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…”

Making Up For Lost Time: a Soapy Head, a White Rabbit and a Black-hole Paradox

My day began, as all my days begin, in the shower and it was not until after I had dressed that it became in any way different. You see, it was then, as I loaded my various pockets with pens, keys and loose change, that I realised that I had not rinsed the shampoo from
Making Up For Lost Time: a Soapy Head, a White Rabbit and a Black-hole Paradox

This popped up on my ‘On This Day’ link from 2019. It is my most read post over the years.

The Beginner’s A-Z of D.I.Y Subversion (Face to Faux Pas)

FACE The majority of subversives have at least two of these. Most politicians would commit the country to war rather than lose one.

FACT Thing that is known to be true. Don’t worry, you won’t encounter many of these, and those that you do are likely to be Governmental Facts and therefore ‘unverifiable’. Unverifiable facts are also known as Lies – you will encounter many of these. The author Mark Twain quoted Benjamin Disraeli as originating the phrase ‘Lies, damn lies and statistics’ to describe the persuasive power of erroneously employed figures in informing opinion. I would like to propose my own alternative: lies, damn lies and facts. The practicing subversive will have a million ‘facts’ at his disposal, any of which can be used to back up his particular version of the truth. Facts merely have to be believed to be true. The more facts you can cram into an argument, the stronger your case will be, and the greater your chances of conning cash out of someone.

FACULTY An inherent mental or physical power – Don’t worry. If you are intent on following your current path, you will not need (and almost certainly will not have) any of these.

FAIL Be unsuccessful in achieving one’s goal – If your goal is a grandiose one – world domination for example – it is probably best to remember that many before you have shared this simple ambition and, to date, none have achieved it. Some have come close viz. Genghis Khan, Adolf Hitler, The Emperor Ming, but ultimately, they have all met a (thankfully) sticky end. If you are honest, they are not people with whom even you would want to be compared – especially unfavourably. Others have tried to rule the world through rather more subtle means, viz. Mark Zuckerberg, Jeff Bezos, Elon Musk, but we all know that it is also unlikely to end well for them: they will go mad (at least one of them is already half-way there) miscalculate the public mood or (the cardinal sin in the UK) simply get too big for their boots. They will not come to their death beds as ‘Ruler of the World’. Indeed, if history teaches us anything, they may be lucky to own their own underwear¹.
If your ambitions are rather more modest: to seriously annoy a politician; to convince the local bobby that you are actually building a time machine in your garage and not an illicit still; to teach next-door’s big ginger Tom that it is much more fun to shit in his own garden², then you stand a greater chance of success although, if we’re all being honest here, failure remains the far more likely outcome. Learn to embrace failure: it is the subversive’s only true route to contentment.

Unless, of course, it is tax-deductable.
World-wide, cats do not shit in their own gardens – they shit in mine.

FAINT To suddenly become unconscious for a short time – What you will do whenever you find yourself in a sticky situation from which you cannot run away. The longer you can maintain the subterfuge, the greater your chances of escape. Stop immediately if a man in a black suit and a cravat starts measuring you up and pulling out samples of satin linings.

FAIT ACCOMPLI Something that has already happened or been done and cannot be changed – The ill-advised tattoo from the dyslexic tattooist; the fact that the holding cell at the police station has been given your name following one-too-many ill-judged, smart-arse comments about the policemen you considered to be less intellectually acute than yourself¹; general ostracisation, these things were always going to happen. If they haven’t, they will. There is no point in fighting it. All you can do is whine a little – mind you, come to think of it, all you ever do is whine a little.

Despite the fact that they have never been arrested for being caught short in the park on the way home, nor had to spend the night on a concrete bed in their socks and underpants with nothing more than an extremely iffy-looking bucket for company.

FALSE Not real, but made to look or seem real – The number plates on your car, the meter readings you send to the electricity board, the money in your wallet, the stories you tell, the credit you demand, everyhting you claim as true…

FALSEHOOD The act of deceiving; a lie. The inevitable result of you opening your mouth to speak.

FAME The state of being known or recognized – This is not as alluring as it sounds when all the people who know or recognize you are either police constables, social workers or shop-owners who won’t let you in their shops as a consequence. You are unlikely to ever walk the red carpet, unless they’ve just had the stairs done at the Magistrate’s Court.

FANATIC A person who is excessively enthusiastic about something. This might be universal emancipation, freedom of speech, the right (not) to work, or blue Smarties¹. Fanatics wear multiple enamel badges, have multiple misspelled tattoos and grow mushrooms in their socks. Fanaticism is seldom regarded as in any way unusual at Film Award ceremonies, Political Party conferences or anywhere that sells nothing but organic cider and mung bean salad.

Similar to M&Ms, but inferior in every possible way.

FARCE A situation that is very badly organized – See ‘LIFE’ (below)

FAUX PAS Words or actions that are socially unacceptable or impolite – Faux Pas is almost a language to you. You will do little that is socially acceptable – particularly if you have a spouse – and as for impolite, just ask the barman that served you the cloudy pint that time. Social revolution can never be socially acceptable because it has such terrible manners, breaks wind and jumps queues. As a subversive you will commit many faux pas, don’t worry about it too much – at least it means you’re in company.

Casual Conversations

You see, I have worked with the same person for thirty years now. We still speak to one another (which is amazing enough) but we don’t, perhaps, listen as much as we used to, and our conversations do tend to meander along the same old path every day… “What was the name of that bloke
Casual Conversations

This popped up on my ‘On This Day’ notification from 2019 and it made me smile because since I retired, I don’t have this conversation anymore, and I miss it…

Red Squirrel Day

Photo by Siegfried Poepperl on Pexels.com

The main grist of this blog, I am ashamed to admit, has always been me: how I respond to a changing world and the ever multiplying challenges of age. This year has increasingly allowed itself to become entangled in all things medical: doctors, nurses, consultants and obscure medical terminologies have all begun to dominate my existence. Understanding the minute differences between the specialist practitioners of varying ‘ologisms’ is a required skill in itself.

My most recent sojourn in a hospital ward has added a further two unsuccessful procedures to my back catalogue as once again we await a decision on where we should go next. In the UK we do not have groundhogs so, I suppose, it is not possible for me to have a Groundhog Day. Google tells me that the closest thing we have is a red squirrel, so that is where my life is at this moment: Red Squirrel Day – operate, fail, repeat.

Disappointingly I have found a greater portion of my attention is daily being drawn into me. It is frustrating and embarrassing. Age was meant to make me more outward-looking, but illness has sucked me so far into myself that I can actually view the inside of my own trousers without taking them off. Obviously, sleep is what I need, but I have never been a great sleeper and recent nights spent in a hospital ward were far from restful. Lights stayed on, nurses chattered, patients snored and beds were trundled in and out with all the intrusive regularity of newly-throned British Prime Ministers. At 2am you would find greater peace in the middle of Piccadilly Circus which would, without doubt, itself feature far fewer people attempting to extract a phial of blood from you. It is surprising how many people talk in their sleep. In my little ward of eight poorly souls, three of them talked loudly through the mid-night hours – snatches of one-sided conversations, often set on random repeat – and one of them actually sang quite loudly (a selection from Les Miserables if I’m not mistaken, or The Jungle Book if I am).

Morning light is the most welcome of sights through ward windows as it usually means that all efforts to find sleep can be shamelessly sidelined. 6am sees the morning ob’s, 6.30 morning tea and 7am the breakfast trolley. By the time the slow snake of elderly men on the way to morning ablutions has dissipated, half of the ward is asleep again and the other half is talking loudly on the phone. Only those awaiting a change of catheter sit in pallid, contemplative silence whilst everyone else waits for the exquisite agony of Ward Round, when a giant phalanx of clinicians casts shade around the beds: senior consultant, consultant, junior doctors, nurses, clipboards, ipads and an unidentified uniformed person pushing a surgical trolley descend upon the beds one by one, curtains remaining open if the news is good, but closed when it is not. The consultant uses your Christian name (which is written above the bed) but all too clearly has no idea of who you are or why you’re there. Massed bickering erupts when it becomes clear that you (an elderly male) are not called Gladys and are not recovering from a hysterectomy, and the woman with the trolley is sent off to retrieve the correct notes, returning ten minutes later with the news that they’ve amputated the wrong leg.

I came home this morning and my wife has gone to the hairdressers this afternoon – a trip that will swallow up most of the day, a good slice of disposable income and end in inevitable disappointment – so I’ve pottered around, emptying the dishwasher, the washing machine and the biscuit barrel. I have drunk far more coffee than is good for me because… well, because the machine is just sitting there quite frankly and all it requires from me is the push of a button. I’d have tea but all that pouring the boiling water and stirring the teabag is so irksome. I have become some kind of inverse superhero capable of doing almost anything extremely slowly and deliberately. It has just taken me I-dread-to-think-how-long to hang out a batch of laundry one peg at a time. The transition between normal, fit and healthy to doddering old twat has been swift and merciless.

Now I don’t want you to misunderstand me here. I believe that the plan is still for me to return to something approaching full strength in the foreseeable future, as soon as all remedial works have been completed (including tidying site and making good). When the scaffolding has gone and all plumbing and drainage is back in place, I should be good to go. Unless the roof blows off in the meantime.

So, I’m home now, sitting at the kitchen table and the whole point of this little post is to inform you that as my life has settled into what I hope is a temporary slough of despond in which the same old rubbish just keeps coming on round again, my intention is to stop writing about myself week in week out for a while, and instead to write about others now and then. As I have so very few real friends – and as those that I do have will almost certainly not want me writing about them – this will inevitably involve me making some up. I will revisit some old pals – Muriel and Harry, Frankie and Benny, Dinah and Shaw, maybe even spend a little time with the Bearded Man if I can find him a path – and perhaps I will try to make some new ones who might just have something different to say. None of it, I hope, about Red Squirrels…