The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (German to God)

GERMAN(1) The people of Germany. What you will pretend to be in order to frighten off the gang of six year old bullies who keep chasing you out of the village playground. German people are naturally intimidating: the men are tall, blonde and muscular whilst the women have breasts that could puncture a beach ball, and either are likely to scare off even the most determined of pre-teen vigilantes. Wear a monocle¹ and draw a duelling scar on your cheek with a felt pen. Practice shouting ‘Mein Gott!’ whilst clicking the heels of your shoes.

Or simply poke one of the lenses out of your spectacles with a stick. (N.B. Always remember to take them off first.)

GERMAN (2) The language of the people of Germany. British people seldom know any German other than ‘Please’, ‘Thank you’ and ‘Sorry’. Words that, ironically, are seldom spoken by German people.

GAUCHE Socially inept, graceless, tactless. Almost everything the average subversive strives to be. Impossibly rich is the other thing.

GENITALS External sexual organs. Probably better if, most of the time, they are not too external. Keeping them covered up will bring you multiple benefits:

You will not be forced to spend days in police custody listening to the bleating of some petty crook from Lowestoft¹ who believes that the Literati planted the stolen goods in his pillow case, his fingerprints all over the ransacked house and his face all over the doorbell video footage.
Protection from embarrassing sunburn, frostbite and/or rising damp.
Protection from unwanted attention² or ridicule³.

Other British seaside towns where people appear to have lost the use of their lower limbs and are transported around on electric mobility trikes are available.
Unwanted? Really? You’re walking around Tesco’s with no clothes on save for a crocheted hat and sandals. Admitting that you just like the attention may be the first step towards getting some proper friends. It may also save you from the embarrassment of continually finding yourself with your nipples frozen to the ice cream shelf in the supermarket freezer aisle.
Nobody wants to be given a postage stamp by somebody who suggests they should use it to cover up their penis before serving themself at the ‘All You Can Eat’ buffet. Adverse weather conditions will not be accepted as an excuse. Nor will the assertion that ‘I’ve not been well’ stop small boys from flicking elastic bands at it.

GETAWAY The act of escaping. We’re not talking about a weekend in St Tropez here, are we? We are talking about giving the supermarket security guard the slip before he pulls you to the ground and tap dances on your forehead. Running away is the primary form of exercise for most subversives. If you cannot run, wear the minimum of clothing and smear yourself liberally in Vaseline¹ before venturing out. If nothing else, it will make the vicar think twice about admonishing you for drinking too much communion wine.

When Vaseline is not available, Lard is an acceptable substitute, particularly if you don’t mind being licked by dogs.

GHASTLY Terrifying, horrible. Encountering somebody who is semi-naked and smeared in Vaseline when innocently going about your own business, e.g. letting down the tyres of the busybody across the road who reported you for howling at the moon whilst wearing only your socks and a revolving bow tie. Do not attempt to apprehend the person, particularly if you are similarly lubricated, as one of you is almost bound to end up on top of next-door’s shed with extreme grazing from the landing. Be British about it: say ‘Good Morning’, comment on the weather and apologise for staring open-mouthed at their extremities whilst secretly attempting to ‘get a photo for Insta.’

GIBBER To speak rapidly, incoherently or unintelligibly, often due to fear, shock or confusion. More simply, for the average subversive, ‘To speak.’ No subversive will ever be described as calm, coherent and intelligible. They live in a perpetual state of fear, shock and confusion making everything they have to say sound incomprehensible… generally because everything they have to say is incomprehensible… as long as the definition of incomprehensible is the same as nonsensical.

GIBBERISH Spoken or written language that is unintelligible, meaningless with no discernible structure. A subversive manifesto.

GLABROUS Smooth or hairless. Like your excuses e.g. ‘That’s a glabrous lie.’ If you are intending to become fully glabrous, it may be as well to buy a family-sized tub of emollient in preparation as everything is going to chafe.

GLORY Great honour or fame, splendour or beauty. To be honest, I’m not certain why I included this word as you are unlikely to ever encounter it other than in reference to your warts: ‘Glory be! That’s a beauty isn’t it?’

GLOSSY Having a shiny or highly polished surface¹. In terms of the DIY subversive, used almost exclusively in reference to the kind of magazines you have hidden away on the top of your wardrobe.

Like a politician’s bare-faced lie.

GOD A male diety. E.G. one with no power, no foresight and no dress sense. The closest you will come to God is when swearing on oath before pleading ‘Not guilty’ to stealing the church offertory.

The Writing is in the Sand

Just in case you joined me here a couple of days ago, yes, that was my writing in the sand. Yes, those are my feet. And yes, they really are that colour. Being ginger, I have the kind of skin that goes from deathly white to cherry red in seconds. I have the kind of
The Writing is in the Sand

I haven’t been able to get away at all this year, so this 2019 post from my ‘On this day’ thread, written from a subbed, ever so slightly fills the gap and reminds me how lucky I have been in the past with holidays – and despite loving my time in the sun – how badly designed I am for it…

The Best Thing

Sometimes the very best thing for a writer lies in stumbling across a first line with absolutely no idea of where it’s going to take you…

…The day was humid. Humid like an old man’s underpants. The sun was lost in the cloudless sky, the breeze that rustled along the litter-lined gutters was warm and fetid with the smell of ages-old takeaway and jogger’s sock. The two giant moons of Skoupidia Planiti¹ shone brightly down in tandem as they did for just thirteen Skoupidian days every decade. The giant cockroaches basked in the heat providing seemingly easy pickings for any rat foolish enough to chance its arm, whereupon the rest of the extended family blattodea would appear and strip it to the bone in seconds. Arlington, himself, had lost three toes to the little buggers when he had absentmindedly stepped barefoot from his home to gather okra for his supper some time ago.

It was the worst part of Arlington Blight’s miserable existence that, unless his fingernails grew sufficiently to chew, his entire sustenance consisted of the fruit of an indigenous plant that looked, smelled and tasted (he guessed) like snot. He had yet to find anything else that did not either poison, irritate or bite him. The fauna were all supersized, the flora had teeth. He had never found anything on the planet that did not have the capacity to bite back. Even the ‘okra’ had to be subdued before he could cook it. At least the water was acceptable, if a little more hallucinogenic than he would have ideally liked. The balance between hydration and full-on trip was a delicate one, but one he had generally mastered during the long years he had spent awaiting rescue.

In reality, even Arlington Blight’s internal monologue had given up on all hope of rescue. His less cautious crew mates had long since been eaten by the ravenous plant life and he had been alone for – he consulted the scratches on the escape pod walls – some fourteen years now. He had learned to use the airlock to enable him to safely exit the craft for the short time he needed to harvest food and water, without allowing anything that might later devour him, to enter. Annoyingly, the air outside was perfectly breathable, but he had very quickly learned that it was not advisable to undertake any external mission without being fully encased in one of the space suits he had so patiently maintained with blue tack and gaffer tape.

Long ago, when the escape pod had first detached itself from the mother ship it had a single criteria in its mission to find a suitable place to land its human cargo: a breathable atmosphere. Since that day, other than water – its tank having been punctured on landing – and food – emergency rations having been consumed within weeks – the craft had provided everything to support Arlington’s survival within its sealed walls, but it could not control the outside environment and its AI brain could offer no solution to Arlington other than ‘Stay inside’. It was also a dreadful companion: it regularly beat him at games, it was always certain that it knew best and it never laughed at his jokes.

There had obviously been a civilisation on Skoupidia in the past – the roads, the derelict buildings and the burger boxes told him that much – but for some reason the ‘higher’ beings had obviously succumbed to flora that had become sentient and fauna that had become rabid. What had changed things? Arlington understood evolution – his father had taught him that the strong and ruthless would inherit the world – but just what had shifted the balance so dramatically here? What had so enfeebled the dominant life-force, made the formerly weak strong, turned the cabbages into predators? Something had to have shifted the natural order of things and, despite what his mother would have had him believe, he didn’t think it was onanism. Some kind of alien intrusion perhaps, a nuclear accident or some kind of escape from a research lab? All possible, but what happened to the ‘people’ of the planet? Surely they couldn’t all have died. They were clearly advanced, some of them must have adapted to new circumstances: hiding underground perhaps, still strong in another part of their world? Maybe they had built huge rocket ships, like his own ancestors on earth, carrying them out into the Universe in the search for a new home.

He discussed all the possibilities many times with AI who, on balance, agreed with his mother: self abuse was the most likely culprit. “Not much you can do to defend yourself,” it said “if everyone’s blind. Warts and hairy palms don’t do much for dexterity.”
“But what if,” asked Arlington, “they too had blasted off from their planet, searching for somewhere new to live? What if after loads of generations and a malfunctioning navigation system, something went wrong with the Mother-ship and those fortunate enough to make the escape pod were brought back to the self-same planet they had left generations earlier?”
“Everything is possible²,” said AI “but I wouldn’t let my imagination run away with me if I was you. It’s just me and you kid. Face it, the fact that everyone but you has been eaten by the vegetation is not ideal is it, re-popularisation-wise? Probably best not to dwell on it too deeply. All in all I would have thought it’s probably best to keep believing in a rescue mission.”
“If you say so,” said Arlington, wandering away to his sleep pod.
“I do,” said AI.
“But I can’t just go on like this,” said Arlington. “I feel like I’m going mad. I can’t sleep and I keep imagining terrible things. What should I do?”
“Well,” said AI. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to cut down on the wanking…”

Greek – rubbish planet
Which just shows how much it knew.

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Gag to Gash)

GAG (1) A joke (informal). A politician. Any statement that is attributable to Nigel Farage.

GAG (2) The act of tying a piece of cloth¹ around a person’s mouth to stop them talking, shouting or calling for help. What should be done to all politicians. It is an incontrovertible fact that politicians should be obliged to shut up from the moment they stand for office and not allowed to speak again until after their autobiographies have been remaindered at the bookshop.

Leather, gaffer tape or, in extremis, your own underwear may be similarly effective, as may animal fur, particularly if still attached to the animal.

GAG (3) An involuntary choking or vomiting sound. Usually provoked by a politician refusing to be quiet or by hearing your parents planning to have sex¹.

Also the sound made by the gaggee if you really have used your underpants to carry out the gagging.

GAG (4) Limiting free speech by force or authority. E.g. ‘Say that again and I will twist your ears, pull your bottom lip and put a finger up your nose.’ Judges may issue a gagging order to stop you speaking unpalatable truths, although they are far more likely to sentence you to one hundred hours of voluntary service¹ for thumbing your nose at the Lord Mayor’s wife. Attempts are often made to gag the solo subversive, but it is generally because they have not brushed their teeth for months in protest at being barred from the local pub as a result of speaking out about the evil capitalism of the landlord and subsequently legging it without paying for half a pint of lager and a packet of pork scratchings.

Voluntary service is not in any way ‘voluntary’ when imposed by a judge although it can be avoided by hiding in your grandmother’s attic and eating mice.

GANGSTER Member of an organized criminal gang that operates outside of the law. All subversives want to be one of these, but mostly they have not been close to an organized group of any kind since they were drummed out of the Boy Scouts for tampering with the woggles.

GARBLE Distort, jumble or alter. Generally to take something perfectly rational and turn it into something nonsensical, also, in the case of the solo subversive, known as speaking your mind (See Gibberish – below). As a subversive you are destined to be misunderstood by the rest of society for the very good reason that you are generally found to be speaking utter nonsense or, on the odd occasion that you manage to get your hands on your brother-in-law’s home-brew, Swahili. There is seldom anything to be gained by being clear. Simply stated, your arguments could be picked apart by a five year old with ADHD and a five gallon bottle of Coca Cola. Work on the principle that what they can’t understand, they can’t argue with. Use inappropriate words, acronyms, quotes from Barbara Cartland, phrases you have picked up from a self-assembly furniture instruction booklet¹ and employ a foreign accent at all times. Feigning a speech impediment might seem like a good idea, but could lead to a severe kick on the shins if there is someone with a stutter in the room. It is best never to risk offence unless you are certain that you are bigger and faster than everybody around you.

Which may as well be in Sanskrit for all the good they are.

GARGLE The word ‘garble’ as spoken by a ventriloquist.

GASH (1) A long, deep cut or wound. Something that you will very much seek to avoid, unless it is in a medium rare steak.

GASH (2) (Armed Forces slang.) Rubbish. If you have any military friends (highly unlikely, but stick with me) you are very likely to be told to stop talking utter gash. Do not respond in an aggressive manner unless you fancy a gash across the eyebrow.

GASH (3) Free or spare. You will take anything that is going gash, particularly in the pub, providing you are certain that nobody has spat in it.

GASH (4) (Crude slang.) A woman’s down below paraphernalia. Do not use this term. Just do not. You may well be tempted to say it in the pub in an attempt to sound cool and hard in front of the Sociology students from the local Uni¹, but they will not be impressed and if you are overheard it will almost certainly result in the landlady spitting in your half pint of shandy (again).

They will be in for the quiz and no amount of pleading will persuade them to let you join their team. You will, as always, find yourself in a foursome with the man from the Municipal Toilets, his tobacco chewing mother and the landlord’s flatulent dog.

Nineteen Eighty Fourish

So, the latest thing apparently, is to upload a photograph to AI which then makes you look like it thinks you would have looked in the 1980’s at the age you are today*. I personally have a brilliant short-cut to the same result which involves simply raking through my old photographs and picking them out, although I do realise that this option is not available to everyone. I know what I looked like in the 80’s – I looked like me, but forty years younger. Only the clothes have changed – and then not by all that much. My life is history. My kids study the 80’s and 90’s in history at school. One of them asked me not too long ago what the world was like when it was black & white. You see I have just watched a news report about the twenty fifth anniversary of the 9/11 attack on the Twin Towers and it stated that approximately one third of the US population has no memory of that day (which feels, to me, like it could have been yesterday) because they were not born. Just think about that for a moment and extrapolate: one third of the world’s population is under twenty five years of age.

Honestly, wrapping me (vitually) in 1980’s clothing is all well and good, but it tells me very little about how I actually was back then. If AI could open a window into my soul of forty years ago, that might be a different story. I would then, for instance, have believed that some politicians were capable of being fundamentally better than others, but I also feel that I would have been less tolerant of the failings of others because, frankly, I was less aware of my own. Time has taught me many things, amongst them that it is seldom wise to hold strong opinions about things of which you have little or no knowledge – and for me, that is almost everything.

I realise that this probably qualifies me as certifiably insane, but I still believe in the goodness of people – the basic humanity of Humanity – but memory tells me that compassion did not have a great deal going for it in the 80’s. Even if we did have Live Aid and the fall of the Berlin Wall it was, in the UK, the decade of the Thatcherite Revolution, of Might is Right and Findus Crispy Pancakes. We had glimpses of the apocalyptic: Bhopal, Chernobyl and Ethiopia. We had The Irish Troubles, riots in Brixton, Toxteth, Handsworth and Broadwater Farm; the Miner’s Strike, the Hillsborough Disaster and Institutionalised homophobia (in the shape of section 28). Those who ‘tolerated’ black people in the neighbourhood were seen as enlightened. Heaven was a bubble-perm and hand-knitted legwarmers, Hell was being black and gay. Oh, happy days.

Now, there are people – almost exclusively those who do not remember the 60’s or 70’s – who believe that the 80’s were some kind of musical zenith and for those people I have just three words ‘Lady in Red’, or if you would prefer Stock Aitken Waterman. Like every decade, the 80’s had plenty of complete tosh. Only people who were of a certain age during that decade (e.g. not old enough to know any better) would hold its music with such reverence, and then only if they had a completely tin ear. There were some great eighties songs, but there were also plenty that make me want to put my head in a vice.

Many would argue that the eighties was a decade in which things started to change for the better and I will admit that ‘Mind Your Language’ died a much belated T.V. death, but M*A*S*H and The Morecambe and Wise Show also finished. Reagan and Gorbachev did change the world, but let’s be honest, it hasn’t taken long for Trump and Putin to f*ck it all up again has it?

Honestly, I can’t help but wonder whether, rather than showing us what we would have looked like in the eighties, the vast resources of AI wouldn’t be better used in showing us what the world will look like forty years from now if we don’t sort ourselves out pronto. You know the sort of thing, upload a photograph of the wildlife in your garden to see if any of it will make it through the 2050’s; upload a map of your local area to see which parts will be under water and which will be desert; upload a photograph of a handcart and find out when the whole planet will go to hell in it.

Given that a top AI researcher has recently warned that AI could potentially wipe out the entire human race within the decade, you might say that watching it fanny around with photographs is the least of our worries, but maybe it is just the start of them: maybe the same IT that manipulates the photographs could take our current leaders back to 1984 and sit them in front of the superpowers’ red buttons at a time when almost everyone was expecting them to be pressed. You’ve got to admit, it’s a prospect that’s even more worrying than seeing yourself looking deranged in a shell-suit.

*Such is the power of AI that within thirty seconds of writing that line I received an email from ChatGPT offering to do just that for me. I tried it and the result is at the top of the page. I think I may well have once actually owned many of those clothes but, hair aside, I look fundamentally the same as now. It is a strange sensation to know that if I did look like that in 1984, I would be 109 years old now and even less bothered than I am today about how a super-computer saw me.

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Former to Futile)

FORMER Of, or as, an earlier time – As in ‘friend’ (below). As a subversive, all your friends will be ‘former friends’ unless they are the kind that you really don’t want as in the first place, in which case they will still be friends and you will be stuck with them forever.

FRACTURE A break or crack in something hard, particularly bone – The reason why an enemy’s skeleton exists. There are many, many ways of causing fractures, the most reliable of which is alcohol. Causing a drunken enemy to stumble is simplicity itself – just persuade them to get up – but beware, drunken people often bend when they should break and, although they will have forgotten almost everything about the previous evening when they wake up, they will remember who pushed them.

FRAUD The crime of getting money by deceiving people – also known as ‘being in charge’. Throughout history, those in charge have relieved everybody else of their money by deception: ‘The Health Service is safe in our hands’, ‘Every penny raised by this new tax will go towards making the life of the working man easier’, and ‘Buy me a fish supper and we’ll see…’ This is what you are fighting against. However, short of working, it is also what you must do to pay the bills. Whilst it is not possible for most of us to sell Nelson’s Column to a Chinese tourist, it might just be possible to persuade him that we are quite happy for them to co-finance a nuclear power station. Remember, fraud is not a victimless crime – if you get caught trying to pull one, you might just find yourself on the receiving end of something far more physical than a bogus lottery ticket.

FRENCH The people of France – French people, the entire French nation is by nature subversive. Ask them the time in the wrong way – e.g. in a British accent – and the average Gaul will have barricaded all the ports before you can say sacré bleu. To the average French Air-Traffic Controller, a bank holiday is the only excuse he needs to go on strike. Most French people own cars only so they can set fire to the tyres when they disagree about something. The only thing that French people find more annoying than the average British tourist is other French people. French people always sound as if they are arguing, but this is not always the case. When French people argue, they hit each other with baguettes. They also lace all foodstuffs with garlic, wear stripy ‘T’ shirts and carry strings of onions around their necks. As a nation they are shameless in their stereotyping of Britons.

FRIEND A person who you know well and like a lot – As it is essential that this sentiment is reciprocal it is unlikely that you will have any of these. It is undeniable that anyone you know well will almost certainly not like you a lot. In fact at all. Let’s face it, the fact that the pub empties when you go in is not down to your charisma or your hygiene. During the course of your subversive activities, you may establish a few tenuous friendships. You almost certainly will not want them.

FUGITIVE A person who is running away or hiding from the police – Well, you’ll certainly be doing that. It is the burden of the D.I.Y subversive to be hounded by the fuzz, particularly if you were captured on CCTV putting that crisp packet into the recycle bin. Let’s face it, you are unlikely to ever become Public Enemy Number One; it is doubtful that you will ever fall into Interpol’s remit; Elliot Ness will not be carrying your photograph in his wallet – but it doesn’t hurt to run away anyway. You can never be too careful, especially if you might be embarrassed by what they find when they turn your pockets out – particularly if it’s a note from your mum explaining that you’ve been off work because of a carbuncle on the backside.

FUNERAL Funerals are long, sombre affairs spent staring at a coffin and dreading the false bonhomie that follows in the pub afterwards, when a thousand assorted photographs of the dearly departed will be produced and everyone has a good old laugh at their expense. If you are the kind of subversive that goes looking for trouble, you could attend many of these. Make the most of the opportunity to consider your own mortality and resolve not to do anything that might put you in danger in the future. Consider how you can persuade somebody else to do the dangerous stuff whilst abusing the free bar at the wake, and smuggling the potted sardine sandwiches out for the cat.

FUNGUS Any of a major group of lower plants, such as mildews, mushrooms, yeasts etc that reproduce by spore. The entire contents of the average teenagers underwear after a weekend at a music festival. The contrary nature of subversion may dictate that you counter this with fanatical cleanliness. You will change your mind as soon as you see the festival toilets.

FUTILE Useless; ineffective. Your life, your plans, you decision to keep yourself pure for the girl next door who has just set off on a round-the-world bicycle trip with her ex-schoolmaster.

HOMEWORK

Plan your own funeral – you may even be able to sell tickets. Write your own eulogy and refuse all forms of burial or cremation unless it is read out aloud. Place it somewhere you are certain it will be found after your death – stapled to your life insurance policy and stored with the pasta – together with a CD of Deep Purple’s ‘Burn’ and a limerick about flatulence.

Conversations with the Bearded Man (12) – Baby

At no point in my life had I ever considered the possibility of becoming a father. I was – I am – far too careless I know, to be responsible for the well-being of a potted plant, let alone that of a tiny, vulnerable human life.

The age difference between Sara and myself had never been an issue – well, except for when she insisted on playing her godawful nineties music – but she was forcing me to address it now.
“The clock is ticking, Jim,” she said. “I’m in my forties now. I’m happy and I’m settled and I want a baby.”
I toyed with asking her whether they sold them at Lidl, but fortunately I managed to bite my tongue just before the words left my mouth.
“It’s alright for you,” she continued. “You’re a man. You can still father children for years, like Charlie Chaplin or Mick Jagger; me, I’m on the timer.”
I sensed that the time was probably not right to unveil my long list of hastily assembled ‘buts’: they were both rich men, they both had – even in their eighties – far more energy than I had, they were almost certainly able to afford somebody to get up in the night for them. I couldn’t help but wonder if either of them had ever seen the inside of a shitty nappy, but then I remembered that Mick had spent over sixty years with Keith Richards. Our house is comfortable now (thanks to Sara) and big enough for a family. We are financially secure – at least the bills are always paid on time (by Sara) – we always have food on the table (cooked by Sara), we are warm, dry and contented and thinking about it, I have to admit my own contribution seems to be somewhere south of minimal.

Typically, she hadn’t pushed me. Having said what she felt she needed to say, she kissed me on the forehead, slipped on her coat and left for work as she always did, leaving me to climb the stairs to my desk, a mug of tea in one hand, a biscuit in the other and a further biscuit in my back pocket just in case of emergency. My mind was churning its way through what she had just said when the phone ringing on my desk snapped me out of my reverie. The house phone never rang, in fact I was pretty certain it was no longer connected. I picked it up.
“Hello,” said the voice from the other end: a voice that I recognised immediately.
“It’s you,” I said.
“Of course,” he answered. “Did you want to speak to me?”
As usual, when Lorelei asked me a question I was forced to really consider my answer, after all, he had rung me, not the other way round, but – and this ‘but’ felt quite crucial – I realised that I did want to talk to him.
“Do I strike you as the dependable sort?” I asked.
“Dependable?” He paused as if giving his answer serious consideration. “I think we can all be relied on to be dependable in some way, can’t we? Even if it’s only to be unreliable.”
“You think I’m unreliable?”
“Do you?”
“I think I could maybe be a bit more… steady.”
“Steady?”
“You know, strong, trustworthy, that kind of thing.”
“Well you definitely have strengths,” he said “but you probably have more weaknesses… overall.”
“Like what?”
“Like we all do. You’re no great shakes at D.I.Y. are you? You can’t be trusted to remember anything at all unless its written down for you, and even then you lose the paper. You can’t open jars and the last time you tried to play darts in the pub you took out two of the landlord’s spotlights…” I could never understand how he knew these things, although I could not deny the veracity of any of them. Nevertheless I was affronted. Those lights had always been too low. “…But Sara calls you her rock.”
“Does she?” I was intrigued. She had called me many things over the last couple of years, but never – to my face at least – anything even remotely rugged.
“She says you’re always there for her.”
“I’m not certain that she always considers that a good thing,” I whined. It was something he chose not to deny. “She wants a baby,” I said, painfully aware that I was not telling him anything he didn’t already know.
“And you don’t?” he asked.
As always he had managed to ask the question I was least prepared to answer. “It’s just…” I started. It’s just what? I had no idea. I thought of the possibilities: a little Sara around the house would be delightful, but a little Jim? I cast my mind back as far as I could, but I had to admit I had no idea what my parents saw in me as a child. babies are little human characters aren’t they? What if I didn’t like our baby? What if they didn’t like me? Babies are so vulnerable and I couldn’t help but think that Sara already had enough on her plate with me. “It’s just,” I tried again, “not something I’d ever considered. What if I’m no good at it?”
“You can get better.”
I tried hard to think of anything that would qualify me as a decent parent, but found myself stranded immediately after ‘can tie six different types of knot and identify twenty common British trees from their leaves’. I waited for Lorelei’s input, but the only sound from the phone was a low static hum which, when I came to think about it, was almost certainly coming from my ears.
“Are you still there?” I asked.
“Of course,” he answered.
“Well, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About Sara having a baby.”
“About Sara having your baby.”
“Of course, yes my baby. I mean, who else’s? …You’re trying to tell me something aren’t you?”
I sensed, rather than heard him sigh. It was a sound that always flushed me with irrational guilt. At least I assumed it was irrational.
“Is this the first time that she’s ever mentioned a baby?” he asked. I nodded. I knew that he could not see me, but I also knew that he would know.
“It’s almost like she’s realised that she’s finally happy at last isn’t it?”
I blushed a little. I knew that he would have sensed that too. “If she’s so content, why does she want to change things: why throw a spanner into the works?” I heard myself say the words. I regretted them instantly.
“A spanner?” he asked, sounding for all the world like has searching for something in a tool box.
“A baby. I didn’t mean to say spanner. I didn’t mean that a baby is like a spanner, it’s just…” I was back-pedalling madly, like a duck in a weir. “I just mean, we’re happy as we are. Why would she want to change things?”
“Maybe she thinks she could be happier: that you could both be happier.”
“A holiday would be cheaper.”
This time I definitely heard him sigh. “Life is like a river,” he said, and I wondered, not for the first time, at his gift for the extremely obtuse.
“Cold and full of shit?” I guessed.
“When it stops moving,” he said. “It becomes a swamp… Anyway Jim, I have to go,” he continued. “I need to talk to a friend whose partner refuses to move on.”
“Oh, ok,” I said, reluctant as usual to let him go.
“In this world,” he said. “You can choose to be anything you like. On the whole, it’s probably best to choose to be happy.”
“Right,” I said with the usual conviction that the world had just washed over me.
“Don’t drown,” he said. “Be like a river.”
“Ok, but… can I just ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Where did you get this number?”
“Number?”
“To phone me.”
“But you phoned me,” he said. “Didn’t you?”
“Probably,” I answered…

As ever, and I’m not certain why, the Bearded man occupied a little more time than usual. I hope you don’t mind.

For Mrs Underfelt, who likes this character.

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Feasible to Forbid)

With Apologies for last week’s missing instalment.

FEASIBLE Possible. All things are possible, although most of the good ones are extremely unlikely.

FEEBLE Weak and without energy, strength or power – So there you are, a word invented just for you. Even your excuses are feeble. If your parents had any notion of how you were going to turn out, they would have given it to you as a middle name.

FEET Plural of FOOT – Always the best way to find them. If you have a deficiency in this department, your getaways are likely to be seriously compromised¹. You could become an Evil Mastermind – they don’t seem to move around much² – but, as most practical subversives appear to spend most of their lives running away from something or other, I can only suggest limiting your activities to those centred around the similarly pedically³ diminished. Alternatively, buy a scooter and ask somebody to push you.

The first thing to check is that you are not merely sitting on the other one.
Although you may need to buy a cat.
I appear to have made that word up. I will claim it as my own only if there is money in it.

FELLOW Used to refer to someone who has the same job or interests as you, or is in the same situation as you – Thus, a word you will never use (See ‘FRIEND’ below).

FIST The hand when tightly clenched Clenched fists are often associated with fights, but in you case it is far more likely to be a means of clinging onto small change.

FLAW A fault, mistake or weakness – Where to start? Unlike friends, you will have many of these: some of them major (See ‘PERSONALITY’ below) and some of them minor (Your tendency to annoy everybody you ever meet.)

FLEA Bloodsucking insect – Similar to a leech, but with legs. You will be compared to this little parasite often (seldom favourably). Don’t take it to heart¹. Even fleas have friends – although you wouldn’t necessarily want to meet them.

I have no idea why you would not, but I do know that if you do, you will spend a huge portion of your life feeling miserable.

FLEE Run away – Adrenalin is the master of the Fight or Flight Response. For you, it is only semi-effective. I have not included ‘FIGHT’ in this dictionary as I realise that it might upset you. If anybody ever suggests fighting for your rights, be happy to concede that you do not have, nor desire any. Rights come with responsibilities, another word I have chosen to omit.

FLENCH To strip skin or fat from a carcass – I have included this only because it is the best sounding word I have ever heard, and I hereby start a petition to have it given a new definition so that I can use it more often.

FLOG Beat with a stick. Sell, or offer for sale – I am unsure what the word is for selling a stick. Flogging a dead horse¹ (although I have no idea why anyone would want to buy one) is what you will spend most of your life doing.

Flogging a dead horse – to waste effort on something when there is no chance of success. For the average subversive, all effort is wasted.

FLOUR One of the main tools in the subversive armoury when faced with reasoned argument (along with over-ripe tomatoes and rotten eggs).

FLUID A substance that flows – in addition to the three historical ‘humours’ – wind, bile and phlegm – all three of which the average subversive has in abundance, there are the three other fluids – tears, urine and sweat – which he/she will shed whenever it is beneficial. Many scholars claim the existence of a fourth fluid – blood – but no subversive will own up to having that, let alone shedding it.

FOE An enemy – The human race in general: anyone with more money, more power, more charisma, better looks, better clothes, fewer hang-ups, fewer jars of ointment… In short, everyone. You cannot fight such an enemy, you can only cause them mild irritation (which you probably do by simply being alive). You may well find yourself unable to counter the logic of a greater intellect, but you will soon discover that putting your fingers in your ears and saying ‘Na-na-na-na’ very loudly can be particularly effective. Subversion is the art of not having to fight. Unfortunately it also often involves not washing and mixing with other subversives.

FOIL (1) A thin, light sword – Will not keep your sandwiches fresh.

FOIL (2) A thin metal sheet – Will not help you win points in a sword fight, nor toast more marshmallows simultaneously than anybody else at the village hall barbecue.

FOIL (3) To prevent somebody or something else from being successful – This is the ultimate aim of all subversion. Subversives do not actually want to achieve anything other than ensuring that nobody else does either.

FOOL A person lacking in wisdom or common sense. (See ‘Politician’ below.)

FOOLHARDY Foolishly bold; rash. You are almost certainly seldom bold, but you are similarly certain to have at least one rash requiring treatment.

FORBID To refuse to allow something – In a subversively ideal world, anarchy would rule¹ and nothing would be forbidden – except, hopefully, double-dipping at buffet restaurants. The lawless would be in charge² and subversion would lay in following the rules³.

Except it wouldn’t, would it? Being anarchy and all…
I’m not at all certain about the veracity of that statement. I don’t think anybody would actually be in charge – except somebody would have to make sure that nobody was obeying the rules (which wouldn’t exist) otherwise everything would just descend into… erh…
Oh, this is getting far too complicated now. Maybe we could just do away with a state of lawlessness and settle on one where you are allowed to yell ‘Bratwurst’ through stranger’s letterboxes on the occasional Bank Holiday.

Goldfish

I currently have the concentration of a goldfish: perhaps two hours a day squeezed in between a belated exit from the bed having spent the night before staring at the ceiling and an impromptu nap over a cup of tea immediately after lunch. Less rock ‘n’ roll these days and more elderly stamp collector. I am what is known as, in psychoanalytical circuits, a complete waste of space. I am grateful that I don’t have to live with me. I fear that murder would be committed.

I have a growing determination not to bore you further with my medical travails because, if I am honest, I am bored to death with them myself. Nevertheless I feel that I must strive to fulfil my self-imposed mission: to catalogue the banal and inconsequential incidents that litter my life in a manner that could, by the most generous of readers, be described as mildly entertaining, but the truth is that such incidents have become ever more sporadic; ever more trivial. Truth be told, I’m not getting out much.

According to my fitness tracker I accumulated 6000 steps yesterday and I can only imagine they must have been in circles. I calculated (I have lots of time on my hands) that this accounts for 250 return trips from my chair to the fridge. I suspect that I am wearing a rut in the carpet. I feel a little like a seaside donkey with the whole of life on my back in place of a snotty six year old intent on sticking an unwanted stick of rock in my lug-hole. I am actively discouraged from doing anything that would prove taxing to a sloth.

Many years ago I saw the magnificent Jasper Carrott* on TV, bemoaning the fact that since he had become famous the regularity of anecdote-worthy incidents that littered his life had become seriously reduced due in part to not being able to get out and about so much without being recognised. He had become proactive, he said, in precipitating the kind of event that might previously have culminated in a tale worth telling – e.g. knocking a policeman’s helmet off – only to discover that those who might have previously reacted in an amusing fashion – something, no doubt, to do with a truncheon – merely rolled their eyes and said ‘Oh it’s you, Jasper’ and asked for an autograph. Fame conspired to ensure that nothing amusing ever happened to him. Well, from my position of total obscurity, I can assure him that inactivity does much the same thing. Life no longer hurtles headlong to meet you, which results in you sitting down to write a blog post with nothing to talk about other than streamed sit-com repeats (almost universally superior to today’s offerings) and daytime quiz shows (the contestants on which make me want to scratch my own eyes out. Why do say many people feel the need to demonstrate their total intellectual vacuity on national TV?) Well, I thought, needs must…

…And then, because life has grown tired of looking for a new groin to kick, I find myself back in a hospital bed. No blue lights, screaming sirens, whitened faces, perspiration-pocked brows or facial close-ups, but the admission papers do say ‘Emergency’ and within forty-eight hours I have been on the sharp end (quite literally) of two back-to-back medical procedures.

Sometimes you have to acquiesce and take what you are given. When life gives you doctors and nurses, as the famous saying goes (which I have just invented) write a medically-themed post. It’s not ideal. I feel as if I have probably said all that I can: the NHS system has many flaws, but the people that work in the wards and surgeries are beyond reproach and – if I may say so – living proof that (legal) migration is vital to our country’s well-being. That, fortunately, is somebody else’s drum to bang: I can’t face the abuse at the moment.

Suffice to say that I have completely forgotten what I intended to say when I started this little piece at my office desk less than a week ago and, as usual, although I can obviously re-read the first bit, it offers me not a single clue of where it (or I) was intending to go. I can see that I was whingeing about the lack of happenstance in my life that I am able to embellish in an amusing fashion, but then, I whinge about almost everything and humour is, after all, in the eye of the beholder. If funny whingeing is not amusing, it is merely whingeing.

I’ve got two weeks now – if blood tests are ignored – before my next bout of prodding (I have had four separate sets of blood tests and four attempts to site a cannula in the last few hours. I am home to eight separate taped-down wads of lint. I am a human sieve.) and if necessary, when I am up and about I will go out and knock a bobby’s helmet off in order to have a tale to tell. Except I’m self-evidently not famous and nobody knows my face, so what I could be left with would be a ‘The day I had my head cracked open with a policeman’s baton’ story and a hundred hours of Community Service to moan about. I have never actually seen inside a custody suite, but I suspect that my vision of an eau-de-nil painted, vomit and urine scented brick cubicle is probably no longer a reality. There will be nobody available – not, I fear, for the shortage of volunteers – to beat a confession out of me; there will be no good cop/bad cop interrogations; no maverick, rule-bending genius detective to bail me out, especially as – when push comes to pull – I am almost certain to chicken out of my own hat-whacking role in the first place. I am a certifiable coward who – for the time being at least – is more likely to fall asleep over repeats of ‘Pointless’ than de-cap a uniformed upholder of the law.

I am a goldfish staring out of my little bowl: at least I have the view to be grateful for…

*Unknown, I understand, in the USA – and I can only say that it is your loss. Carrott, in his prime, challenged my capacity to breathe more often than I can say in his stand-up tours over the years.

The Analogue Kids #3 – Seaside

“…Well, that was a lovely day wasn’t it?” said Muriel.
“I enjoyed it,” answered Harry. “Although I never realised how absorbent chinos can be.”
“Pale cream was a brave choice for such a rainy day,” she said. “And I don’t suppose your suede shoes have come out of it too well either. You’ll need to stuff those with newspaper when you get home.”
“Newspaper? Do they still print newspapers? I haven’t had one of those in years. They don’t even wrap fish and chips in them anymore do they?”
“No, they don’t. And seaside chips are not quite the same out of a cardboard box are they?”
“They’re not quite the same in the pissing rain either.”
“Oh come on, it was fun. We found a space in the bus shelter didn’t we?”
“Oh, it was a bus shelter was it?” asked Harry. “It smelled like a public toilet.”
“It wasn’t the best, I must admit.”
“I’m not sure which was worse: the smell of urine, Evo-Stick or the woman with the farting dog in the pushchair.” He sniffed his coat. “I can smell it now.”
Muriel wrinkled her nose and laughed quietly. “Alright,” she said, “I’ll admit that the bus shelter was a bit of a low spot, but we had a good time otherwise, didn’t we?”
Harry smiled. “You were particularly impressive on the darts at the fairground.”
“I told you I hadn’t thrown a dart in years,” she said.
“I didn’t even know that it was possible to throw them backwards,” he laughed. “I wonder if that bloke has still got it dangling from the back of his hat.”
“That dart man made me pay for the dart,” she pouted. Harry laughed and Muriel slapped his shoulder. “Yes, well you were no great shakes on the coconut shy,” she said.
“They were nailed down,” he protested. “I hit one right on the button and it never flinched.”
“He lifted it up to prove to you that it wasn’t,” she laughed.
“He turned his back when he did it,” he whined. “Could have been releasing a catch or something.”
“Don’t be so defensive,” she giggled, offering him a seaside humbug. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, being a bit limp-wristed at your age.”
“Limp-wristed? I am not limp-wristed! I’ve always been above average wrist strength-wise. I’m a bit of a jam jar opening Ninja actually.”
“You couldn’t even open your own tomato sauce sachet,” she laughed. “You threw it on the floor and stamped on it.”
“It was clearly defective.”
“Tell that to the woman who got it splattered all over her dog.”
“I tried. She hit me with an umbrella.”
They both laughed. Muriel rested her head fleetingly on Harry’s shoulder. “I enjoyed The Waltzer,” she said.
“They spin around a lot don’t they? I don’t remember them spinning around so much when I was younger.”
“I think that’s just what they do. Always have. Maybe it’s just that your head spins for a bit longer as you get older.” She glanced at the soft toy that rested on her lap. “And I love my teddy by the way,” she said. “Fancy you being able to win that on the crane machine… and in less than an hour too.”
“They’re fixed as well aren’t they, those machines. Grab the loot fair and square and then, just at the last second, watch it fall out of your grippers – it’s like trying to understand the Universe after an afternoon in the pub.”
“Well I love it anyway,” she said. “It was a good day. It’s lovely to get some fresh sea air in your lungs.”
“I don’t know about my lungs,” said Harry, “but it certainly got inside my vest. I’m sure it blew straight in from the Arctic.”
“You’re such a wuss,” she laughed. “Look at you. How many layers of clothing are you wearing?”
“I don’t like the cold.”
“Really,” she laughed. “I would never have guessed.”
“Can you believe that they were even trying to sell ice cream down there today? The man in the cabin on the prom had a paraffin heater going. His flakes were wilting. You wouldn’t have got your 99 out from under his canopy without it washing away.”
“Oh listen at you. Didn’t you like anything along the front?”
“Whatever happened to the slot machines? Flash your credit card to get a pocketful of tokens and try to win a three metre length of paper tickets. Push yourself up to about fifty metres-worth of tickets and you can exchange them for a packet of Fruit Gums. What’s wrong with using coins and winning coins?”
“Well I don’t suppose anybody has a pocketful of coins to put in the machines these days do they?”
“No they don’t. Even the Prize Bingo is cashless – and what the hell am I meant to do with a penis-shaped toilet roll dispenser? Five wins that was. The seaside used to be all Candy Floss, Mr Whippy in a soggy cone and a pot of winkles with a wooden fork, now it’s venison smash burgers, fifty shades of exotic Italian Gelato and a million ironic uses for a plastic dick. It’s all gentrified tat. Remember when you needed to ‘spend a penny’ in the loo? It cost a pound and you had to do that ‘contactless’ because somebody had nicked the toilet seat.”
“The soap smelled nice though.”
Harry shrugged. “That’s ok then. I think I’d sooner save my pound and not have to wash my hands.”
“You are such a grump,” laughed Muriel. “Did you hate everything?”
“No, I liked the pub.”
“Because it had a fire?”
He nodded. “If I’m honest, yes… And beer.”
“Yes, you didn’t mind that being cold did you?.”
Harry grinned and closed his eyes briefly. “You’re right,” he sighed. “It was a good day – maybe not for Hush Puppies – but I really did enjoy it, thank you, even if I will have to buy a new pair of trousers.”
“Make them darker,” she said. “And maybe get an elasticated waistband. You know how difficult buttons can be when you’re a little bit limp-wristed…”