Yet Another (New) Little Fiction – The Easter Story

The Komóno of Easter Island walked slowly, his hands clasped behind his back clenched as tightly as his jaw, stunned into silence by the vision before him. A large drip of saliva formed on his lower lip and swayed gently in the tropical breeze. At his side his Clerk of Works fidgeted nervously in his goat skin. Something inside was moving, and it wasn’t him.
“What are you doing?” snapped the Komóno.
“I…” the Clerk caught a troublesome flea between his fingers and popped it quietly. “Got it!” he yelled triumphantly.
“I’m sure you have,” muttered the Komóno, dragging – with some difficulty – his attention away from his helpmate who was, even now, attempting to disengage the remnants of the parasite from his groin (protein was not to be wasted) and back towards the colossal Tuff statues lined along the coast.
“What are they for?” he enquired at last.
“For?” asked his Lieutenant.
“For,” said the Komóno. “What are they for?”
“Well they… They’re to welcome visitors to the island.”
The Komóno looked the nearest statue up and down, from its base to the top of its bulbous head. “They’re massive,” he said.
“So that they can be seen from the sea,” said his assistant. “Welcome the visitors in.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if they can’t be seen from space,” whispered the Komóno.
“Space?” said the attendant. “What is…?”
“Never mind, it’s not important… Welcome visitors in, you say? They’ll scare them to death: superstitious lot, your average tourist… And why have they got their backs to the shore? That’s not very welcoming is it?”
“The water kept washing the ladders away,” said the aide. “Up there carving faces one minute and then the tide came in and we never saw the men again, so they decided they would only put detail on the dry side.”
“Detail?” yelled the Komóno. “You call that detail? They all look bloody gormless.”
“Some of them are smiling.”
“Smiling? Looks more like a grimace to me; looks more like constipation, like they’re all trying to take a dump in the sea. That’s not very welcoming is it? I can see it now, a distant bamboo raft. A lone rafter peers into the hazy distance before calling out to his sleeping raftmates, ‘Land ahoy. I see an island over there. It’s full of giants shitting in the sea. Let’s go and trade some beads with them.” The Komóno looked at the gargantuan volcanic carvings one more time and shuddered. “We’ll have to bury them,” he said.
“Bury them?” choked the deputy. “Bury them? Oh no, no, no, you can’t do that. The men won’t like it, not at all. Took them months to make they did.”
“Months?” said the Komóno. “Those? It’s really soft isn’t it, that rock from the fiery hole: easy to carve? Couldn’t have taken them long; they haven’t even got eyes.”
“They keep dropping out.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Look, the men took ages dragging them down here to finish them off. I know they’re not brilliant but…”
“Why are their heads so big?”
“…they’re the best they could manage.”
“Can’t they just turn them around, like they’re saying ‘Hello’ rather than giving the cold shoulder?”
“They tried, but the heads fall off. The eyes drop out…”
“Look, we need foreign trade, we know that. We are in serious need of carved beads. We can’t afford to scare visitors away. We have to bury the statues.”
“Ok, but the men are not going to be happy. They believe that they contain the souls of their ancestors.”
“Really? Why?”
“Well, if I’m honest, their wives kept asking them why they spent so many hours chipping at lumps of rock instead of sprucing the place up, putting fish on the table, carving beads… all of that.”
“So the ancestors thing is just a ploy?”
“Yes. Could be… What’s a ploy?”
“It’s a ruse, a subterfuge, a… oh, never mind. Just tell them to bury the statues. We’ll tell their wives that the tide did it.”
“I’m still not sure they’ll be happy. They took ages… Can we just leave the heads sticking out?”
“Well ok, but get the men to chip those stupid smiles off their faces. The tourists will all think that we’re mad…”

The Gentle Art of Fleeing the Inevitable with Pigeon-Toes in Winkle-Picker Shoes

I was born with pigeon-toes (I have often wondered if, somewhere, a pigeon was born with mine) and there was some discussion at the time (not that I was privy to it) over whether I would ever walk properly, but in the event, with no medical intervention that I can recall, I did – and do – albeit with a slightly unusual gait, somewhere, I think, mid-way between a limp and a mince. My feet do still turn in a bit – I could never wear winkle-picker shoes (although Lord knows why I would ever want to) – but all means of manual perambulation have otherwise worked at 100% so far (although increasingly creakily after a spell locked in a single position). My mum, I think, was very much of the “he’ll run it off” frame of mind and, it would seem, she was right.

As a child, my life had a default position of ‘Run’ which, although it became ‘lay down and mope’ for a brief spell in my teens, persists to this day. I’m not good at inaction: if my legs are not working, my brain shifts into overdrive and causes all manner of problems. Constant movement appears to be the preferred option. During my brief period of teenage indolence my brain became preoccupied with thoughts of a more permanent passivity. Death became my go-to fear. For most teenage boys it becomes an obsession that is overcome only with the discovery of girls. (I do realise, BTW, that this simple attraction to the opposite sex is not universal – for some the situation is altogether more complex – but for me it was girls and the simple issue of trying to get a girlfriend was altogether knotty enough for me.) I found out very quickly that I was ‘liked’ by most girls but ‘not in that way’: I had ‘boy friend’ rather than ‘boyfriend’ written all over me. There are worse crosses to bear, I just couldn’t think of them at the time.

Anyway, it took my mind off mortality and, other than isolated occasions when it has crammed in on me, I have managed to hold my fear in check ever since. Advancing age, however, forces me to finally face up to the inevitability of it. You have to make plans. Number one, of course, is to put it off as long as possible, but after that it is all up for grabs. I am fortunate in one way: I have always felt certain that I – like most men of my generation – will predecease my wife, so the problems will be all hers. She gets the money and the house; she can burn everything else – including me.

What loiters in my mind is “What is it like?” and the realisation that it is like nothing. It is nothing. It is not the realisation that, to all intents and purposes, you might as well have never existed in the first place because, when you are dead, there is no realisation. There is no thought or consciousness, because there is nothing… and it is the nothing that bothers me. There would be some comfort in death if it came with a simple replay button so that you could go back over the good bits of your life into eternity. Even better if you could skip past the bad bits. But what if it was the bad stuff that you were forced to review for all time? Now we’d be looking at Hell wouldn’t we? And then I start to think of the alternatives. I can see no justice in it, but suppose I was forced to spend all eternity in the company of , let’s say, Russell Brand or Donald Trump (I know that, at the time of writing, they are both alive, but eternity is a very long game and we are all destined to face it in one way or another) – imagine sitting in the dentist’s waiting room forever; having afternoon tea with your employer; going food shopping with an elderly aunt – would you sooner face nothingness?

…I’m older now and I realise that – like the world in general, the weather, and my tendency to develop a stutter when I can least afford it – I can do nothing to stop it. It is what it is and one day, hopefully long into a sunny future, it will happen and worrying about it now will do nothing to delay it. I don’t think that even my mum would rate my chances of running that one off…

A Little Fiction – Ivan

Ivan, Crown Emperor of all Delusia, scratched nervously at the arm of his ermine throne. His petulance had risen to such a degree that he was on the very cusp of calling upon his Royal Foot Stamper to make the point for him. He could feel the hair prickling on the back of his neck. Perspiration began to collect in the folds of skin under his once-muscled chest. The girdle made him look so much better, but my word it was warm. He had tasked the whole might of his entire scientific community on finding a solution, but all they had come up with was ‘cutting holes in it’. He felt like he was wearing a peep-hole bra. When he took his shirt off in front of his Dresser, she had laughed. Once. Replacing a Royal Dresser was such a fuss. He could not believe how much he had to pay the Impreial Dresser Finder to identify the right replacement, nor why they would even want their own Caribbean island in the first place. Still, the job was done and the new Dresser was perfect. She never smirked; she never cupped his sagging man-breasts and whispered ‘Phwoar!’; she never questioned his choices and she always found ways to fit a new row of medals onto his jackets, to co-ordinate a new band of ribbons. She had sewn epaulettes onto everything he owned.

He cast his mind back to the days of his physical prime – in his late fifties. The days of bare-back horse riding, black belt karate battles and river swimming were all behind him now. His greatest servant was Adobe Photoshop. Obviously he had found new and discreet ways of ensuring the respect of his people. They were called Gulags. He actively encouraged free speech and dissention – without them his security forces would have had too much time on their hands. There are only so many teenagers you can club before boredom starts to kick in. Shoot enough people and it starts to lose some of its appeal. They needed a new challenge.

Like all mortal souls – it was proving very difficult, even for him, to change sufficient rules to evade Death itself, but he was working on it – he lived with doubt: could any one person be right about everything? Well, only one person could, obviously, and his burden was that it was him. Being right all the time isn’t easy, but dealing with all those who could not see that he was… well, that was a doddle: just make them realise how wrong they had ever been to doubt it.

The main problem about being the absolute ruler of anywhere is that you always want to be the absolute ruler of somewhere else as well: somewhere bigger; somewhere richer; somewhere the people know instinctively how to obey. Successfully smack the arse of somebody outside your own kingdom and the respect of your own people will grow and, after all, respect is your absolute right. Those who do not respect the Emperor do not respect life. Well, certainly not their own.

Is absolute power wrong? Well, Ivan had never met anyone who was prepared to say so. He had also never met anyone prepared to say ‘No’. He no longer had a physique that inspired obeisance, but he was surrounded by many, many people who did. Nobody would believe now that he could climb Everest bare-chested, without the need for oxygen – if he was honest, he feared that half an hour out in the cold without his vest could have severe consequences for his nipples. Three times now the state surgeon had honed and tightened his re-muscled chest for him and three times it had fallen straight back to where it was. (So that’s three times he had to replace the state surgeon.) God-alone-knows where his nipples might be now were it not for the surgeon’s knife. Maybe stitched to his knees. Not even the most enfeebled of his karate opponents could any longer fall convincingly at his chop. His eyes had been lazered, his ears aided, his prostate removed and given a stern talking to. He could not deny that his body was beginning to fail – almost as if he really was mortal – but at least his brain remained razor-sharp. He could still beat anyone at chess simply by warning them of the consequences of an Imperial loss. He could still complete the crossword in record time, in the certain knowledge that any questions over the veracity of any of his answers could easily be countered by having the compilers ears nailed to the ceiling. He could still remember his own name, address and age, providing somebody wrote it down for him in large letters on a piece of paper. Those who claimed that he was not as sharp as he had once been need only ask those around him. He was as sharp as a… what are those sharp things? If ever he needed to justify his actions he could easily demonstrate that they were simply a defensive reply to those who wished him harm. There was absolutely nothing to gain by allowing people to think otherwise. He had checked with the goblins and he most certainly was not delusional.

The Crown Emperor of all Delusia scratched nervously at the arms of his ermine throne. He felt boxed in. He was alone and afraid. Paranoia had led him to exclude all of his closest confidantes whose repeated assurances of his infallibility had helped him to be certain that there was really no point in worrying about whether people might disobey him. Why would they? He tried to think his way out of his current situation; he tried to consider what to do next and eventually the solution came to him. He did not need to consult anybody else on the way ahead, because everyone that mattered to him had always assured him that that was so.

Ivan’s eyes flicked around the room even as he felt the very last vestiges of rationality gurgle down the pan. Now, where had he put that big red button?

First published 11.03.2021

I have no doubt that you know who this is about…

All for One and One for Nobody I Know

I am, in one way, a very lucky blogger: nobody I (physically) know – with the notable exception of Mr & Mrs Underfelt – ever reads a single word I write. I can say anything I like on here and nobody I know will ever be any the wiser. Certain people (most markedly my wife) say that they read my posts, but they don’t. I never question them, although I know that I could, to catch them out: ‘What did you think of Wednesday’s post? Always good for a laugh, modern slavery, don’t you think?” I could, but I never do. Occasionally I will drop a little ‘fact’ into the post knowing that if my wife, for example, were to read it she would be honour-bound to tell me that I had got it wrong, but she never does. It gives me a problem. I am essentially – I think – a decent person and decent people don’t gossip behind other’s backs. Fundamentally, anything I ever say on this platform is ‘behind the back’ of those I know and love, but none of them would ever know it. It is very limiting.

Not that I have any desire to enter into a world of public back-biting: I would not say anything here that I would not say to a person’s face – it’s just that, in the real world, they would almost certainly have gone before I thought of it. My enemy has normally packed away his sword and headed back home for tea before I have formulated my riposte. I would be the deadest of Musketeers. (Although, I have to be honest, I have never quite understood why The Three Musketeers spent so long fighting with swords when they were… well, Musketeers. Why didn’t they use muskets? Much quicker, I would have thought, and nothing like so perilous. Why, indeed, were they called The Three Musketeers when there were patently four of them – a new member is still a member. I mean, how could The Famous Five be four plus a dog? It puts me in mind of the beloved Blake’s Seven, which latterly featured five members and none of them called Blake.) Fiction and numbers are fickle bedfellows.

Settling scores will inevitably make the ‘settler’ appear petty; do it on the internet, giving the ‘settlee’ no right of reply and you are merely going to appear bitter, no matter how just your cause. You think the bonehead that tried to make your life a misery at school is going to be reading your blog fifty years later? You think he can even read? He will be leading a life full of sadness and remorse. His family will have turned their backs on him. His penis will have shrivelled and dropped off, been eaten by dogs possibly. His firstborn will have boils. His life will have been without merit and joy: unfulfilled and empty; full of dhobi’s itch and haemorrhoids if there’s any justice, so there’s absolutely no point in being bitter. It’s been a long path, but everybody knows who won in the end…

…Anyway. As I was saying, the internet is not the place for recriminations (unless they are delivered by skateboarding cats). It is too easy to get carried away. As certain as I am that the internet is full of hateful idiots, I am equally sure that it is also full of the well-intentioned, but maybe too easily-led. It is so simple to believe what you are told, swallow gross exaggeration, read The Daily Mail, eat people’s pets… When you are in a group of people it is easy to gauge what is, and what is not, an acceptable point of view. There is no harm in disagreement – it is, like Olympic standard bickering, a fundamental of a successful marriage, but most of us would quickly back away from saying anything actually hurtful. Very few want to see the pain and distress they might cause. Unfortunately, from the other end of the World Wide Web, this is no longer a problem: the aggressor quickly finds that there is nothing – not even conscience – holding them back. There are people out there with a vacuum for a soul and, sooner or later, they are bound to get clogged up with muck. Hate can so easily fester in a world without consequence.

So I tend to tell you here about things, rather than people, that annoy me. (The people get woven into stories, and seldom come out of it well.) I am happy that I don’t rattle any trees – generally because when I do, something almost always drops on my head. Whether I know you or not, I have no great urge to offend – unless you are a politician or a Social Media Influencer, in which case I almost certainly do. I believe in humanity. I believe, almost certainly erroneously, that good will prevail and when it doesn’t I will, I hope, be strong enough to confront evil, maybe not with a gun, but perhaps a custard pie, secure in the knowledge that nobody I know will ever find out…

Ah Yes, I Remember It well…

“…The golden hours of life leave no sharp outlines to which the memory can cling: no spoken words remain – nor even little gestures and thoughts; only a deep gratitude that lingers on impervious to time…” ‘The Fortnight in September’ by R.C. Sherriff

It is a weirdly personal thing, memory. Get 5,000 people together at Bethsaida and feed them all with 5 loaves and 2 fishes and each of them will remember the day, but they will remember it in 5,000 different ways. Or perhaps 4,000 different ways with ‘7 loaves and a few little fishes.’ And maybe it wasn’t at Bethsaida after all… It’s absolutely nothing to do with dishonesty, it is simply perception. My memory is alarmingly poor: it often needs poking with a sharp stick before it chugs into action. After a while it develops a startling clarity which is almost always at odds with the recollections of everybody else. Memory sits at the back of the mind and is dragged to the fore through the fog of everything that has happened since and percolated through a filter of received and perceived memory. In short, nobody ever remembers what they think they remember. No two recollections of the same incident ever completely coincide.

I remember little incidents from holidays over the years, but I usually find that I have mis-located them. I struggle to recall buildings, especially hotels, within days of visiting them. Photographs are my index cards: once I have a place logged in my head, then I begin to get access to all manner of recollections. Disjointed and lacking chronology they slowly coalesce into a narrative that is, as far as I am concerned, incontrovertible truth but, to my wife’s mind, a mish-mash of unconnected memories from a dozen assorted venues. I could argue that it is just as likely that it is she who has got it all wrong, but I know that it isn’t. She remembers time, place and incident with unerring accuracy, much as I remember useless rubbish. She, however, can forget a conversation she has had with me, virtually before we have even had it, and what she spent that money on, long before the credit card bill arrives.

It is holidays, particularly holidays abroad that do this to me. Trapped between the horrors of packing/unpacking, travelling, navigating airports and flying, the holiday merely affords the part of my brain assigned to remembering stuff the opportunity to take a couple of weeks off. When I’m home and I look at the photos, the images lodge and become my actual memory and since, like everybody else, I now just take a thousand snaps on my phone that I never look at again, my holiday memory has been rendered practically useless.

To be honest, my recall is eccentric rather than totally dysfunctional: idiosyncratic maybe. I remember all manner of things that, I am first to admit, I have no reason to recollect. “Surely you remember that…” I say to my wife who looks at me with an expression that says “Can you think of a single reason why I should? Especially since you can’t even remember what the dining room was like in the hotel we stayed in three days ago…”

I can’t explain it and, if I’m honest, it does concern me, but for almost everything else my memory is razor sharp… given time. I do have the ability to forget a face, literally within seconds, but I haven’t yet forgotten my daughters’ names (their birthdays, however, are a different matter). If I really concentrate and tell myself that I mustn’t forget something then… no, I’m not going to lie, I forget it anyway. In my imagination I see this little hole in my consciousness spreading through my entire brain. How long will it be before I have to give my wife a name badge?

I do what I can: I exercise my brain every day – although the leash is getting shorter – I write every day and I still look at The Times crossword regularly (and occasionally I solve a clue or two). I don’t even think my memory is deteriorating – it has always been this way – and I do see every day as a school day. I learn something new every day – although, if I’m honest, more often than not it is just how useless I am at something I have never tried before – and, if anyone turns up with a paper bag, I remain confident that I could still think my way out of it.

At least it would seem, for me, that every hour is a golden hour…

‘That dazzling April moon’
‘There was none that night
And the month was June’
‘That’s right, that’s right’
‘It warms my heart to know that you
Remember still the way you do’
‘Ah yes
I remember it well…’ I Remember It Well – Lerner & Loewe

Just the Sky Above, the Ground Below and a Single Floor Between

Early on in the whole house selling malarkey, we had to fill in a Fixtures & Fittings Form, listing everything we intended to include in the sale. From the moment that form is passed on to the solicitor, the content listed becomes part of the contract and you begin to live in fear of breaking it, every time I flick the kitchen light switch, I worry that the light might not come on, each time I open a kitchen cabinet door, I worry that it might fall off. I have never worried so much about spilling coffee on the carpet. My wife bursts through into the lounge shouting “the microwave has just exploded” and I think ‘thank goodness it’s not on the list’. I find myself overwhelmed with responsibility.

And I know that you, dear reader, are by now fully aware of how long this whole process takes. You have shown amazing fortitude. I am grateful, not to mention awed, that you have managed to stick around so long. I would love to be able to tell you that your ordeal is drawing to a close, but quite obviously, it is not. The longer it all takes, the further ahead the end seems to lie… and it moves, further and further into the future, beyond settling in, decorating, extending, re-decorating and furnishing. It will, I presume, all end in death. In the meantime, my problem is to find non-house buying tales to tell. Your challenge is to see how far you can stretch your boredom threshold.

I have discovered that this whole moving palaver merely heightens my consciousness of the whole ageing process and, how close to the end of the process I have already slipped. Physically, the body begins to fail, eyesight fades, hearing becomes less acute, the voice becomes progressively weaker (my wife has hardly heard a word I have said for years) and the stubborn intransigence of dodgy knees ensures that I couldn’t relive past glories even if I wanted to. Mentally too, one begins to change. I don’t mean in acuity – although, sadly, that is the case for many – I mean in patience and opinion: an old person cannot possibly have the same viewpoint as a young one. If you can, look back on what you wrote as a teen – I have an unrivalled selection of rejected material to review – and you have to admit that you would not – probably could not – write it now. We, the aged, see the world differently to those who have never had to walk to school through six feet of snow or do a paper-round that spread over three continents. As we get older, the world becomes ever-smaller.

I am made doubly aware of this because we are moving into a bungalow – the last bastion of independence before the care home and eating dinner with a plastic spoon and a bib. Walking slowly down a corridor to the bathroom does not easily equate to a cumulative twenty flights of stairs a day. I fear that we may be driving ourselves into old age, but at the speed things are currently progressing, at least, it is very likely that we will reach dotage before uni-level living.

The couple moving into our house are much younger than us – although nothing like as young as we were when we moved here, brimful of the kind of hope that masks all concern – and the people we are buying from are much older. I guess they would have been about our age when they moved in there. I wonder if they ever believed they would move again? I wonder if they’re currently worried about the toilet not flushing or the conservatory fan falling off the roof. Because I’ve checked, and they’re both on the list…

A Little Fiction – Moles

John was inordinately proud of his lawn. It had, as he was all too happy to tell anyone unfortunate enough to be passing by, not a blade out of place. Not a single daisy, dandelion or clover leaf marred its faultless surface. It was the flattest lawn in town and it was the greenest lawn in town. Nobody could deny it.

So, bleak was the midsummer morning when John rose from his bed, opened his curtains and looked down upon his own little patch of immaculately manicured sward to see, placed almost geometrically at its centre, a large, fresh molehill. He clutched at his chest and uttered an agonised, if tightly suppressed scream. He almost flew downstairs, his feet barely touching the only slightly less perfect shagpile surface, through the door and out onto his lawn. “A mole,” he murmured, “a bloody mole. I’ll have you sunshine,” and he carefully raked over the soil and patted it flat with the back of a spade.

“It’ll do for now,” he said, but he knew that it wouldn’t.

Later that day he raked a little grass seed into his fussed-over repair and stared in anguish at the temporarily brown blight on his otherwise single-toned sod. “A trap,” he said.

“This one never fails,” said the man at the hardware store. “Put it in the tunnel under the mole hill and ‘Kerbam!’ he’ll never bother you again.”
“I’ve flattened the molehill,” said John. “Reseeded it.”
“It’s no problem,” said the assistant, dropping the box into a brown paper bag, “there’ll be a new one in the morning. Put it in that one.”
“A new molehill?” gulped John.
“Oh yes, once they’ve started, they seldom stop.”

The next morning John stared down on his lawn, the green plane mutilated by its single raked brown patch and two brand new molehills. With a sigh, he walked slowly down the stairs into the garden where he carefully buried the mole-trap in the biggest of the two new hills.

The following morning there had been no Kerbam!, but there had been three new molehills in the middle of the lawn. Annoyingly they were not even symmetrically placed, but just randomly grouped around the plot. John was beside himself.
“Why don’t you get Bernard next door to look at them,” said his wife. “He’s lived here for years. He’ll know what to do.”
“Bernard’s a perfectly nice bloke,” said John, “but he’s a doctor. What I need is pest control.”

“Try this poison,” said the pest control man. “Put it in the newest hole. It’s guaranteed.” He didn’t tell John exactly what it was guaranteed to do, but apparently it wasn’t to kill moles. John’s lawn was no longer his pride and joy, it was his pain and anguish. It was quickly becoming a total eyesore: more hill than grass.

“You really should ask Bernard,” said John’s wife.
“No,” said John. “It’s too embarrassing. I have to work this out for myself.”

And so, day after day, John implemented the new plans he spent the sleepless nights concocting to save his lawn from the rampaging mole: he attached a hose to the tap and flooded the tunnels with water; he attached the hose to his car and flooded them with carbon monoxide; he strode around between the hills thrusting his garden fork deep into the earth anywhere he believed the tunnels might run; he pee’d into the holes under the cover of dark, not in anticipation of any result, but merely to make himself feel better. He tried a million ways in vain to find a solution, whilst all his wife would say was, “Talk to Bernard.”
“I can’t talk to Bernard,” he sighed. “It’s personal now. I saw it last night. It popped its head out from its hill. It was weird, furtive,” he continued. “I’m sure it looked at me in a funny way.”

And finally, having given up completely on the sleep his body so craved, John found himself, shotgun in hand, staring at his ravaged lawn in the blue glare of a midnight full moon. “Just pop your furry little head out tonight,” he muttered “and I’ll blow it right off your fluffy little body.”

And then it did. Just at his feet the soil broiled and bubbled through the grass. A mound appeared and through it popped the head and body of the cursed mole. John froze as it stood, rising up to its entire six inch height and, never taking its eyes from his, raised its own, perfectly miniaturised shotgun and, with a theatrical wink, pulled the trigger…

“The moral of this story is very clear,” said the coroner some days later at John’s inquest. “There’s no point in being embarrassed. Always get a doctor to examine any suspicious looking moles.”

Originally published 19.08.2022

I had a little bit of a scare and I dealt with it in the way I always do…

Bloody Kids

…The TV panel consisted of some children, their parents, a couple of government ministers and a parenting expert, and it was clear from the start why the latter was not seated amongst the parents, because nobody who has ever had children would consider themselves an expert in parenting. In fact, the main thing that parenting teaches you is what a total amateur you are at it. You always do what you think is best, but you seldom achieve what you hope is right.

The problem with it all is bloody kids. You can read all the books in the world necessary to make you an expert parent, but as soon as you are faced with a snot-faced little juvenile who has just projectile vomited into a suited businessman’s semi-open pocket, it all goes out of the window. Even more so when you realise that the responsibility for getting them through to adulthood is all yours. “Always place dangerous objects out of reach,” is sage advice if you have never dealt with a real child, equipped with the capability of finding anything you do not want them to find, absolutely anywhere you believe they cannot find it. Who do you run to when you cannot open a childproof lid? Yup, a child.

Every time a child puts themselves in danger – and they do it all the time – it is your negligence that has allowed it. It is all very well putting things on high shelves, but you’ve got a house full of chairs and, boy, do kids know how to move chairs. Find a chair anywhere it does not belong and you know instantly that your child has got hold of something they should not have been able to reach.

Of course, the main problem with children is that they are peripatetic: they can put themselves in danger almost anywhere. It only takes an adult to say “Don’t do that, it’s dangerous,” to make licking a live wire seem totally irresistible. They come into this world with a default setting that means, for a short, precious time, when you put them down they remain exactly where you left them, but shortly afterwards, to huge rounds of parental applause, they learn how to override it and, from that moment, you will never again know exactly where they have got to. It takes no more than a single parental blink to allow them to move a chair, reach the carving knife and get half-way through a sword-swallowing act. Nod off for twenty minutes and you may find that they have sold the house and moved to the Algarve.

Children are also born with in-built defence mechanisms; these are called tears, snot and tantrums. Parents have yet to develop a counter to them. It is easy to spot a parenting expert in the pub when a four-year old is venting because they want sausages and fish fingers: they are the ones that are quietly ‘tutting’ as the parent yells “Well you can bloody well do without either then. You’ve ruined Aunty Joan’s birthday party with your behaviour. I hope you’re happy now.” The other parents in the room will be burying their heads in their drinks and thinking “Thank God it’s not me.” The parenting experts will know that the only sensible thing to do is to explain to the child, calmly and clearly, why what they are doing is wrong and point out the absurdity of their actions whilst offering love and support. The other parents in the room would stand and cheer if the child was led out by the ear and locked in the car*. They will know that no real parent ever knows exactly what they are doing, or why they are doing it. Only parenting experts know that, which probably explains why they never do it…

*Don’t be silly. Of course I’m not seriously advocating that as a course of action – unless you also have a big dog locked in there to keep them company.

Life, The Universe and All That Jazz…

In my previous missive I postulated that my best posts were generally written about subjects of which I have very little knowledge: ‘Life, The Universe, Fashion, Rap Music and all that jazz’ and it occurred to me that I have already covered Life, The Universe and Fashion, that my knowledge of Rap is so very meagre I would annoy even myself trying to write about it, which left only Jazz – a musical genre that always sounds to me like the musicians were still tuning up when the tapes were turned on – to have a crack at, so here it is. (As ever, when sounding off on subjects of which I have zero knowledge, I am deeply indebted to Wikipedia for throwing the shit at my fan.) So…

I have so many questions to ask about a style of music in which it seems that everyone with a musical instrument is expected to play a different tune, at the same time, but with a different time signature that – not unlike a Jazz drummer I have no idea of where to start. Writing Jazz tunes, it seems to me, is probably like throwing notes at random into a hat before sucking them out with a Hoover shaped like a cat. Krin Gibbard (his real name, I’m sure) argued that “‘jazz is a construct’ which designates ‘a number of musics with enough in common to be understood as part of a coherent tradition,’” Henri Matisse said that it ‘is rhythm and meaning’ and my dad said that it was ‘a bloody racket.’

One thing I have discovered is that if you look up ‘jazz quotes’ on the internet, you open yourself up to more pretentious pap than you would encounter at the average ‘science of attraction’ lecture. It is like telling a paint colour mixologist that you just want beige. Jazz, to my (tin) ear is just the name applied to buggering around with a perfectly good tune. It is like throwing a thousand different herbs into Macaroni Cheese and hoping it will be improved. It will not. The only way to improve it is by taking them all out again and giving them to someone in France to make an omelette. Perfectly good things do not need jazzing up, they remain perfectly good without it. If you really must jazz something up, try jazzing up tripe, but remember that in the end it will still be tripe.

And there are so many different kinds of jazz. It appears that you simply take music of any genre, chuck a whole load of extraneous notes at it and Bingo! you’ve got yourself a new kind of jazz. Even the jazz ‘sub-genres’ have sub-genres. Take a smattering of Jay-Z and bung in a couple of minor chords and discordant glissandos and you have Rap-Jazz. Throw some Nas and a diminished seventh or two into the mix and you have Hip-Hop-Rap-Jazz. What could possibly go wrong?

This is music for people who do not like melody. Jazz musicians are hugely skilled and very anxious to demonstrate it. A kind of ‘why use one note when we can squeeze ten into the gap’ mentality prevails, capable of rendering beautiful, simple melodies into some kind of aural spaghetti. It is a code that I personally cannot crack. Jazz is like an Escape Room where you have to answer an unfathomable set of puzzles just to be let in.

So, that’s the way it goes. I launched into this post determined to write a piece about jazz music, only to find that I just couldn’t fathom the ‘arguments for’ and consequently what you got was my one-sided critique of a genre that I cannot understand. I am aware that worldwide, Jazz is wildly popular and I am looking forward to hearing from you hip-cats out there just what, exactly, it is all about… although I can’t guarantee that I will understand it.

On the Question of the Stubborn Dichotomy of My Blogging Existence

It is, perhaps, over-glamorising what I do but, in the absence of any other applicable phrases, I’ll run with it for now, each week when I plan my diary what I place at the very top of the list is ‘Blog’. (I think that it is probably necessary to point out here that I am not talking about an actual, physical list – my anankastic tendencies do not stretch quite that far – but the ever-shifting list of priorities that pirouettes between my ears like two arthritic goats dancing the Argentinean Tango.) I seriously hit panic mode if Friday passes by and I do not have the three posts I require for the following week. I cannot divert my attentions elsewhere if this task is not complete. Not that I would call it a task of course, unless I was finding the writing a particular struggle; it is more a labour of love, which is why it remains so essential to maintain my equilibrium, despite my entire readership being somewhat smaller than the number of people who really believe that the most recent attempt to assassinate Donald Trump was not a put-up job, aimed at boosting his popularity. (I am trying to think of a single reason why a would-be assassin would sit with his rifle barrel clearly visible through a fence, so far in advance of the swaggering arrival of his target. Perhaps the party planners had run out of ‘I am a wanna-be assassin, please shoot me’ helium balloons.) If I could explain why I attach such importance to this thrice-weekly shenanigans, I would do so, but I have the uneasy feeling that it is all to do with vanity and the mistaken belief that I may yet be discovered.

So, for whatever the reason, there you are, dear reader, stuck forever at the very forefront of my thoughts – well, almost: I think that chocolate and whisky may have already forged an unassailable lead – ahead of what most normal people would probably view as greater priorities: family, food, shelter, that kind of thing. I sense you beside me. We plough this furrow together. Each bump on the road – and now I find myself trying to reconcile why I am ploughing a furrow whilst travelling a road, but I will shake it off soon enough – brings with it the notion that I might just be able to get a few hundred words out of it. Somehow the ‘needs’ of the blog have begun to subsume the rest of my being. The relationship between my life and my blog has become the kind of symbiotic mess that brought about the extinction of the Eastern Antarctican Blue Mango-Eating Wolf Spider.

My existence is split into two barely distinct threads: doing stuff which just might – particularly if something goes spectacularly wrong – give me something to write about, and writing it. I have not yet started to do things with the sole intention of generating material, but I wouldn’t entirely rule out the possibility. Ironically I always find that I have more to say when I tackle subjects that I do not fully understand: Life, The Universe, Fashion, Rap music, Politics and all that jazz. I suppose it is because I have so many queries to which I require an answer. When I write about me, I have all the answers, but nobody to ask the questions and even fewer interested in the subsequent resolution. It’s disconcerting.

If I’d half a brain I’d probably write a blog about it…