. He is a parasite and so I would no rather wish to interview him than I would wish to interview a tape worm (a creature with which he has much in common). It is more of a catalogue of events written to highlight the existence of such creatures as he and to warn you my dear reader to be wary of them. Not only because of the changes they can make to your life (which are numerous) but more importantly because of the changes that you will make to yourself in an effort to defeat people like Scott if you decided to stand up to them.

I'm sure it would delight Scott to know how much trouble and pain he caused during his campaign against me. I'm sure he would dance a little jig if he knew that he was personally responsible for raising my personal stress levels to a point where I had trouble sleeping at night. I'm sure he would almost dislocate his jaw laughing with glee to know that for a time, he was the first thing to cross my mind when awaking and the last thing I thought about as I tried to get to sleep at night. Should he ever discover this blog he might actually just explode with pride in his work… but I honestly don’t care anymore, because despite all the pleasure this would no doubt give him, I can rest assured that such shallow pleasures are probably the only ones he gets. In fact I'm pretty confident that I've built up such a comprehensive profile of his personality and life that I may even find it within my heart to pity him a little (not a lot you understand… but a little). Why?

Well you see to disrupt my life as much as he did, he had to have compiled a fair bit of information about me… he almost certainly had "a file" on me. What he doesn't know, is that because he pushed me so far and like him I am no slouch when it comes to putting the internet to my uses… I also had my own file on him. And what people like Scott never recognise is that if you piss enough people off for fun, one day you're going to piss someone off who's not gonna continue to just take on the chin like all the others. One day you might just push too hard against the wrong victim, one day you just might create your very own Nemesis. And although I'm sure he never realised it, that's exactly what happened when Scott pushed me just that little bit too far.

As I mentioned he no doubt had a file on me… but the file I ended up creating on him was so comprehensive and complete, that it included contact information and conversations with people very close to him… addresses, phone numbers, covert photographs and most importantly it included a list of people just like me, people who had become victims of this particular Misery Vampire. I brought them together to share their knowledge and experiences… I networked.

These people had been enraged, frustrated, distressed just like me, but until now they had been out there on their own. People who had been desperate to get back at Scott if only they could, but who never previously had the ability to do so. But I had brought them together… I had given them hope of revenge and closure. I had shown them that no matter how intelligent and devious Scott was… he'd met his match. And within this group of angry and now united people, were a small core of very angry people, a core network that spanned the globe… a group who (without him ever knowing it), were very, very close to Scott… a network of people who made it perfectly clear that they were capable, prepared and ready on my word to move in… and kill him.

To be continued…

Cowboys and Indians

2010-01-17T04:13:00.009Z

Lend me your ears dear reader (or more accurately your eyes and your patience). There's a very good chance that in about ten seconds you'll decide that this particular little blog entry is not to your taste and that you can't be bothered to read it. But stay with me please and have a read anyway, because even though it may seem that the subject of this blog entry holds no interest for you, let me assure that what I have to say is quite an interesting observation anyway and is certainly worth the few minutes it will take to read it.

I issue this warning because on the surface of it, this particular glob of braingunk would appear to be another of my little rambles about American Football… (I can almost hear the clicking of mouse buttons as readers flee already)… but stay with me just a little longer and you'll see it's not really about the sport but more about the American people.

You see I've observed an interesting cultural association that can be made about America Football. There seems to me, to be a clear similarity between the game and certain facets of the history of America itself and the spirit of its people. I call it the Cowboy and Indian factor.

It's not at all surprising that there are teams that would also seem to be aware of it as well (or at least used to be when they were formed). The Dallas Cowboys and the Washington Redskins are both teams with long histories and their names are an obvious homage to important icons from the nation's past. But the most interesting comparisons for my money are a little subtler. The most fascinating link between the game and the people that created it takes place on the field itself.

If you're unaware of how the sport functions you should know that there are two main elements of an American Football team; The Offence and The Defence. One (the offence) are responsible for moving the ball down the field and scoring, the other (the defence) are the players who’s objective is to halt the advance of the opposing team and stop them from scoring. A team's offence and defensive players are never usually on the field at the same time. When a team is in possession of the ball their offence is on the field and when they lose possession of the ball their defensive players take over. And these two team elements are (to me) a clear representation of ingredients from America's past and the spirit of the people. The way in which these two separate elements of the team behave and what their responsibilities are can be directly compared to the cultural struggle between the first American settlers and the Native American population.

The Offensive team members represent the cowboys or more accurately the American settlers. People struggling against all odds to push forward, to achieve, to conquer the wild new land and defeat all of the obstacles in their path. In another way they could also be thought of as representing parts of the family unit, with the fatherly figurehead embodied in the Quarterback or possibly the Head Coach. The running backs and tight ends representing the strong young sons in the backfield eager to rush forward and protect their father or carry out his instructions. The offensive line representing the family homestead or their circled wagon train, their picket fence hammered into the ground to protect them form the barbarians of the plains. And the very spirit of American freedom and liberty itself takes on physical form in the wide receivers. They surge into the unknown, they push out across the prairies like barely tamed stallions or locomotives coursing through the wide-open old west. The offence is elegant, civilised and intelligent. They are the very picture of determination and they use their cunning and intelligence as well as their physical prowess to defeat their foes, and all in the name of progress.

The defensive squad on the other hand are the complete opposite. They can be compared to what were thought of at the time as barbaric, violent savages. Their intentions are clear, their goal is to stop the Offence, the invaders of their territory, at all costs and they will inflict violent injury on their enemies to demonstrate their steadfast resolve to protect their land. They are the dark side. They will strike you from behind, they will gang up on you, they will surge towards the vulnerable ball carrier in packs and pound them into the ground. Their triumphant cries ringing around the battle field as they stand over the conquered… their chest beating and bellowing reinforcing their unmistakable role as native lords of the plain, and they are sending a message, a warning to those who dare encroach on their lands… "There be monsters here".

This is particularly evident when watching defensive ends and even more especially linebackers. They are the ones to be feared, they are the true warriors, they are the ones who will hurt you if they get you. To some extent the players themselves at some subconscious level also seem to understand their part in this comparison. Linebackers often act as if they know that they are the bogyman, the beasts, the scary demons of the game. They are the ones who want you to be afraid, they are the ones who will 'Bring The Pain'.

When the defensive line surges forward, grimaces of murderous intent are evident on their faces, they resemble a violent pack of animals fighting to get to their "meat". This direct contrast of the "play by the rules" family unit of wholesome pioneers on the one side of the ball and stop at nothing, ruthless violence mongers on the other is what makes American Football so attractive, even if most viewers never realise it. These roles are based deep in the nation's history and even embedded in their collective psyche. They come together to form the age-old classic tale of good verses evil, sophistication and civilisation against the savages and the beasts of adversity and chaos… The Cowboys and the Indians.

That's all for this blog. Next week we'll be examining the similarities between the war crimes of Nazi Germany and the popularity of High School Musical.

Stay tuned.

Life Tips 101 - The Secret of Happiness

2010-01-14T13:43:00.012Z

It's been said that I am a miserable sod. I moan and complain about everything, I rant and bitch and grumble and groan all the time and therefore by extension I must feel pretty miserable all of the time as well, I mean living under such a massive cloud of constant disappointment and disgust how could I not be miserable? Well I’m here to tell you that nothing could be further from the truth. I would honestly consider myself to generally reside on the sunny side of the street, a contented dweller of happy town and I know it might not be obvious from outside appearances but it's true. The rant machine himself is happy because he knows The Secret of Happiness…

"Tell us" the blog readers of the world cried "Tell us please oh wonderful blog prophet. Share with us this miracle secret that allows you to feel happy even in the face of all you have shown us. Tell us how to be happy in a world of shit biscuits and arse cakes, for we too like you oh wonderful sage of the braingunk have the need to be happy"…

… yes well ok then if you put it like that I will tell you. I will share with you the Secret of Happiness.

You see the first principle that you need to get your head around, is that of all the creatures on the earth, we are the only ones who even think we need to feel happy! All of the other creatures are just content to "be". They get on with their lives and what happens to them happens to them. If that makes them feel good they enjoy it, if it makes them feel bad they dislike it and deep down under all of our self made neurosis, we too can be just like them if we decide to.

Secondly you need to realize that the quest for “happiness” is a completely futile one. Happiness only exists inside your mind and therefore the only place you really need to look to find it, is within yourself. No external object or force can create happiness, it resides within you already.

Lastly and most importantly you need to realize that happiness is not a permanent state that one can attain. It is not something that a person can always "be". Even the happiest bastard in the world will have his off days, his blue periods, his moments of self doubt, of self loathing even, because happiness comes in small packages. Happiness is an orgasm or a cigarette, it's a chocolate bar, it's a shot of bourbon, it's a home game victory or the words "I do", it's any one of a million little things that you find pleasing. Happiness is not some kind of "life state", it is a small moment of pleasure that allows you to forget the rest of your woes, it’s a moment in time when everything is good… but it’s just a moment not an eternity.

Think of happiness as a drug, a drug to which you and I and everyone in the world are all addicted to (and in many ways that's exactly what it is). Happiness is a drug and we're all hooked. You get a fix and you feel great, but like all drugs eventually that feeling fades away and you are without it again. I'd estimate that the effects of a moment of happiness can last for no longer than maybe twenty minutes at tops and generally much less than that.

So when the feeling of elation fades, you experience the come down. Now this comedown isn't as noticeable or as painful as the comedowns from man made drugs, but it's there, and it's very subtle. The obvious thing to do at this point is of course (my little junkie) get some more happiness drug in you… and this is generally what a lot of people do. I'm guilty of it myself, there are many little pleasures in life that keep me ticking over, and to some my life might seem like one very long string of events that have been engineered towards getting me another few moments of happiness. You see if you get enough of those little moments, the gaps in between seem less of a downer. If you get enough little shots of the happiness drug by munching your way through a whole packet of biscuits… or by going drinking with friends every night or flying a kite or whatever (who knows), you'll feel happy more than you feel down. You’ll build up a stock of happy memories to get you through those blue periods. And yes sure if you head down a route where your pleasures relate to some form of physical self abuse you're going to run into problems later on (I'm having to deal with a few of those problems now myself). But it'll keep the wolf of sadness away from your door for just a little while every time.

So I hope you can see that the secret of a happy life isn’t some ill conceived quest for an intangible and unattainable state of being… it doesn’t require a massive upheaval or huge change in your life (a mistake many make)… it’s simply making sure that you do the things that you like and maybe even experiment to find more things that you like or like doing. Because if you can, and you can then string enough of these little moments of pleasure together… you will eventually realise (as I did)... that you are in fact simply happy.

braingunk store

2010-01-12T00:03:00.007Z

As some of you may have already noticed, braingunk is now sporting a spanking new "braingunk store" link in the top right corner.

Scoot on over there to pick up your very own braingunk themed t-shirts and mugs. You'll also find a veritable shed load of other off the wall, exclusive (and some might say insane) t-shirt designs for your wearing pleasures, such as the "I've Killed More Dolphins Than You" shirt seen here.

There's a section full of "I Heart" shirts none of which you're likely to find anywhere else on the planet and an "Over The Line" collection of quote "seriously wrong" slogans and images.

There's even a special introductory sale on right now, which runs until the end of Feb so grab your goodies now and save a few bucks.

Enjoy.

The Best TV Show Ever Made: Part 2

2010-01-07T12:34:00.004Z

OK so the holidays are over and everyone is back to work I guess… braingunk included, so I thought I'd better finish off one of the "to be continued" blogs from 2009. We're going to return to something that is never going to be off my shit list... the cancellation of Firefly.

Firefly and the FOX TV network... yes indeed.   There are plenty of sites out there detailing the actual events leading up to Firefly being cancelled, so I’m not going to go over old territory here, have a hunt around and find that info for yourselves. To be honest though I don't think anyone out there has ever explained it in a way that made any kind of sense.

How could such a thing happen in the first place. I find it incomprehensible that anyone involved in entertainment could not see Firefly for what it was, that being something destined to become a classic. I assume that those people at Fox responsible for canning the show have had at least some experience within the industry? I assume that they got into the positions where they have the authority to decided if a show should continue or be cancelled because they can tell the difference between something that's good and something that not? But if these seemingly obvious assumptions are correct then how on earth could they have reached the decision to cancel Firefly?

Could it have been personal? An executive feud with the creator maybe. Could it have been some kind of message from the studio to all the writer/producers out there? "Don’t get too big for your boots boys and girls, we’ll shut you down… just remember what we did to Firefly"

Or could it have been just plain old stupidity? Who knows.

There must have been a meeting (one would have thought) with several people present to decide the fate of the show, how could that group of experienced television people have ended up with the result that they did? It's baffling.

OK the entertainment industry is driven by greed like most other mass market media industries, and the show was not at the time doing very good numbers apparently (the failure of Fox to air the show in the right way at the right time is to blame for this btw), but not doing good numbers in the first part of the first season is by no way a kiss of death… they said the same thing about the original series of Star Trek and that turned out to be a nice little money earner didn’t it? I think you'll find Buffy The Vampire Slayer didn't post brilliant returns in the first half of its first season either… that worked out pretty good though too didn't it?

Yeah yeah and I know it's pointless braying about it now, no amount of ranting will bring Firefly back and I know Joss Whedon (the show’s creator) managed to get a "Firefly" movie made (Sernity) but it’s not the same. The movie disappointed me on so many levels (sorry Joss). The Firefly concept was perfect for the long format of a television series, so many secrets, so much background to the characters and the universe to discover. How could he possibly hope cram it all into a single two hour movie… well he couldn't. Serenity left me feeling more sad not less sad. It reminded me all the more of the things that I wanted to learn about Firefly. It didn't satisfy my hunger, it made me hunger for more. It didn't calm the flames of my incredulity, it stoked them.

Dear Fox,
When I discovered Firefly I fell in love with it. When I discovered that you had cancelled the show I totally fell out of love with television and the stupid choices that you seem capable of making. I found other shows that had been cancelled without good reason. I stopped watching broadcast television completely three and a half years ago now. That's right Fox, you dumb ass, your infinitely retarded decision to cancel possibly the best TV show ever made, before it even got to the end of its first season, has enraged me, one of your customers, so much (and I dearly hope many others too) that I decided to completely stop playing by your rules and consuming your "product"… completely. Well done, nice move, great business decision.

Yours truly;
One Less Viewer

Like I said, I don't watch broadcast TV anymore, and it's true. I've not seen a single TV advert, the fuel that runs the network's engines in the last three years or so (and I'm not missing them much I can tell you).

I'll watch a DVD or even download something if it sounds interesting, but nowadays if I'm watching TV I'm doing it on my terms.

And if you want my advice good people… you should do the same.

RIP:
·    Dollhouse
·    Jericho
·    Las Vegas
·    Global Frequency
·    Threshold
·    Drive
·    And of course … Firefly

braingunk's Christmas Message

2009-12-22T14:05:00.010Z

Let's get this straight. I am not a Christian, I'm not a Jew, a Hindu, a Muslim or even an Atheist. I am an Agnostic and as some of you may know I'm a pretty damned avid one to boot, some might even say a fundamentalist. Seems like a little bit of a contradiction I know, (strongly undecided?)… but I firmly and wholly believe that any other standpoint apart from Agnosticism is not only illogical but in some cases totally arrogant… and we all know how that gets my proverbial goat in a lather.

I'm actually quite interested in religion, I find religious discussions both stimulating and oftentimes enlightening, and they almost always actually reinforce my own faith as a committed agnostic.

I generally don't have a problem with anyone else's faith as long as they don't try and ram it down other people's throats or get all Holy War on anyone else's ass. I refrain from taking part in any religious activities (obviously), but am keen to discuss peoples experiences, faith and any other religious topics.

BUT and it's a big but… in fact it's a giant pile of hypocrisy that always seems to collapse on my personal sensibilities once a year… you see… I can't help but love Christmas.

I love everything about it with the exception of the religious aspects. I love the weather, I love the food, I love buying, giving and receiving (obviously) presents. I love the holly and mistletoe, I love Christmas carols and crackers, big old giant dinners made up from the sort of foods I never normally eat at any other time of the year. I love the chocolate, and the ginger wine and the snow and gloves and wrapping up warm. I love snowball fights with the kids (even though I always complain and pretend to get grumpy when they batter me (as they always do)). I love Father Christmas and Rudolph and all his buddies. I love old Christmas movies and old Christmas music. I love Dickens. I love the way people tend to be just a little more friendly. I love the early nights and the cold mornings. I love the sound of sleigh bells and the look of then English countryside covered in snow. I love my boots, I love that cars suddenly become unpredictable terror machines. I love Christmas day specials and I even love the TV adverts (although they are obviously completely evil and anyone who works in advertising should consider hanging themselves at least once every day).

So as I say, at this time of year I often find myself in a bit of a spot and I'm most certainly NOT going to start calling it "The Winter Celebration" or “The Snow Festival” or some other such lame politically correct bullpap.

It's Christmas and I love it, even though I'm not a Christian.

And so whatever your faith, or your beliefs, let me (a non Christian) leave you with this little and special Christmas message.

Lets us all just try and enjoy this time of year and do our best to get along with each other. If we can do it for a few weeks, who knows maybe one day we’ll be able to do it all year.

And as Mr Charles Dickens once said to us through the words of an innocent child…

"God* Bless Us, Every One"

*May be substituted for any of the following:

Gods, Non specific Mystical Entity or Entities, Random Chance, Alien Overlords, Wise (optionally chubby) person or persons, Spirit or Spirits of nature, Elemental, Celestial or Animal based forces, The Ghosts of our ancestors, The Force, Ceiling Cat, Spaghetti Monster, The Great Maarg, We Ourselves, Nothing or … Other.

Shhhhhh

2009-12-17T21:52:00.030Z

Ok so I ramble a bit, ok so I can get sidelined from time to time, I can even go off on a tangent occasionally, like that one time I started going on about trends in shoe design when I was supposed to be writing about liver failure, remember that? lol... ok I admit it. But I hope that underneath each little sideline rant there is still some kind of purpose, I hope that my ramblings don't (in general) ramble too far away from "A Point". Which brings me nicely onto my latest pet peeve... Pointless Social Network Status Updates.

I've done it myself and by the number of mind numbing updates on my news and twitter feeds there's a good chance you have too. You know what I mean, just posting some little thought that pops into your head, or a tiny little slice of your mundane every day life, or the ever popular tale of "micro woe" (as if sharing your everyday unsolvable problems with 140 million other people will somehow solve them... which it won't by the way).

You've seen them, you know the sort of thing I'm talking about "Bob Smith is cold", "Sally Jones is tired", "Andrew Williams is wondering where all the snow went" or the unforgettable "Mark Peters is going to bed".

Pointless little snippets of people's tedious life, (that let's be honest) nobody cares about or even cares to read. They're just random little thoughts most of the time, and they should probably just stay in our heads (they certainly would have done in the time before the internet). Why some people find the urge to share these little nuggets of nothingness is beyond me (even though as I say I've been guilty of it myself in the past from time to time).

Then there is the obvious cry for sympathy or attention "Mary Williams is feeling soooo low", "Paul Cook wishes it wasn't over". It seems that some people produce nothing but these desperate and needy little messages, which seem terribly sad and depressing... actually they don't seem sad and depressing, they seem fucking annoying and pathetic. If you've got problems, go and talk to someone about them or keep it bottled up like the rest of us, just please stop fishing for attention randomly on facebook or wherever. It makes you seem even sadder than you actually are, trust me. One wonders how long it will be before the first case of "status update-munchausen syndrome" is diagnosed? I can think of a couple of candidates for clinical studies right off the top of my head.

But sad as they are, the "cry for attention" updates annoy me less than the ones that really bake my noodle. The "non-event event" updates, such as the classic "Sophie Brown is going food shopping", and the earth shattering "Matt Philips is watching TV", and who could ever forget the brilliance of "Wendy Parsons is cleaning the carpet"... who the fuck cares... no seriously? Who... the... fuck... cares. This isn't news, this isn't status, this isn't even in the slightest bit interesting... to anyone. It's just fucking pointless and annoying crap. If you post this sort of thing you should be ashamed of yourself... no seriously, next time you're about to post a tweet or a status update, check yourself. Just have a little think about what drivel it is that you are about to piss onto the internet. Seriously if this is the sort of thing you post, then just have a think about how annoying and fucking pointless it's going to make you seem... in fact if you want to update your status then here's what you should write instead "INSERT NAME is fucking annoying and pointless". Nice one.

And here's one last little point while I'm on a roll. If you're feeling sad or lonely or broken hearted, for God's sake stop posting fucking song lyrics as your status. If you're going to post what is effectively bad poetry, then please, for the love of Firefly please make the fucking effort and write something original and relevant for yourself. Don't just dip into the fountain of historical sorrow and select an off the shelf moment of woe, share your own. In fact, fuck it, stop posting lyrics for any reason... show some imagination and if you're not capable of doing that, if you're completely incapable of NOT seeming like someone who has nothing to say whenever you put fingers to keyboard... then sit down, move away from the keyboard and leave it be. If that's you, then face it, you're a drone... now be a good drone and shut the fuck up.

Pink Shirts and/or Purple Ties

2009-12-08T08:00:00.009Z

Now I'm sure you've seen them, especially if you live or work in London England. The bankers and the brokers, the money men and the movers and shakers that have in recent times taken to wearing pink shirts and/or purple ties.

Now what with London being the fashion capital that it undoubtedly is, there are several reasons to explain why certain types of men have started to wear such garb. But there is one very important reason regarding this trend in attire, that most people have failed to notice and I'm especially talking to you the ladies out there.

Pink shirts and/or purple ties have become a uniform, a uniform worn by a particular brand of modern man. Now I'm sure a lot of you are thinking that I'm about to play the "gay angle" but you'd be wrong. Most gay men that I know would never be seen dead in a pink shirt and/or a purple tie, because generally they are a particularly aware group when it comes to fashion and the messages sent out by the clothes you wear. No, most gay men would not wear a pink shirt or a purple tie for one simple reason.

In almost every circumstance those men that do wear pink shirts and/or purple ties are… well there's no other word to best describe them so I'm just going to have to use it. Most men who wear pink shirts and/or purple ties are… cunts.

There I said it. Yes cunts, and cunts of the highest order to boot.

I currently work in Islington, a reasonably fashionable and pleasant area of London and while I'm there, the one thing that's pretty much off the radar is pink shirts and/or purple ties… why… because most of the people that work in or live in Islington are actually pretty cool people.

However (yes there is my favorite word again) on my way to work, I do walk between Fenchurch Street station and the Bank underground station… right through the heart of the financial district of the city. Now I'm not saying that everyone that works in that area should be considered in any less a favorable light than anyone working in any other part of London… but I'm certainly implying it.

Not every person I've met in that particular part of London was a selfish, insensitive, manipulative, uncaring, ignorant, self centered, disgusting, hypocritical cock wipe… but most of them were. And of those human cockroaches that scurry between the money and pussy and the coke, the worst examples I've ever met…by far… were wearing pink shirts and/or purple ties.

So to keep this short, I'm just going to finish now with a couple of pieces of advice.

IF you are a lady and one day a man takes your fancy and you date him and he seems perfectly charming, financially secure, witty and fun, but later you see him wearing a pink shirt and/or a purple tie… run… run for your life. Because underneath the layer of charm he’s managed to fool you with… he's a total and utter bastard just waiting to fuck you over and piss on your self esteem and shit on your heart… trust me, he is.

And IF perchance you happen to be the type of man that wears a pink shirt or perhaps a purple tie or even both… then… all I can say is … well… fuck you… do everyone a favour and crawl back under your rock and die, you are scum, you are vermin…you are the worst example of human trash imaginable.

Have a nice day.

Contact 1

2009-12-06T01:58:00.017Z

They were coming in way too fast. A crash landing was now the best they could hope for. The lander dipped suddenly and began to vibrate wildly as the friction started to build up against the hull. Too damned fast by far. He fought the controls, trying to level off and at least give them a chance. Somebody had screwed up badly and now it looked like the crew of "Contact 1" were going to pay with their lives. Some damned egg head, scientist back home had drastically miscalculated the atmospheric density of this world, the first alien world that the space program had ever discovered showing any signs of alien life.

The air was just too damned thick and the pressures were too much for the ship. A worrying thought occurred to him, if they'd been wrong about that, what the hell else had they been wrong about?

Five years he'd been training for this mission, five long and painful years that had been hard on them all and had been especially hard on their families. He thought about his wife and how she'd begged him not to go, how she'd been so scared that something just like this would happen and then he thought of all the times he'd reassured her that nothing would go wrong.

Suddenly they started to loose pressure. "Strap yourselves in boys" he called over his shoulder to the others, he didn't know if they'd heard him, the thick atmosphere of the alien world outside battered the thin hull, creating an almost deafening roar. Dense swirling clouds of who knows what washed over the small window in front of him as they continued to plummet towards the unseen ground below. If he could just squeeze a little more out of the engines, he might be able to angle them up into a more controlled descent. The heavy air beneath them would then work for them providing lift, instead of just clubbing their delicate ship to pieces.

He checked the altimeter and wished he hadn’t, the numbers were tumbling down at a dizzying rate. He suddenly realized that the atmospheric pressure wasn't the only thing the scientists back home had got wrong, the damned gravity was stronger than expected too.

He heard a shout from Marsh his co-pilot behind him, but the roar from outside was too loud and he couldn't make out what he was saying. Then it dawned on him, Marsh's main responsibility during the normal landing stage of the descent would be to deploy the landing parachutes. At this speed they would most likely rip clean off the ship, but if they didn't… if they didn't, then they just might give them enough drag to bring the damned lander back under his control.

He twisted round to see Marsh frantically trying to mime opening the chutes. "DO IT" he shouted over din. Marsh got the message and reached for the chute controls, that were never meant to be used under circumstances like these.

Amazingly it worked, the chutes deployed and their cables didn't snap. The drag they created wasn't nearly enough to slow them to a safe landing speed, but it did give the ship some stability and with that, some slight control.

He pulled back on the controls and the nose slowly began to rise. He checked the altimeter again, they were still coming in too fast, a crash was now unavoidable. If he could just get into a slight lateral glide, they might be able to ditch into some water or soft terrain or something if they were lucky.

At that moment they broke through the cloud cover and his heart sank. The planet looked about as completely inhospitable as it possibly could have done. Arid, broken desert stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. A hard, baked landscape littered with nothing but rocks and scars. A lifeless and hostile environment, very different form the scientists predictions. If they survived the crash, their troubles would be far from over. They were all going to die on this alien world, even if the coming impact didn't kill them.

He stole a quick glance away from the navigational controls just for a second to check the science station to his right. In the top right of the instruments was the water detector. Surprisingly it indicated that there was a body of water somewhere in the area but was less than helpful as to which direction.

They were low now, very low. Their speed had slowed but not nearly enough, the surface of the alien world rushed towards them at an alarming rate. This was it, he called to Marsh and the communications officer Brown, "Hold on to something, this is gonna get rough".

They readied themselves as best they could, twisting their hands around the straps that fastened them into their seats. Brown looked scared, but called over some encouragement. "You can do it! If anyone can get this thing on the ground in one piece you can." He hoped Brown was right.

The chute cables finally gave up, torn form the lander by the high speed and the denser air near the ground. He hadn't expected them to last this long. He hoped they'd done enough.

They hit the hard alien soil and almost instantly flipped end over end, tumbling and slamming back down again hard, over and over. It wasn't designed to take such punishment and the ship literally tore in half, the fragile metal skin ripping like tissue paper under the impact. The aft section containing Marsh and Brown spun away out of sight, as what was left of the forward section suddenly dug into the ground and began to slide. Rocks and boulders smashed into the fuselage sending shock waves through what was left of the ship as it skidded across the surface. The booming blasts sounded like a cacophony of massive cannon shots one after the other.

He passed out.

There was no way to tell how long he'd been unconscious, but when he awoke it was dark. He unbuckled his seat straps and fell to the floor in agony. He lay there for a moment and only realized his left leg and arm were both broken when he tried to move. The pain was excruciating, but he managed to slowly drag himself free from the twisted wreckage of the cockpit, and lay panting on his back staring up at the stars. He thought of his wife.

He remembered the small medical kit that was sewn into the sleeve of his suit and painfully rummaged around until he found the pack of pain killers. He dry swallowed four of them and then rested for a while. At least someone back home had been right about something. He breathed deep. The air was slightly acrid, tainted but at least it was breathable.

The pain killers were slowly working. He pulled him self up onto his feet with a wince and found a piece of the broken ship to use as a crutch. He had to find the aft section. His injuries were bad, but the others might be in worse shape and in need of his help. It didn't take him long to locate the rear section of Contact 1. There were small fires burning all through the crash site and wreckage. They stood out like beacons against the pitch black of the alien night. Carefully and slowly he hobbled across the dark landscape. His concern for his two crewmates grew, it looked as if the tail end of the ship had been almost completely smashed to pieces in the crash. He found what was left of the crew compartment and looked inside.

Brown and Marsh were both dead. Their bodies badly twisted and crushed. He steadied himself against the fuselage and wept.

He salvaged what he could, which wasn't much. He pulled the potable radio transmitter from Brown's suit and some more pain killers, then went back out into the darkest night he'd ever experienced.

He lowered himself back down onto the sand to rest. A dull pain was slowly building in his left side and he realized he may have broken some ribs too. He tore his already tattered suit aside to examine his skin… it was badly swollen and almost dark purple, unmistakable signs of internal bleeding. He screamed in frustration and despair, then listened to his cry fade out across the alien world he now knew would become his grave…

… and then he saw it.

A dull soft glow of light just beyond a rise in the desert, not really a hill, just a rise. He guessed it was quite a way off, although it was hard to tell in the darkness. Perhaps it was the body of water he'd seen on the ship's instruments reflecting the starlight, maybe it was something else.

The pain in his side was getting worse. He swallowed more of the pain killers and decided that if he was going to die here, his last act would be to see what was causing the light on the other side of the rise.

It was even further that he'd thought. For what seemed like a lifetime he slowly limped towards the light, supporting his weight with the piece of debris. He used the last of the drugs to get him through the pain. The light seemed to call to him, it sometimes flickered and pulsed. He had to see what was causing it.

When his legs finely gave way he crawled…he could no longer support himself, but sheer determination kept him moving. The pain was unbearable, several few times he stopped to rest and when he felt himself drifting into unconsciousness he would force himself to start moving again.

Day broke and he took a few moments to watch the massive and incredibly bright alien sun slowly rise into the sky.

By the time he reached the top of the rise, he could barely crawl on his belly, dirt caked his lips and the corners of his eyes. The fingers of his right hand bled from pulling himself along through the harsh sand and stones. He'd now totally lost all feeling in his left hand side and couldn't move either of his legs. He was dying, he knew it, but he had to reach the source of the light he'd seen in the night. With one last effort and with all of his remaining strength, he pulled himself to the very top of the rise. What he saw below was astounding.

It was an alien settlement, strange angled structures arranged in long lines, tall spires connected by thin filament ribbons of who knew what material, swinging back and forth gently in the breeze. What looked like machines moving all over the place, all apparently different and all obviously and completely alien in their design. He could even see some of the aliens themselves, impossibly tall creatures with extremely long arms and long slender legs. To his dying eyes the looked like the most beautiful and elegant creatures he’d ever seen.

Suddenly the pain in his side returned in full force, but he was too weak to even cry out. He knew he only had a few moments left before he would inevitably spiral down through unconsciousness to his death. He remembered the radio transmitter. It was of no use for direct communication with home, the distances were far too vast. But if he could just send the message, telling the folks back home that there was indeed life here, that things had gone wrong, but it had not been a wasted effort. Then perhaps they would one day send another mission to make contact and hopefully to make friends with the elegant beings he had seen below.

He turned onto his side and saw what looked like a landing strip at the edge of the settlement. Beside it was a large sign scrawled with alien symbols. He had no idea what it said, but he carefully copied it down onto the touch pad of the communicator. Then he added the one and only mission report from the surface of the alien world they'd traveled so far and given their lives to see.

The message would take almost 15 years to get back home. But he'd sent it. He lay on the sand as the life slowly drained out of him. He read and reread the message until he could read no more and then slowly slipped into the arms of death with hope in his heart.

Contact 1 Mission Report /

Ship destroyed during crash landing. Atmosphere far denser than expected. All crew lost or terminally injured. Visual contact with intelligent and advanced alien life forms confirmed. Alien transcription enclosed at end of message, possibly the name for this world.

Contact 1 sends regards from the surface of: "Roswell New Mexico"

End /

The Message

2009-12-03T13:31:00.006Z

Staring at the small laptop keyboard in front of him, he desperately tried to remember what the hell he had decided to write. Nothing came. His mind was a blank and yet crowded with thoughts. He looked out of the carriage window across the dark city for inspiration as it sped by. Rivulets of the streaming rain dancing across the glass like tiny twisting transparent serpents, refracted orange street lights skipping through them, illuminating their innards like hair thin ribbons of fast moving lava… no fire.

Fire… yes it was something to do with fire. His hands slowly drifted back onto the keys and he let the words pour out of him. It was always like this once he'd found his trigger, a constant stream of ideas or actions. His fingers danced, tap, tap, tapping out his meaning and message. Scoring the blank white screen with his thoughts made real.

Fire, conflagration, a torrent of destruction, perhaps the very manifestation of mother nature's anger and spite and vengeance all rolled into one. A chemical reaction so alive and uncontrollable that most people go their entire lives without understanding or even thinking about how it functions. Fire.

He rested his fingers a moment and scanned the other passengers around him. Were his writings being surreptitiously monitored? Were his very thoughts being read? It didn't matter, nobody would say or do anything, he'd ridden this train before, during the planning stage. Now, sitting in the same seat as before, in the same carriage with laptop before him capturing his thoughts and sending them home, nobody cared… but that would change.

The train began to slow and a soulless and detached female voice announced the approach of the next stop. A number of people started to gather their belongings, folding newspapers, pulling on coats and departing once the train had stopped. Only then to be replaced with others carrying out the same actions but all of them in reverse. The train moved on.

He checked his watch, a cheap plastic piece of crap that one of his brothers had handed to him the night before.

3 minutes.
No sense in wasting something more expensive he thought with a tiny ironic smile. He returned his gaze to the laptop. It too was a poor quality device, he was however amazed that it worked at all, considering what had been done to it and what it contained underneath its silvery black skin. He checked his watch again.

2 minutes.
The time seemed to be ticking away faster than he'd have liked, he did not want to leave things undone, so he returned his attention to his writing.
He finished the letter to his wife and hit send. He watched with patience as the wifi connection light strobed sending his words through the air, he wondered if she would cry when she read them, he felt certain she would. He just hoped what he had written would sooth her heart a little, maybe even make her proud of him one last time.
The words "Message Sent" appeared in the corner of the screen. How perfect he thought… message sent, how appropriate for he now considered himself the messenger.

He looked at his watch one last time.
30 seconds.
Reaching out he closed the lid on the laptop and then sat back and closed his eyes too in the same slow, deliberate manner. There was an almost irresistible urge to suddenly stand up and shout at the top of his lungs, to shock those around him, to make them realize what they had called down upon themselves, to scream at them, to let them know they had been judged and that were all lacking… but the urge subsided and he realized it was pointless, it made no difference if they knew or not, they were guilty and they were about to be punished for their heresy.

He'd lost count of the remaining time, there could only be a few seconds left before the device inside the laptop's case detonated, blasting a massive hole in the carriage and no doubt tripping the entire train from its rails, sending his divine message to the world in a ball of cleansing fire, shattered glass and twisted metal… just as his brothers would be doing very soon themselves. He realized that in just a few moments he would be with them again, he smiled a deep and satisfied smile and wondered if any of them would feel the fire…

0 Seconds

What do you do?

2009-12-02T13:37:00.008Z

What do you do? A simple question with numerous possible answers, and even though it’s meaning is clear it can sometimes catch you on the hop… and it catches me on the hop all the time. That’s because what I actually do for a living and what I want to do, are two different things.

If I had to be honest when answering the question I would probably say something like "I design computer games and then help develop them"… which to some of you may sound interesting and I guess it is. When I was younger, computer games were a passion, now not so much so.

If instead I could lie a little and say what I want to do I’d say… "I am a writer". It is something I enjoy, it is something I'm told I do well (on occasion) and it is something I do have a passion for… and a passion is something that's been missing from my professional life now for quite some time.

But like I said, the question "what do you do?" can indeed sometimes catch you on the hop, especially when you are in a conflicted and contrary position like myself… and that's just what it happened last weekend.

I was at a science fiction convention (yes I know) but I had the opportunity to meet and spend some time with a very interesting array of actors and actresses, many of whom I've admired for a long time. At one point I was sitting at a table with the most beautiful and charming Morena Baccarin, star of Firefly/Serenity and more recently the new re-imagined TV series "V".

The conversation was naturally centred around her when she suddenly and quite unexpectedly turned to me and asked "so, what do you do?" with what seemed to be genuine interest… and that is when my brain jammed… the conflict must have been visible on my face for a moment, I'm certain of it.

I have to admit that the honest and truthful answer was not the first one to reach my lips, through my addled brain, yes that's right I lied to Morena Baccarin, right to her (beautiful) face.

I said "I'm a writer" which seemed to pique her interest in the tubby English man with the long (bad) hair. Thankfully another guest at table suddenly engaged her in a different conversation and I escaped the (now I think about it) terrible situation, of either having to come clean, or of compounding my lie with non-existent details of my non-existent works.

But she had planted a seed "What do you do?" she asked… "I'm a writer" I said.

My youngest son said something else yesterday that made me sit up and think too. We were discussing this very topic and he said "You lied to her… you're not a writer, you're a painter"!

Now it is true I have been known to throw some paint in the general direction of a canvas from time to time, but not with any serious intent. So I asked him to clarify and he said "well just look around, you've done loads of paintings… you're a painter".

I must admit, that to an outside observer his point would seem valid. The walls of my home are indeed festooned with my amateur daubings. And I guess to his child's eyes that's all that matters, a visual record of my painting activity. He's seen me painting many times, he's looked at the resulting abominations over and over around our home. So he thinks of me as a painter, regardless of any of my other endeavours, because they are not visible. There is not for example a single published written work in sight, not a single word of prose displayed to prove I have ever put pen to paper.

But then what proof is there that I am or even could one day be considered a writer?

These rambling blogs? One almost (but not quite) finished Doctor Who novella? Several "works in progress" and dozens of "projects" many doomed to never progress beyond their barely started state?

My encounter with Morena Baccarin and the words of my son have spurred me on. I cannot in all honesty call myself a writer until there is some proof of it. Something that could be held up as an example of my efforts. Something to show or discuss.

To be a writer one must write, and so I must write more than I do, I must pursue publication more and I must attain it. I must seek out writing work and take it on. I will sacrifice all of my available time and effort to it.

I must write, and I will write, because the next time I meet Morena Baccarin, I don’t want to lie to her again.

When she says "Oh hi, we've met before haven't we, you're a writer aren’t you".

I want in all honestly to be able to reply…

"Yes Morena… yes I am".

The Times They Are A Changing

2009-11-24T14:05:00.008Z

Good (insert your time of day here),

As you may (or may not) have noticed The Fifth Circle is no more, it's been covered in braingunk for reasons you don't care about, but I think it's a far snappier name for sure.

Just a short entry today and the first of our interactive features. There are two topics for your entertainment and enjoyment today and you get to choose which one gets written. Yes that's right, through the use of the Google Time Shift™ interface you can actually send instructions back in time to braingunk, who will then write the blog entry of your choice. Simply choose the subject below that you would like to be written:

1: The News Free News

2: The Secret of Eternal Life

Thank you. You have selected…

The News Free News

I witnessed a tragedy today, it was the end of an era, the end of an institution but more importantly it was the end of honesty.

I sat smoking a cigarette and watched as yet another nail was driven into the coffin of truth by the evil hammer of advertising and commercial greed.

The London Evening Standard newspaper is now being given away free.

Now I know what many of you are thinking "yeah so what" and even more of you are thinking "well that's a good thing isn’t it"… no, no it's not a good thing and let me explain why.

There are as I'm sure you are aware quite a few free newspapers in the world, they operate by offsetting their costs with extra advertising revenue. More adverts equals more money equals no cover charge… simple.

But as I sat there watching people gleefully grabbing their "free" copies of The Standard I just couldn't help thinking about the subtle shift in standards that would ensue over time. You see when you had to pay for The Standard you were a customer. The organization behind the paper had to take your needs, your wants, your opinion into account.. hell you were paying their wages after all. But once the customer has been taken out of that financial loop, what then… who sets the standards for The Standard as it were. The advertisers of course.

The Evening Standard was founded in 1827 and until October 2009 it was like any other newspaper that customers paid for. It's content and editorial style were tailored to the needs of those customers. Sales figures for newspapers are a very simple and effective barometer of their success and their ability to deliver on a regular basis what their customers need from a daily paper.

By all counts The London Evening Standard was a very successful paper. Considering its regional status, it's fairly impressive that it boasted sales figures that outstripped those of some national papers. And I'm sure the powers that be were very chuffed with themselves that making the paper free literally doubled their readership figures over night!

But to me that's another thing worth thinking about. Look at it like this. Before they made the paper free, 100% of their readership found their product good enough to pay for it. But after it became free that figure dropped to 50%. Now 50% of their readership did not previously think the paper worthy of purchase, they take it now because it is free, but how long will it be before those one in every two readers have an influence on the quality and style of the paper's content, changing it from what it is into what they want… something that is clearly not the same as the previous paying customers wanted.

And my last point. Are the readers the only factor in potential changes that could turn a well established and consistently successful newspaper into just another land fill contribution? Of course not. We're forgetting the people that now actually pay for the paper… yes the advertisers. How long will it be before content changes are made due to advertising pressures? How long before column content has to be approved by brand owners? How long before the news becomes marginalized by the adverts? For me… its already happened.

The powers that be might very well be congratulating themselves on doubling their readership, I hope they also appreciate they just lost every last one of their paying customers.

Goodbye Evening Standard, you will be missed.

Burn Baby Burn

2009-11-20T13:55:00.003Z

I'm not sure why I'm addicted to chilli but I am. Since my first introduction to Indian food I've been fascinated with the spicy side of cuisine. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not the sort of person who constantly selects the hottest thing on the menu, and then gripes about how "mild" it is (no matter what damage it might actually be doing to my taste buds), oh no. If something is hot, I'll be the first to let you know about it. Meals that are considered "hot" are generally a little too hot for me. And yet I seem to have a consummate obsession with fresh raw chilli.

There is no such thing as too hot when it comes to fresh chilli in my opinion. Like I said cooked food and I'm a Madras man all the way, but when it comes to fresh raw chilli… I'm a mad man.

Here's an example of my dementia and why I seriously think I've got a problem (one for which there is no rehab program). A bunch of guys from work were down the pub (as usual), talking crap (as usual) when the subject of the conversation got around to chilli sauce (as it sometimes does).

The thing about these conversations is they are never going to be about flavour, oh no. Sure flavour gets a mention every now and again, but it is strength, potency, pure macho chilli power that is at the core of the topic.

Now if you are anything like me (which I sincerely hope you are not), you'll know that even really spicy chilli sauce doesn't stand up very well when compared to the insanity and pure potency of raw fresh chilli. You see any manufactured sauce has to meet certain standards of safety and comply with health regulations etc. Fresh grown chilli has no such regulation. There really is nothing like it. The burn can be instant and numbing, the effect on your physical system shocking to observe. The sudden onset of hiccups, the involuntary reddening of the face and copious facial sweating, panting… hell vocal exclamations, moaning, hell even genuine tears of pain if it's a good one.

Let's get something clear here, I'm not talking about the kind of chilli you get drizzled over your Kebab on a Saturday night, I'm not talking about the chilli they chop into cute little rings and scatter over your Pad Thai, hell I'm not even talking about the nuclear chilli they grind down in sealed underground bunkers for use creating the legendary Indian Phal… No, I'm talking about the really hot shit here, chilli that makes a Phal taste like a lemon cheesecake, chilli so hot that to handle it with your bare hands is a hazard… (no really I'm not kidding). And the amazing thing is that you can buy chilli this hot over the counter in a 1000 different London establishments, no warning, no guidelines, sometimes not even a name… nothing. Pay ya money, take your chilli and burn your face off.

I've wandered again (sorry I do that). Anyway, we were in the pub and we're talking chilli. When I remember there is a local shop not one hundred yards from the pub which is always open and which sells some of the most dangerous fresh chilli in existence… not the strongest in the world for sure, but pretty damned close… the third strongest to be precise. The Red Savina Habanera.

Now to put this in context there is a handy scale that has been created to measure spiciness. It's called the Scoville Scale and the Red Savina is right up near the top. The humble Jalapeno pepper which you are no doubt familiar with, rates at between 3000pts and 8000pts on this scale. The Red Savina on the other hand, rates at between 350,000pts to 550,000pts (gulp).

I stick in an order for a pint and then explain that I'll be back shortly and run to the shop. I purchase about a quarter of a kilo of the deadly vegetable and hasten back to the pub. Sure enough even the sight of one of the most deadly spice bombs (and have no doubt in the wrong circumstances that's exactly what they can be) is enough to get a few of the guys backing away in their seats.

So I offer them around…"who wants a bite?" I ask… "no thanks", "not for me, thanks", "thanks but no thanks" come the responses. And to be honest I respect their caution. I know what these little bastards are like, I've had them before. Finally we get a taker and it is just they guy I knew would not be able to resist. He's got rep when it comes to hot food, I once saw him eat three different Phals from three different Indian take always all in one sitting … just to work out which was the hottest! Like I said, he has reputation… but so (I like to think) do I.

Now it's suddenly a competition. We both know it and I'm pretty convinced we both know I've already lost, but we have to play the game anyway. I decide to go first, I'm sure the damned thing is going to burn my head right off and hopefully that demonstration will be enough to evaporate his self control and restraint… I'll melt and then hopefully he will too (so goes my thinking) then we can share the camaraderie of "the insane hot chilli guys" and bathe in the respect and admiration of our shall we say "chicken shit" buddies. ;)

I take a bite.

It's hard to describe the initial pain of stupidly hot chilli burn, it comes on pretty fast with these particular peppers. It comes on fast and hard and builds and builds until you think it can't possibly get any hotter at which point it really kicks in and just does. Then come the secondary effects, the sweats, the numbness of the lips and the cheeks, the uncontrollable hiccups (something I managed to bypass this time thank god). But the fire is unbelievable, it is self torture, it is nothing but a macho demonstration of pain control. And a demonstration I am failing. No sane person would do this.

I've made my move, tears of pain are running down my face, I'm red and sweating. Some of the guys are taking photos, one is even recording the sound of my pained cries. But all are laughing and enjoying the show. I've demonstrated just how painfully hot these little bastards are, and now it's my opponents turn.

He takes… he bites… he chews, he looks me square in the eyes just as the heat is building and we exchange a knowing moment of secret communication, an unspoken compacted conversation that does indeed confirm I've lost this little battle of wills… his eyes tell me… "oh my god yes this chilli is extremely hot" …BUT he can control his reactions… he is about to show those assembled, that he can retain his composure, he will not display the same reactions that I have already demonstrated… quite simply he is cooler than I am (Yes Jaid, you are the chilli master). He can do it, but we both know that he'll be able to do this only for a short while, which fortunately is all he needs to win in the eyes of our peers. Once he has shown his composure, he will stop, he knows that continuing to eat these fiery biscuits will make it harder and harder to control the natural reactions. That's another effect most people don’t appreciate, the initial burn is only the beginning, if you continue to eat a hot chilli it doesn't get easier as you become accustomed to the heat… it actually gets harder… the pain will continue to build and build the more you consume.

He bows out, and bows out the winner. Which does however give me an opportunity to preserve my own reputation… at least with him.

All I have to do… is eat more… more of the hellishly red lava rocks, more of the poison filled spider bladders, more of Satan's burning syphilitic pustules… more I say!

It is at this point that I realise for the first time that yes maybe I do have a problem… maybe I should bow out myself…maybe I should just face the facts that it's an addiction and one that can actually cause me some serious physical harm if I don't slow down and take stock…

But where's the fun in that.

… fuck it.

"Chomp"

...

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh !!!

Things Not To Do

2009-11-19T02:44:00.003Z

I know you were probably hoping for Part 2 of “The Big Story”, but it’s not quite ready yet so here’s something short and sweet to satiate your blogging hunger a little.

Over the years I have done many things some of which I'm sure you don't want to hear about (in fact I'm certain), but this little blog isn't about them so don’t panic. This particular blog is about all of the things that (ironically as you will see) in my infinite wisdom I have decided are contrary to a healthy life and a healthy mind. There are just three of them so this should be pretty short.

They are (in rising order of evilness):

Cars
Arrogance
Television

Cars: I gave up cars mostly out of poverty, I just couldn't justify owning and more importantly maintaining one when I spend almost 33% of every day on trains (yes you read correctly). But since that forced sacrifice I've discovered that I don't miss them at all. I mean if the needs be I'll drive one. Hired or borrowed cars for holiday etc yeah sure fine. But in general I've managed to get along fine without one now for over three years… and I don't see that changing.

Arrogance: Now considering I'm sitting here writing a blog about my own personal life and experiences and posting it on the internet because I'm sure you dear reader just can't wait to get into my amazing head again… I think you'd agree I'm treading on some pretty thin ice whilst talking about arrogance. Well I'd have to pull you up there and say whoa steady… it all depends on what you think arrogant is or more to the point what I think arrogant is ;)

There are some pretty reasonable people in the world, they're certainly in the minority which is a shame but they're out there, maybe you're one of them who knows. But and it's a big but (tee hee I said big but)… for every reasonable person you might encounter in your life there are approximately 14,000 total arseholes. It's a popularly believed fact.

And probably the easiest way to find out if someone is one of the aforementioned arseholes is to ask them if they could possibly be wrong about something. See for me arrogance takes over from confidence when a person loses the ability to admit that there is even a slight possibility that they are wrong, especially when they are obviously not an expert on the subject in question (whatever it may be). Some people just have a hard time differentiating their opinions from facts, it's about as simple as that. Some people can't tell the difference between something that depends on a person's own personal preferences or life experience or just plain old personal choice and something that they can define as correct or incorrect.

Anyway, long story short. Arrogance is something that I watch for in myself and stamp on when I see it, and it's something that when seen in others tends to guide me far, far away from them. Really don't need people like that around full stop.

And lastly (but by no means least)…

Television: Now I'm not sure if television rates the highest on the "Devices that future historians will pin point as the thing that destroyed the world as we know it" list… that honor belongs to the refrigerator (more on that another time)… but it is certainly the device that has been misused and had its potential squandered and twisted into something that would have Zworykin and Farnsworth yanking out their hair and screaming NO in unison rather than arguing over who's invention it was or plotting to beat up John Logie Baird as normal.

You see television has, or more correctly had, a lot of potential to be one of the greatest inventions of all time, but since its inception it has slowly been subverted and perverted to such a degree that I and a lot of other people (I hope) see it literally as paragon of modern evils.

Sounds like I'm over doing it a bit? Well read on.

The two greatest evils delivered into your home no worse than that, delivered right into your brain by this wonder box are advertising (no shocks there) and so called reality TV (which I'm not going to cover today).

Why? Well advertising is such a humongous monster of a topic it probably deserves an entire blog of its own but lets dust over it in short form for now.

Point 1
A large proportion of TV advertising is just plain old lies delivered with such cunning and deceit that they fool a lot of the people a lot of the time.

Point 2
Television advertising has become almost a science in its own right and that science revolves around manipulating you. Not only manipulating you into spending your hard earned cash (which is fairly obvious), but also manipulating you into believing that by doing so you're going to make your life better than it is when in fact you're actually more likely to make it worse.

So insidious is the long term and well funded campaign of deceit that TV advertising has to a lesser or greater extent altered what entire generations believe to be good or bad… think about that. A commercially driven enterprise fueled basically by greed has changed what people accept as good or bad… now that cannot be right.

TV advertising has recently begun to be regulated. They have had to redress the way they advertise to children (though they have not always had to). Highly impressionable children, exposed to such determined and pervasive an adversary really don't stand a chance do they? Now this must have been a bit of a pain in the arse for the evil advertising overlords but they have plans to overcome and side step this problem don't worry, they have already begun, their profits are assured and in fact will increase over time. They have tools and schemes of such subtle complexity I'm not going to even touch on them here, but trust me they are in our children's heads and they mean to stay there regardless of any regulation. Advertisers do not view children in the same way as the rest of us, they do not see a vulnerable section of our society that naturally needs our protection from evil until they are old enough to defend themselves oh no. Advertisers view children as a long term exploitable resource, they see children as profit machines, little consumers who also have the fantastic ability to not only buy any peddled crap that can be marketed in the right way, but who can apply pressure to another group of individuals (parents) getting them to make purchases too. They view children as high impact consumers who one day will spawn their own clutch of new little consumers that will inherit the sensibilities of their parents and continue to fuel the corporate monster we have all allowed to take over our world… GOD DAMN IT… ahem…. sorry wrong blog. <>

I've gone off topic a little. Suffice to say I became so revolted by TV advertising that I decided to stop watching broadcast television completely. I now have no TV antenna attached to my television, I have no cable, I have no satellite, I have no freeview. There is no way for those evil bastards to squirt their putrid advertising piss into my house or my life. I have not watched a single television advert for over three years. How many have you watched in that time?

For one day, just count them as you’re exposed to them Add them up and then work out how much time that equates to assuming an average advert is 20 seconds long… go on add it up, I dare you. Then multiply that by 1095… that's how long you've sat watching TV adverts in the last three years… it's a lot isn't it. Every three adverts is another minute of your life gone… for no good reason… for the profits of others perhaps… but what are the benefits to you? Probably just lower self esteem, as you once again fail to measure up to the ideal of perfection and happiness that's been crammed down your throat for god knows how long.

And when you've worked it out how much of your life has slipped away in the last three years watching TV adverts, remember that while you were sitting there for that startling amount of time, absorbing their brainwashing filth… I wasn't. I was doing something else… I was painting or reading or making love or watching a movie of my choice, or talking with people online and off, or maybe I was just sitting and staring at a sunset and thinking… in fact it's pretty irrelevant what I was doing… because whatever I was doing it was simply something more enriching that being force fed advertising.

Think about that…

… then turn off your TV and join me.

My Second Life Story Part 1 : The Darkest Night

2009-11-12T13:50:00.002Z

As some of you may know I had a major trauma event in my life not so long ago , my wife and partner of 14 years up and left me, which as I may have mentioned and as I'm sure you can imagine knocked me back a bit.

I won't bore you with the details (not today anyway), but suffice to say I entered a long and dangerous depression. I never sought or received any professional help and to cut a long story short I ended up standing on the hand rail of a bridge one snowy winter's night (I'm nothing if not melodramatic) over a freezing and completely lethal river… and I remember looking down into those dark and icy waters and thinking they seemed pretty damned inviting down there.

And that could have been where my life story ended… it very nearly did, but luckily for you my dearest reader, it didn't. Instead of ending it all, I decided to climb down off that handrail and walked off that bridge, just to give myself one more day. Which actually turned out to be a pretty good decision.

Since that dark and snowy night I've turned my life around. I've discovered a talent I didn't know I had, I've found a whole new world of excitement and constant discovery I didn't know existed and I've received the respect and affection I always felt I deserved but never seemed to get.

"Life begins at 40" or so they say, but to be honest I'd always thought that phrase sounded just like the sort of bullshit you would say if you'd just hit 40 and realized that your life had become so drab and pointless that you'd say almost anything to avoid facing that reality.

But guess what! Newsflash folks! Maybe there is some truth to it after all, because My Second Life (as I like to think of it) began… yep, just around the time I was 40.

It's not a life for everyone, but it's working out pretty damned well for me.

Believe it or not it all started on facebook. Throughout my depression facebook was actually very important to me. If was a kind of escapism I guess and it became almost a hobby that gave me something to do. It kept me interacting with people and it focused me on the continuation of my creative nature, at a time that my soul was at its bleakest point and any hope of salvation seemed remote.

It's probably an overstatement to say that facebook saved my life, but in hindsight I think it actually might have done (thanks facebook).

Now in the past, in the long, long ago, I did have a bit of a reputation for being a bit of a ladies man, but honestly I never really thought of myself that way. In fact I've been plagued all my life with low self esteem and some serious self confidence issues (some of you who know me might find this hard to believe, but it's true).

Now I guess it's only natural after a relationship break up that a little flirting with and positive attention from the opposite sex is going to make you feel better and help you on your road to recovery, but after a while I started to realize that I seemed to be getting quite good at it. I was slowly but surely building a healthy friends list, most of which was made up by some pretty interesting ladies. Male friends would even comment on it, asking how I managed it.

Now you have to remember that I'd not dated for over 14 years at this point and my heart had been ripped out and stomped on by the woman I honestly thought I'd spend the rest of my days with… so when my online chatting activities actually landed me a real world date… I was stunned and not a little petrified.

I went on that date and made a good friend in the process.
(Yes Julie I'm talking about you ;)

It wasn't destined to work out in the romantic sense, but that was probably a really long shot anyway considering where I was emotionally at that time. But what that one single date did do for me (and I thank you eternally for this Julie) was it give me back a very much needed spark of self confidence. I was not the pathetic rambling ditch monster of my own self image, I was not a revolting piece of human garbage… apparently.

I returned to facebook and I discovered that I could talk to women even more confidently than before and they wouldn't run screaming! Instead some of them gave me a chance to talk and when I talked… they listened.

As it turned out, I ended up encountering not one, not two but another three women who would all in some way change my life forever!

To be continued…

SUPERPOWERS

2009-11-05T13:39:00.011Z

I have superpowers… FACT.

Yes it's true, I know that it's hard to believe and I'm sure some of you will think that I'm simply making it up, but it is true nonetheless. I have superpowers I really do.

Sadly it is not something that I have fully under control and to be honest it doesn't really have any benefits that I've managed to fathom and has in fact caused me nothing but annoyance and frustration my whole life.

I'm sure if the CIA or MI5 knew just how complete and total my powers were they would no doubt whisk me off and lock me in a laboratory somewhere for the rest of my life, probing and experimenting in a vain attempt to find out my secret, so they could use it for themselves… but I doubt they would be able to.

I have spent my whole life longing and hoping to find out how to control my very unusual powers with no success whatsoever, it seems logical that their efforts to unravel me would be fruitless as well.

(Has the anticipation level reached its required level… yes I think it probably has).

"So what superpowers do you have?" I imagine, I hear you cry…

Well I have two powers that I have discovered and the first… is the power to become completely invisible… really… no seriously stop chucking, I'm not kidding.

Invisibility! Probably one of the most commonly wished for superpowers.

Now this might actually seem like a fantastic gift… except it's not, because unfortunately my powers of invisibility have a catch… I can only remain invisible in situations where nobody cares if I am invisible or not.

I couldn't walk into a bank for example, wander around the counter, stuff my pocket full of cash and walk out again unchallenged (oh no that would be too damned useful). You see people care too much about that sort of thing… and at the moment they start to care… POP I'm visible again.

In fact I'm not even sure it can be classed as a superpower, I think it's more of an amazing natural camouflage system. I can be invisible anywhere, anytime… except when it's important… except in situations where you might actually like to be invisible. In those situations… BAM I'm just about as visible as can be.

How do I know this… well the most obvious example of my powers in action can be witnessed simply by following me down a busy street. Most people have had that experience where you are walking and someone coming the other way is heading straight through the same bit of space as you. Sometimes people simply turn their shoulders slightly allowing you and themselves to continue with almost no delay. At other times people may take a more direct and unilateral move to the side, allowing you to pass, after which they can continue their journey unhindered. Lastly there is the common occurrence where both parties have decided to take the unilateral approach at the same time, which often leads to a comical moment of repeated polite side stepping, a quick laugh and then someone makes the right move and gets going again.

Well let me tell you… NONE of these standard methods apply to me. As I'm invisible until it becomes important, most people will walk straight at me, no shoulder turning, no side stepping… nothing, not until an impact is imminent and sometimes not even then.

At the very moment of realization that the person is going to actually collide with me, they generally suddenly care enough and I suddenly become visible again… at which point they normally act as if I have darted out in front of them from out of nowhere which is exactly how it must seem from their point of view.

I mean I'm a reasonably big guy and my dress sense could best be described as non standard (most of the time). So when I'm bowling down the street laptop bag over shoulder, Chicago Bears jersey sporting massive white numbers outlined in orange on a dark blue background… I should be pretty easy to spot… pretty easy to take evasive action to avoid a collision with right?

I'm also not a delicate flower of a man, not someone (from the look of me) that you'd want to deliberately walk into… and yet that is exactly what happens over and over again… every day, no matter where I am. And here's the really freaky bit, you remember I said I had two powers… well the second one really bloody complements the first one I can tell you… you see my second power is people magnetism!

It really doesn't matter how busy it is, if the streets are clear apart from myself and one other person coming the other way, they're gonna change direction sooner or later to a collision course with yours truly. I've seen it happen over and over again… in fact I think this power is worse than the being invisible bit, because it totally appears that not only do people not see me but by some strange form of attraction they will actually change their course towards a collision with me rather than afrom one or even just to stay going straight… they zone in on me. It's totally an observable phenomenon.

And it's not just on the street. Once I was standing in a store and I saw a woman make a decisive direction change and walk straight at me. I'm standing still, minding my own business, not moving at all and she walks right into me, eye contact and everything… didn't see me until she'd actually collided with me even though she was looking completely in my direction the whole way in. Anyway… she then tuts her tongue (as if I suddenly leapt into her path) and then she says indignantly… "excuse me, I'm trying to have a look at the special offers" and points right over my shoulder almost cuffing me in the ear at some unseen point behind me.

Now I know what you're thinking ("well you were probably just standing in her way and she wanted to get past") but I wasn't… the special offers she was trying to get a look at weren't behind me… they were behind her… always were… she looked directly at them just before her sudden switch of direction... I saw it happen.

I'm sure some of you are still convinced that I'm imagining it… but I'm not. If you want to see it in action, come walking with me on any random city street.

Some people have… and they're now convinced too… I am: The Invisible Man (until somebody cares).

White Elephant

2009-10-29T13:21:00.004Z

One of the things you start to realize as you get older is how much junk you've managed to collect over the years. All the little things you've bought or collected in some vain attempt to find happiness, suddenly just start looking like massive piles of pointless junk… especially when you have to move house and take it all with you.

I've already done one massive downsize in my life when my marriage exploded around my ears (another blog on that later methinks) and yet I still hold onto an amazing array of crap, supposedly for sentimental reasons.

Probably the single biggest space vampire is my record collection. I literally have thousands of the buggers. Some of them have taken over my wardrobe completely, filling it to the point where there is no longer any room left for clothes. The shelves in my lounge groan under their combined weight. Boxes of them litter my home, creating eye sores and tripping hazards at every turn. I never play them, I hardly ever even look at them and it is very unlikely that I ever will.

Then get rid of them I hear you cry… but how?

Dump them? They literally stand me in thousands of pounds and the one thing I really can't stand is waste, so I doubt I'll be able to bring myself to just dump them.

Stick them on ebay then? As a job lot it is extremely unlikely that I'd ever find a buyer. It would need a small truck to deliver them and the postage alone would be more than anyone would be willing to pay, so this too looks to be an unlikely method of disposing of them.

Sell them individually then? That would require an immense amount of work, sorting, cataloguing, pricing, photographing etc, not to mention the long and potentially pointless process of actually creating ebay adverts for each of them, in the face of the very real possibility that none of them to actually sell.

I even tried giving them away once. I thought "well they're not enriching my life any more maybe they can enrich someone else's". I put out an advert on facebook marketplace offering for just the price of the postage any record from my collection that anyone wanted… I got three takers and rather than request something they all simply wanted a complete list of my records (something that only exists in my head), which for some reason they all found extremely odd.

No, it would seem that they are here to stay until I either die and it becomes someone else's problem or I can think of something else to do with them.

I cannot dump them, I cannot sell them, I cannot (it would seem ) even give them away… they truly are a proverbial white elephant… except they weigh much, much more.

The Best TV Show Ever Made - Part 1

2009-10-13T13:41:00.004+01:00

I am MAD !

No not the normal mad that you will already associate me with, no I’m mad about something particular. It’s something that I’ve been unhappy, dismayed and darn right let down by for some time, but something that had been filed in the "forget it and move on" folder in my brain. But it all came back boiling to a head this morning.

The one thing the I hate… ok one of the things that I hate (for there are many), is television. Almost all television is complete and utter brain rotting poison, created and controlled by evil bastards to be the opium of the masses, a government sponsored mind control device, used to suppress free thought and individuality, to coerce and cajole us all into maintaining the status quo of consumerism and capitalism at the expense of all other considerations… wow… went off on a bit of a hardcore rant there didn’t I … another blog on this later methinks, but let’s get back to my original point.

Now don’t get me wrong not ALL television is bad, just a very, Very, VERY large proportion of it.

But there are a few little gems out there, the occasional TV show that proves to have a little more to offer than the average viewer (drones) deserve or can in fact probably even understand. And I guess that this is probably why sometimes shows don't survive.

I’ve been known to get fixated on shows when I find something that I like and to be honest there have been some very good efforts of late. The Sopranos, Lost, 24 (series 1 only) and some others more in the “also ran” stakes but still pretty damn fine watching.

However there is one show, one fantastic, beautiful, glorious show, that is at the core of my rant today or more correctly it is what happened to this show that is at the core of my rant.

But first let me tell you a little background about how I got into viewing this particular piece of televisual artwork (and when I say artwork I really mean it).

Some time back (a few years back in fact) a friend of mine (God bless you Richard) insisted that I borrow his DVD boxed set of this particular TV show under the recommendation that it was “The Best TV Show Ever Made”. Now I generally don’t take other people's opinions on TV shows too seriously. But I took the DVDs with the almost ridiculous recommendation (filed under IGNORE ridiculous recommendation) and one evening I sat down and as there was nothing else of interest on TV (big surprise) I decided to watch the DVDs.

Well I must admit that for the first two or three episode I couldn’t see what he was talking about, I mean yeah the show was quite good and the concepts were interesting but “The Best TV Show Ever Made” seemed like a long way off.

But then over the following nights I found myself sitting down for another couple of episodes and another and it wasn’t long before I started to see where he was coming from with his high praise. This show had depth, and I don’t mean obvious depth, but hidden depth. There was something going on in this show below the surface that was (or should I say “is”) missing from almost all other TV shows I’ve ever seen.

And then it dawned on me… one of the other things that my friend had said about the show was that it had been cancelled! And once you’ve seen this show and once you’ve started to see the mettle it has hidden under its (brown) coat, you will understand the desperation and sadness that follows the realisation that when you get to the end of the DVDs… there is no more. The anger, disappointment and general malaise will sink into your soul as it did with mine and everyone I know who has seen the show in its true light, feels the same. It’s a terrible experience and I’m almost loath to inflict it upon you, but it has to be endured if your curiosity about the show takes you down the viewing path. Sorry.

I guess you are probably straining at the bit now, desperate to know what this gem of a show is, what could possibly be so good that at least two (and I’m sure there are thousands of others) relatively intelligent, media wise, creative folk could stand up and with hand on heart declare that it is “The Best TV Show Ever Made”.

Well ok I’ll tell you. The show in question is Firefly. Yes that’s right Joss Whedon’s Firefly. You may even have seen an episode or two in passing as you flick through the channels. You may have even watched it a couple of times. But that is not enough. To understand what the hell I’m talking about you need to immerse yourself in the entire show series.

Now this is an interesting point I’d like to get cleared up. A lot of people who praise Firefly fall into a particular category of people I like to think of as just a little bit… how can I put this …knobby! They are the “Buffy Fans” (no real offence meant Buffy fans). They can be a bit on the hardcore side and as both shows come from the same creator it is understandable (if a little annoying to Firefly fans who are not into Buffy) that there are an absolute bunch of cross over fans. But I’d just like to make it perfectly clear that I am not one of “them”. Buffy is a show that I never ever “got”. And it must be said that an awful lot of Firefly fans are Buffy fans and this is a shame. Because devoted TV show fans like Buffy fans or Treckies or whatever, are always going to put some people off a show, sorry guys but you are. Personally I’ve got nothing against you or even Buffy (thinks of another blog topic)… I just don’t get it the same way you do.

Anyway I seem to have gotten off thread somewhat and I’d better be getting back to the point.

This morning I started listening to the soundtrack album of the Firefly TV series, and before you start pointing at me a going GEEK I downloaded it after I stumbled across it by accident, it wasn’t something I actively went searching for or anything. Anyway I started listening to it as I walked to the train station and all of my annoyance came rushing back, I’ll admit it’s been a while since I even thought of the show and I was a little surprised to start feeling pissed off about it’s cancellation again after such a long time.

But then I realised something that I’d never thought of before and it was one of those hidden depths that I was talking about in the show. It seemed to me that there is in the show a hint about its own demise. I won’t go into details cos I don’t want to spoil the show for those of you who’ve not seen it yet. I’ll let you work it out yourself (it’s probably the best way to come to an epiphany anyhow). And so now I’m walking around (or sitting around) feeling all agitated and annoyed about the end of Firefly again. And I think that I always will. I think that once you’ve been through this particular experience, you’ll have it locked away in the back of your brain forever and every now and again it’ll just pop out and go “hey you remember Firefly don’t ya” and then you’ll be all pissed off again that it is no more firefly to be had, all afresh.

Go out and buy the Firefly DVD boxed set. Beg, steal or borrow it if you must, but get it.

It doesn't matter if you’ve seen the show on TV before, go and get the DVD set anyway. You have to watch them all and you have to watch them in the right order, that is really important and something the TV networks seem to completely ignore.

Get it and watch it. I guarantee that you'll fall in love with at least one of the characters and almost certainly the whole lot. Get it and watch it… and make time to watch it, don't just fling it on while you're doing the housework for background viewing. Get a bottle of wine or a few beers and some snacks. Make an evening of it, cos you won't be able to just watch one episode, you'll end up watching two or three at a time just like I did.

…a wise man once told me “Firefly is The Best TV Show Ever Made”

…and you know what… he was right… it really is.

To be continued.

The Beautiful Game

2009-10-12T13:40:00.005+01:00

When I first started this piece it was going to be about a local American Football team that I support (The Essex Spartans) but as I proceeded it became less and less about American Football and more and more about English Football or as I like to call it “Soccer”. In the end almost all of the original content has been removed and there is actually very little in here about the brilliant game known as “American Football” (I’ll do another piece later I promise). The reason for the change was that as I started to commit my thoughts to the page the more and more I became incensed by the game of soccer. The more I became reminded of the reasons I have come to dislike, no despise it.

Now I didn’t want it to go this way. But soccer stopped me in my tracks and made me do it. Don’t blame me, blame soccer.

My thinking for this piece goes all the way back to the last world cup and as many of you know I’ve never been a soccer fan, in fact I’d go as far to say that I have pretty much always disliked football and everything associated with it.

But the biggest tournament in the sport coincided with my birthday and many of my friends have an interest in the game so I thought I’d give it a chance. It was my 40th birthday and if the ‘40 years of hurt’ (a term only English soccer fans will be aware of) were to end I figured I should keep an eye on the proceedings.

I paid reasonable interest in the fortunes of the England team and those in their way. I observed the spectacle of the ‘beautiful game’ and tried to view the fans in a new light. I debated formations down the pub and went through all the pointless football chatter that used to drive me mental when forced to endure it from the ‘outside’.

However (and here comes the rant) I came to the conclusion that I may have been correct in my initial assessment of soccer, an assessment that led me to first ignore it, then dislike it and now push me close to the edge of hating the game completely.

You see, even though I have for most of my life never had any interest in soccer, I have had a keen interest in another sport. The sport known (at least outside of America) as “American Football”.

In fact I’d say that all things considered, I have been about as keen a fan of American Football as I could possibly have been (for and Englishman) and for many, many years at that.

Even though coverage of the sport in England is sketchy at best, over the last 20 odd years:

• I have watched just about every game shown on regular TV that I could.
• I have supported several local British teams.
• I have attended NFL pre season warm up games
• I have attended two NFL regular season games

… and my crowning glory of fandom?

In the inaugural year of the World League of American Football and after attending every home game of the London Monarchs, I personally (with the concerted help of my very good friend Tony Charlton) started the very first Mexican wave, at the World Bowl Final at Wembley Stadium, after which the Monarchs went on to win against Barcelona in front of a 75,000 strong crowd… EAT THAT.

And so I think I’m a bona fide fan and that I’m qualified to say that the thing that is most repugnant about soccer isn’t even anything to do with the game itself, it is the general attitude of soccer fans and especially their attitudes towards American Football.

Now until this rant I’ve been a typical ‘non’ soccer fan. In those situations where someone asks you something about a football related topic, you say something like ‘oh I don’t really follow football’ or ‘sorry I’m not really into football’ and that pretty much puts the subject to bed (and you can then enjoy the rest of the taxi ride in silence). But the anti American Football thing has really started to get to me… why is it like that, why do soccer fans dislike American Football so much.

Now I don’t know if it’s because they have trouble with the fact that the game has come to be known by a name that has the word “Football’” or if it’s because it has the word “American” in there too (this has always seemed to be a bit of a mistake in my eyes too). But to me it seems that soccer fans regard American Football with more vehemence and contempt than they exhibit towards any other sport.

And I’m not only talking about your committed, down the terraces every Saturday ‘football is my religion’ , ‘Three Lions on me shirt… every shirt I own’, kind of fan. I’m also talking about your well educated, good job, intellectually competent, football appreciation type fans.

Now there are exceptions as always, one of my best mates CAG (yes that is his name) is both a die hard Arsenal supporter (some of you will debate that this qualifies him as a soccer fan at all, I know but …) and he also has and always has had an interest in American Football too. In fact he’s the only English person I know in real life who's seen an NFL regular season game in America (New York Giants at home if I remember correctly). But generally ask any random soccer fan what they think of American Football and you’re going get some pretty derogatory remarks right back.

However if you ask them about Cricket, Rugby, Tennis, Hockey, Athletics, Snooker, Motor Racing, Squash, Australian rules football, Table Tennis, Archery, Curling or even other American sports or sports that which are deemed "American" such as Ice Hockey, Basketball and Baseball, regardless of whether the person you are talking to likes the sport in question or not, their response will show you that they have considerably more respect for that sport (whatever it is) than they do for American Football and I find this very, very odd.

When asked ‘what is it specifically that you don’t like about American Football’ you are probably going to get one of the following answers…

“Well they’re all a bunch of wimps, wearing helmets and pads and what have you” which is obviously just a load of ignorant bollocks.

Or the more reasonable

“It’s always stopping and starting, it doesn’t have any flow”.

Well let me tell you…
… you can take the ‘flow’ of your ‘beautiful game’ and stuff it where the sun don’t shine.

From a non indoctrinated view point, soccer seems to be an endless string of disappointments, missed opportunities and general lack of action. So that’s the blessed “flow” is it, a bunch of guys most of whom are jogging up and down a field or pretty much just standing around doing nothing while three other guys further up the pitch (who are actually involved with the ball), play piggy in the middle over and over again. “How much were these tickets again ?”

Sure once in a while someone pulls off something cool… once in a while, I guess. And because these ‘cool’ events are so few and far between and are in direct contrast to the general dullness of the piggy in the middle majority of the rest of the game, their significance is elevated beyond their actual level of interest. Anything that isn’t just another round of piggy in the middle becomes interesting.

You see, one of the benefits of all the so called stopping and starting in American Football is that when the players are actually playing (that’ll be the starting bit for all you soccer fans out there) then something brilliant or something terrible, or something stunning, or amazing, or surprising or even something just plain good, bad or interesting is going to happen… right now… in the next 10 seconds… without fail.

And then, when it starts, every single player on the field is going to be doing something, something vital, ALL of the players (not just a couple or three), on both sides of the ball, all of them at the same time. No standing around and virtually no jogging up and down. Every single one of the 22 guys on the field will be playing full tilt at the same time and if any single one of them screws up, there might very well be a game breaking score… so they all try very, very hard to do whatever it is that they are supposed to do to the very best of their ability.

And here’s another thing. In American Football there are unlimited substitutes, so every single player is an expert in one tiny facet of the game, whatever it is that needs doing right now. There are no jack of all trades here, experts only.

Now that is what I call action, in fact it’s so much action that you’re going to need the breaks in between (that’s the stopping bits) to recover and think about the impact of all you’ve seen… and so do the players and coaches themselves.

And then there is the violence. American Football is an extremely physical sport and violent confrontation is obviously a part of the game. Broken legs, broken backs, broken necks even… I’ve seen ‘em all. But the point here is that all of those violent sounding injuries were on the field, as a consequence of how 100% full on, full tilt the game is played… the violence was not in the stands, it wasn’t in the high street, it wasn’t in my local bar… it was on the field.

Now I used to work in Croydon and when there’s an England soccer game on, I wanted to get the hell out of there as fast as possible, as there was a very real chance of a riot should England lose and there was only a reasonable chance of a riot should England win! Well sod that.

Why on earth soccer fans do the things they do is beyond me. Example; there’s a bar down the road from where I worked, it’s a sports bar. They have fitted a really big screen TV so all the lovely soccer fans can go there and watch the match and have a good time… so what do the fans do when England loses… they trash the bar. Yeah that’s right that nice bar, you know the one, the one that put up that huge screen so that they could watch the match. They trash the place, talk about shitting where you eat.

And of course fan violence at the game itself would seem to be a common occurrence. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve seen a football riot on the news… have you ever seen an American Football riot… nope I didn’t think so, cos it just never happens. The game is exciting enough to build up and then safely disperse any amount of adrenalin you might care to generate that’s why the stopping and starting is a strength of the game not a weakness… unlike soccer, which fires people up over and over again, only to then disappoint them… leaving a massive adrenalin backlog flooding through their systems… as they leave the game… as they leave the stadium… as they head for the pub… BAD SITUATION ALERT.

I didn’t want to bring this next bit up… but I’m going to. Another reason I dislike soccer is the cheating. I honestly cannot believe how many times I’ve seen “world class” soccer players cheating or at least trying to… they should be ashamed of how low they seem to stoop.

When a rough tackle takes place and both players jump up and raise their arms to try and claim that the other had fouled them they remind me of little boys being told off by a teacher… ‘No he did it Miss, it wasn’t me Miss, honest’ absolutely pathetic. Or when two players are grappling for the ball along the side lines and the ball goes off … up go both arms. Pretty much every time. ‘It was him Miss not me’

And when someone does go down from a tackle, out come the theatrics, (and soccer fans have the audacity to call American Footballers wimps). I’ve seen soccer players rolling on the floor in agony over at worst a grazed knee… wimps eh or could it be another acting demonstration in an attempt to cheat again… could be. See Italy vs Australia WC 2006 for a great example of this type of cheating.

And can the referee use a video replay to check and see who is cheating… no, of course not because that would break up the ‘flow’ (see piggy in the middle sessions) of the game, so it continues and therefore he who cheats best… wins.

There is a foul in American Football called “Un-sportsman Like Conduct”, it doesn’t get used too much to be honest and it doesn’t need to. Now I’m informed that there is a similar rule for soccer, but even though it should, it never seems to get used, if such a rule were enforced correctly then the field would be emptied pretty swiftly me thinks.

Just to emphasise this point ask yourself this question : How many times have you seen a soccer player take a dive or over act when fouled or claim a corner when none was justified or claim a throw in when it was not theirs to take… how many… it’s lots isn’t it and every one of them was an attempt to cheat, an attempt to break the rules of the game.

In the hundreds of American Football games that I’ve seen, I can’t recall a single time when a player attempted to cheat… not one… zero, mistakes yes, errors of judgment yes… but flat out cheating… no.

You see I don’t think we can even apply the word sport to soccer any more, because sport requires sportsmanship, and soccer doesn’t seem to have that any more, there is a focus on winning and this is probably driven by money which is pretty sad. Sports (other sports) although competitive and obviously financially linked tend to be more about the game, the pursuit of human excellence in that game (whatever it may be) but not in soccer, it’s about winning regardless of the rules or the breaking of them. In fact these kinds of infractions are so common that they have almost become ingrained as part of the game itself. How tragic is that. The game has lost its soul, it is nothing but a desperate attempt to gain a victory regardless of methods used to do so. Why not go the whole hog, why not cut the breaks on the opposing team bus before they get to the game, then you can win by default without even having to play piggy in the middle once… BONUS !

So lets have a quick recap of soccer then:

• A game that generally exhibits as much action as a game of piggy in the middle.
• A game where random violence occurs at the game and anywhere fans congregate.
• A game where the referees can make massive mistakes without ever being corrected.
• A game where even the best players in the world are compelled to cheat because everyone does.
• A game who’s fans are so indoctrinated with their sport that they refuse to admit that it has lost its beauty, its direction, its sportsmen and is now simply a money making machine designed to claw their money out of their pockets.

I’d say that it would seem that soccer or the beautiful game (if you really must insist), unlike other sports, has many faces and far from being beautiful most of those faces are very, very ugly indeed.

The Noisiest Thing In The World

2009-10-09T13:02:00.005+01:00

The third noisiest thing I have ever encountered was an exploding dragster engine that decided it had had enough as it tore past me at two hundred and fifty miles an hour, no more than thirty feet away… not particularly surprising that such an event would be very noisy I know but take note that I said THIRD noisiest. So it does put what comes next into some form of context. It was loud for sure… mind splittingly loud some might say, but nothing compared to the second noisiest thing I ever encountered...

...Duran Duran… Yes that's right the second noisiest thing I ever encountered were those die hard Birmingham primo pop purveyors Duran Duran. At the height of their popularity back in the eighties I went to see them play in London. Before they even took the stage my head (and that of a friend who had accompanied me to help chaperone my little sister) were already in danger of splitting, due to the constant screaming of 10,000 teenage fans who really could not contain their excitement at all.

The fans themselves were loud, but when the band took the stage, my friend and I shared a stunned glance… they were stonkingly loud… they had to be. If they'd simply been loud the constant screaming of their fans would have been a continual undertone throughout their performance. I looked around and yes I could see the star struck faces all around me were still screaming, but I could no longer hear them... at all… quite an odd sensation to be honest. I was impressed with Duran Duran that day, and have looked at them in a slightly different light ever since.

Loud as the dragster explosion was it only lasted for a very short period of time and although in sheer volume terms Duran Duran were capable of drowning out anything in their path (possibly even the dragster) their "noise" was extremely well crafted and entertaining rather than irritating and abhorrent… two terms that are reserved exclusively for the last and noisiest thing in the world… no comparison, nothing comes close… what to know what it is? I'll tell you.

The noisiest thing in the world is "any group of three teenage girls".

Quite stunning but true. Put three teenage girls in any situation and without fail they will in very short shift, turn into one of the noisiest and most irritating forces ever conceived, so irritating are they, that they would surely have Ghandi pulling out his non existent hair and screaming for them to "shut the fuck up" in no time at all.

I once sat on a train and watched in slack jawed amazement as the three teenage girls sitting across the aisle, carried out a conversation where all three of them were talking at the same time on different subjects… I kid you not… AT THE SAME TIME!!!

Seriously, any creature capable of that level of multitasking should be taken out and shot for the safety of mankind. I mean I've been in situations where I'm trying to talk to someone and another third party tries to begin a conversation with me at the same time… I'm sure most of us have. Nope can't be done…"sorry mate, just one second" you say, finish one conversation and then start the second. Multi way discussions are also different, sitting round the table in the bar talking over any subject with numerous people, tends to follow the pattern of "one speaker, several listeners", then "change of speaker" repeat. But that's not what these maddening harpies were doing oh no. They were truly multitasking, they were engaged in three simultaneous conversations each (possibly more… it was really hard to follow and I'm not sure if there special mathematics for this phenomenon).

And the tone of their voices… oh my god. I think there must be something in the mind of teenage girls that needs to hear the occasional shriek and if none is forthcoming from their surroundings, they have to issue one themselves.

The subject of their conversations must also be taken into account. From what I am able to gather teenage girl conversation is just like the dragster in some ways, but it is fuelled by banality, cooled by inconsequentiality and lubricated with pointlessness, anything of true importance or worth consideration is simply not required to fire up this monstrous engine of annoyance. They talk of nothing, at great length and at ever increasing volume (and they’re obviously oblivious of their environment and those around them)… they scream, they screech, they use double negatives ALL THE TIME they simply madden and incense.

If you want to experience a noise so shocking you literally try and crawl out of your own ears… get a dragster to race past you and have its engine explode.

If you want to be amazed (and entertained) by well tailored and very VERY loud noise, travel back in time and go see Duran Duran in concert at the pinnacle of their popularity.

But if you want to experience the noisiest thing in the world, just take a couple of train rides… or catch the bus occasionally. Pop into a McDonalds for a coffee every now and again… you'll run into them eventually… there'll be three of them.

They are a force of nature, there is no other explanation, they must have purpose, there must be some cosmic role that they fulfil, some grand and complex reaction that means the sun continues to burn or something…. I mean there has to be.

Otherwise they would simply be the pointless, wailing harpies that they appear to be... and that just cant be right.

LIFE TIPS 101

2009-10-02T00:08:00.002+01:00

I've been working on a rather long (and some might say boring) blog about the macho pursuit of competitive chilli eating, but it's a way off from ready, so I thought I'd better dive in and write a sort of interim fix for those of you who just can’t do without their regular dose of braingunk.

This is the first in a recurring theme of blogs I'm going to call: LIFE TIPS 101

I'm not saying you've been living your life wrong or anything… ok well maybe that's exactly what I'm gonna say at some point but stay with me. I've been around a bit and as you who know (if you know me at all), I like my thinking… it's probably my favorite hobby (shit ok maybe my second favorite hobby) and certainly something I feel more people should be doing more of (but that's another blog).

LIFE TIPS then…. I’m asking for your trust, I'm hoping you'll understand the very complex intent of what I'm doing here and play along for a while (even if you don’t)… at least until you've had a good chance to decide if what I have to say are words of pure clarity and wisdom (which of course they are) or complete shit… at which point you can carry on as normal, no harm done. So trust me and play along, it'll be fun.

Anyway, here's the deal… follow the ideas laid out in LIFE TIPS 101 and I'm totally convinced that you'll not only have some fun, improve your life, but also through a butterfly effect of complex interactions, improve the whole fucking world… are you with me? It’s easy. Some TIPS might seem random, some might even seem darn right nonsensical… but trust me… please. Let LIFE TIPS 101 into your heart and I swear you'll never look back.

So here they are, your very first set of three LIFE TIPS (which always come in threes… except when they don’t).

Number 1: Seek out and buy "Out of The Blue" by ELO on vinyl (buy it on CD as well or download it if you don’t own a record player and want to listen to it, but you must find and purchase it in it’s original vinyl format… this is very important).

Number 2: Stop buying processed fish products from supermarkets ( a tough one for some people but essential). Don’t stop buying and eating fish, that’s not what this tip is about… it’s just processed fish products and specifically from supermarkets, that’s all.

Number 3: Tell someone whom you love… that you love them… in the next 20 minutes. (sending email, txt message or by phone is acceptable). If you are in the unfortunate situation of not having anyone in your life that you honestly do love… then tell me you love me, I am quite lovable and I'm a happy surrogate until your life situation changes (which it will if you follow LIFE TIPS 101).

And that's it. Three little things for you to focus on. Three little things that will improve your life. Nail them in any order you please and keep watching for the next set of LIFE TIPS. I swear on my liver and a stack whichever Holy books take your fancy, that you'll smile up to 7% more often and that you'll have taken the first step to a better life… trust me… no seriously.

Train Door Phenomenon

2009-09-29T13:42:00.002+01:00

Over the last few years I have been running a simple experiment to confirm a phenomenon that I had been noticing more and more often. Today the effects were so clear I thought I'd write it down for you, so that you can try it out yourself. Now as I started this experiment some time ago there are references to me smoking on a train platform but this was obviously written before the English government decided to criminalize such obviously evil behaviour whilst continuing to ignore the fact that alcohol is in fact the most dangerous drug in common use… anyway I digress, on with the experiment.

While waiting for a train to depart I often have a quick cigarette on the platform and while I was waiting I would naturally stand near the door of the train that I intended to enter. Now sometimes this is because the train is already busy and there are very few good seats left (with a table or empty double seat for example) and not wanting to lose out, I stationed myself near to a door that would lead me to one of these choice seating locations. Now as I've been doing this for some time I started to notice that as people came along the platform (no doubt also looking for a good seat), they would enter at the door that I was closest to even if there was no way for them to have seen that there was a good seat nearby. This is particularly noticeable if you are planning on entering by one of the two doors in the last carriage. As I often wish to use a table for typing (like right now) I almost always do use one of these doors as the trains on my particular train line only have large tables in the first and last carriages.

Obviously the more people that get on at "my door" the greater the chance that one of them will take the seat that I had my eye on, which is a little annoying. So I tried to fake them out. I moved down a door while I smoked my cigarette and low and behold a large proportion of the platform walkers started to enter the train via this new door that was not so close my desired seat! I switched it about a bit, moved up and down the train, went back to "my door" just to see if I was imagining it. This phenomenon was so greatly demonstrated this evening, when 5 out of six walkers would enter via the door I was standing near in preference to any other door beyond that point or in the direction in which they were walking from. The practical upshot of this is that if you see a seat that you want and fancy a quick cigarette before the train leaves, go and stand near a different door, preferably one slightly closer to the station entrance.

Try it, I think you will be surprised.

Ring ring... stab stab

2009-09-25T19:29:00.002+01:00

You'd assume that when a train company introduces "Quiet Zone" carriages on their trains it would of course be in response to a demand from their customers. I mean from the train company's point of view there is no discernable profit in such a decision, therefore it can only be a move to enhance the quality of the service for their patrons.

Then there are those people (perhaps you're one of them) so self absorbed, so selfish, so inconsiderate of others (great personality traits btw) that they don't care that their personal stereo is too loud or that their one sided phone conversations are irritating to those around them... I mean who gives a crap right?

And for the most part they (or you) may be right. You see most people and when I say "most" I mean most of those that welcomed the introduction of quiet zone carriages, most of those people when confronted with someone who flagrantly and selfishly ignores the fact that they are in a place designated and put aside for those who prefer a quiet life, most of those people will do nothing... zip, nada. They will simply sit there in their discomfort, a victim of the noise makers, they will say nothing, they will do nothing, and sometimes in their desperation to avoid the half conversation or tinny headphone chitter they may even resort to making the situation worse for others by donning their own headphones and listening to their own music, rather than be subjected to that of the noise makers themselves.

However there is another breed. There are people (like myself), who under normal circumstances may seem like perfectly reasonable types... under normal circumstances. But when circumstances are not normal, when someone pushes the wrong buttons, or yanks the wrong chains their decency evaporates in blazing fury of rage... when presented with such a situation as can be found in almost every "quiet zone" carriage in the land, they tend to go a bit off the rails... they tend to get a bit tetchy, maybe even a bit homicidal.

There was a case recently of a man murdered on a greyhound bus in America, his assailant so enraged by the "victim's" personal stereo that he removed a large hunting knife he carried on his person and then proceeded to sever the head of the headphone wearing man (no doubt cutting the headphone wires in the process), much to the disgust and surprise of other passengers but much to the delight of me. Well done dude... good job... nice one. If I'd been there I would have given the man a round of applause. "Headphone man is defeated let us continue our journey in peace" (I might have said).

Alas the hunting knife wielding man (a man with no previous convictions for violent behaviour) was finally gunned down by police.

And so back to my point (I knew I had one)... let me put it this way. What you may not realise when you decide "hey fuck it, who gives a crap if I take or make this call" or "who gives a shit if I listen to my stereo in the quiet zone", just remember the man with the hunting knife... just remember someone just like him could be sitting right next to you.... right now.

Someone just like him... someone just like me.

The Begger and The Ring

2009-09-24T14:02:00.006+01:00

A while back I did something. Yes indeed "something" transpired worthy of a blog entry. I did something and I'm not entirely sure whether to be proud or ashamed of my actions. This thing that I did certainly goes against one of my own personal principles on one level and yet the very symbolic action of breaking one of my own guidelines somehow makes it seem even more egregious. What is it I hear you cry, well let me first fill you in on a little bit of background information that you may not be aware of.

My marriage broke down and died. My wife left me, taking my children with her and for what was the first time in fourteen years I was truly alone. Now this is a pretty harrowing experience and to be honest greater men than I have fallen further apart than I did in similar situations. I was pretty much distraught most of the time though while at work I managed to hold myself together (barely) this was far more than I could say for my time outside of work. Anyway that little bit of background will put my actions into a context I hope you can understand.

Now as many of you know I travel extensively by train every day and there was once a portion of my daily grind that was particularly unpleasant. On the way home on the first leg of my journey is a train ride form Croydon up to "Real London". Now for some reason this route has attracted an disproportional number of 'train beggars'. You may have encountered them yourself. These guys (and even sometimes gals) wander from carriage to carriage asking if anyone has any spare change (whatever that is). But over my time using this route I've noticed that for some reason they all seem to have fine tuned their personal patois until they are all following similar themes, themes which are probably based on some secret success formula arrived at through the evolution of generations of beggars pleas (who knows).

They nearly all start with something like "I'm sorry to bother you ladies and gentlemen…" followed by something like "I was wondering if anyone could spare even a small amount of change" and usually ending with something like "… I'm just trying to get enough money together for a room at a hostel tonight"… etc etc etc. Well now some of the time I'm sure this is true but most of the time I'm sure it isn't however I would imagine "… I'm just trying to get enough money together for some Special Brew and some smack" probably doesn't generate as much sympathy and therefore cash, which is why as a general rule I never supply even "a small amount of change". Now I'm sure some of you may condemn me for my lack of charity but my views on social breakdown are both convincing and complex (too complex to discuss now but I’ll get back to you later on that one).

But anyway back to the day in question when I heard the (in)famous line "I'm sorry to bother you ladies and gentlemen…" from behind me and down the carriage, but this time the line was delivered with such an obviously un-faked and quite severe speech impediment that I listened intently all the way through, rather than my normal reaction which is to turn off my ears.

Now when this poor chap had finished his delivery he started to move down the line. I still hadn't seen him yet but it sounded like he wasn't having very much luck… and then he was at my side. I looked up to see a man that can only be described as a tragically wretched person. He was on crutches and had obviously suffered some terribly debilitating illness or disease that had left him a shambling wreck. His face was dirty, his hair long and unkempt His speech was hard to fathom and took great effort on his part to deliver, but his need was obvious and great, so I decided to go against my normal instincts and personal rules.

I reach out my hand and caught him by the arm as he shuffled down the train with what seemed the air of a man who fully expected to receive nothing from those sitting around him. I then removed my wedding ring from where it has sat on my hand for many years (much to the utter surprise of those sitting near me) and pressed it into his dirty palm and closed his fingers up around it for fear of it falling from his unsteady grip. His eyes showed some confusion. I told him I had no spare change (a lie the guilt of which still crosses my mind almost every day) but that he could take this (the ring). I wished for it to bring him more luck and happiness than it had brought me and he thanked me, still a little confused and then moved on. Oddly he seemed to forget the other passengers in the carriage some of which may very well have been prepared to give him some small amount of coin but he moved onto the next carriage.

As my stop approached a thought struck me, I wondered if he might think that it was some cruel prank, a trick to make him seem foolish. I mean who in their right mind would give a gold ring to a beggar after all, unless it was an evil joke. I rose and moved down the train after him to make sure he didn't toss it aside. As I entered into the next carriage I saw him. He was standing with his back to me, in the doorway huddled in the corner. As I approached him I could see he was examining the ring while trying to keep it safe in his shaky grime covered hands. I reached out and touched him on the shoulder once more and he turned towards me and I saw his face was streaked with still flowing tears. A smile lit his face when he saw me and I told him the ring wasn't worth much but was real gold. He managed to mouth a 'thank you' through his tears and I had to turn away before they overtook me too. I left the train which had now reached my stop and I forced myself to not look back.

I'm not sure if what I did will in the end make any difference to his predicament (I doubt it very much in fact) but for the brief moment when he turned to me with tears and a smile I like to think that his life was lightened just a little and that maybe a small amount of hope and faith in human kind was returned to him.

For me there is still confusion. This act of uncharacteristic charity did not un-break my heart, the life that I had become accustomed to was still ruined and can never be repaired (replaced maybe), but the encounter with the begging man on the train did do one thing for me. It reminded me to be humble and thankful for those things I do have and to not linger on the things that I have lost.

For no matter how dire my (or your) life may seem from time to time, it could be much, much worse.

As someone once said "There, but for the grace of God, go I."

Holidays

2009-09-24T13:43:00.003+01:00

Today is a special day for Darren… today begins his first holiday ever… yes you read correctly. Now as you may know (or may not know) Darren tends to go about things in a slightly different way to most and so there should probably be some qualification to the above statement of first holidayness… it is true he has been on holidays before, when he was a child for example his parents took him many interesting places, cruising around in an old converted ambulance with flowers painted on the sides, like some budget English version of the partridge family (without the music), roaming the land, stopping where they pleased with their pet tortoise and insane battery powered everythings. But that was a long time ago (and probably another story).

Since then Darren has of course been away with his (now ex) wife and kids on numerous occasions, but that's just not the same as going somewhere by oneself or at least in the company of those one chose to travel with (as I'm sure any of you breeders out there will attest to). And so through many years and many trips away it was only realised that today was in fact the first day of a Darren's first ever "holiday of choice".

Where's he going (I faintly hear imagined voices cry)… it's not important. Could be a ditch beside a motorway, could be a castle in the air, could be he's slipping through a time hole (as he sometimes does) to go visit Hitler and have a word with him… it doesn't matter. To him today is a very special day, it marks the end of one phase of his life and the beginning of a new and better one.

Wish him happy holidays.