I have been a little ‘absent’ for a little while, and for that I apologise. I have been writing, but by and large, unable to find the opportunity to read blogs. Something I intend to put right over the next few days. Having published ‘Three Wise Men Who Came from the East’ and ‘A Boxing Day Tale’ over the last few days, I think that my Christmas work is probably done.
Today I just wish to thank you all for spending the last year in my company and to say that I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas.
I intend to publish some time on New Year’s Eve, but if I don’t see you then, I wish you all a happy, healthy and peaceful New Year.
‘…Always the same these days,’ said the old man randomly stabbing the buttons on the remote control. ‘Reality TV and repeats. Whatever happened to Morecambe and Wise? Whatever happened to Only Fools and Horses? Whatever happened to Val Doonican?’ He switched off the set as the latest X-Factor winner made his final ever TV appearance before returning to his life of flipping burgers and performing in the local Working Man’s Club on a Saturday evening – a valid life, with which he would have been perfectly happy, if only some idiot had not told him he could be a star.
‘Here,’ said Mrs Claus. ‘I was watching that.’ With a glare, Santa turned the TV back on. ‘Moan, moan, moan,’ continued the old woman, even as the seasonal Celebrity-Something-Or-Other burst into noisome life. ‘That’s all you do these days, moan, moan, moan. I’ll be happy when December comes about again: get you out of my hair.’
‘Yes, well,’ said Santa, stroking his beard agitatedly. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. I think I might retire. I’m tired. This is no job for an old man.’
Mrs Claus stared at him for a very long time whilst she considered spending even more time with him than she currently did. ‘What do you mean, no job for an old man? Who else is going to do it? It has to be an old man.’
‘Could be a woman.’
‘Not according to all of the literature.’
‘Literature can be modified,’ S.C. muttered, darkly.
‘Besides,’ ploughed on the old lady, ignoring the truth in her husband’s argument ‘You only really work one day a year – it’s a long day I’ll grant you, but other than have a few kids to sit on your lap through December, what else do you do?’
‘Elves don’t look after themselves, you know,’ he snapped. ‘Elves do not forward plan. Leave it to the elves and we’d have, come Christmas Eve, nothing more than dolls and wooden forts. And’ he continued, a steely glint entering his eye ‘Kids do not sit on my knee anymore. Not allowed. If I can drag the little bleeders away from their mobile phones for a minute, they pull my beard, wipe KFC down my coat and kick me in the shin before asking me for a vaping kit.’
‘What you need is a good sleep,’ soothed Mrs C. ‘Why not go to bed? Don’t worry about setting an alarm; I’ll wake you in March.’
‘Why March? What’s happening in March?’
‘Just a few promotional shots. Nothing taxing. Maybe a video or two. Few minutes work; nothing more.’
‘Promotional shots?’ he spluttered. ‘Promotional shots? Why do I need promotional shots? There’s only one of me. I’ve got more people on my books than I can handle already.’
‘Never hurts to advertise,’ she said, placing a small glass of sherry at his side. ‘Here, drink this.’
The old man eyed the drink. ‘Sherry?’ he coughed. ‘Sherry? Have you any idea how many glasses of sherry I drank last night? You’ll be offering me a mince pie next.’ He glared into the fire. ‘I’ll tell them in the morning,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll tell them I’m packing it in; that I’ve had enough.’
‘Tell who?’
‘Well… I’ve no idea. I’ll find someone.’
‘And what about the children?’
‘They won’t even notice, as long as they still get all of their stuff, they won’t care who brings it. The magic has gone already. They’ll never know.’ Despite himself, he drained the sherry in a single gulp. ‘I’m off to bed,’ he said.
‘Fine,’ said Mrs Claus. ‘No problem. Just before you do, though, can you read this so that I can reply.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a letter. It came down the chimney earlier while you were out talking to the reindeer.’
‘A letter? My God, they start earlier and earlier with their demands, don’t they? Can you read it to me? I don’t know what I’ve done with my glasses.’
Mrs Claus unfolded the single sheet of paper and, having cleared her throat, she read. ‘‘Dear Santa. Thank you for everything. I hope you get some rest today. I love you X.’ Carefully she refolded the letter, ‘Shall I burn it?’ she asked.
Santa coughed slightly and rubbed gently at what might just have been a little itch in the corner of his eye. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Give it to me. I’ll reply now and then I suppose I’d better go and get some sleep. I’ve got a busy December next year…’
‘…And you are absolutely certain,’ said Melchior, ‘that this is the right place? I mean, I know that it is under the star, but then, truth be told, so is the rest of this village. So is the rest of this country, I shouldn’t wonder. High up, stars, shine all over the place they do. Must be some margin of error there, star-wise, that’s all I’m saying. Maybe we should check out the five star places first.’Balthazar sighed – again. ‘None of the five star places have angels hovering over them,’ he said. ‘Nor,’ he continued, ‘are they packed with shepherds watching their flocks, donkeys and assorted beasts of the fields.’
‘Or giraffes,’ said Gaspar.
Balthazar nodded his agreement. ‘Or gira… Did you say giraffe?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s a giraffe?’
‘It’s a bit like a tall cow,’ said Gaspar, ‘with a long neck. My cousin brought one back from his travels. Dead, mind. Same as the big tusky, grey thing. Don’t travel well, apparently.’
Balthazar stared. ‘Do you see any of these tall cows around here?’
‘No,’ said Gaspar.
‘Then in what way, pray, are they relevant?’
‘I’m not sure,’ answered Gaspar. ‘I just have a feeling that someone will find that there’s only the giraffe left to play, in the future…’
Balthazar stared manically at Gaspar, his fists tightened and his jaw clenched. A small vein squirmed like a lug-worm below the skin of his forehead.
‘Shall we go and look inside,’ suggested Melchior, summoning the slaves to help them down from their mounts.
‘And where did you come by these things?’ asked Gaspar. ‘I’ve never sat on anything so uncomfortable in my life. They smell like the inside of an old sock and they spit. What’s wrong with a horse?’
‘These beasts are our traditional mode of transport,’ answered Melchior. ‘A man’s wealth is measured by them.’
‘I,’ said Balthazar, ‘have thousands.’
‘Sooner have gold,’ said Gaspar, gripping the gift-wrapped parcel he had borne with him from Arabia. ‘Think I’d rather travel on one of them long-necked cows, if I’m honest. At least they don’t have lumpy backs. And also,’ he continued as he was helped down from the musky beast, ‘how come yours has got two lumps and mine has only got one? Know exactly where to sit with two lumps. Never sure with one: either slide off its back end or wind up dangling from its neck…’
‘Rank,’ blurted Balthazar, suddenly aware that he had brought myrrh for the baby and nobody else even knew what it was. ‘The higher your rank, the more lumps you get on your camel.’
Gaspar gave Balthazar one of his stares. ‘So,’ he said, ‘where’s his then?’
‘His?’
‘His lumpy thing. Surely you’ve brought one for him if they’re so valuable; King of Kings and all that. Must be worth at least three lumps.’
‘They’re called camels,’ said Melchior, breaking the uneasy silence. ‘And they only come in one and two humped varieties.’
‘Bit of a design flaw there then, isn’t it? I’d be inclined to have a bit of a word.’
‘A word?’
‘With Himself, you know, when we get in to worship him, have a quick word in his ear. See if he can get it sorted.’
‘He’s a baby!’
‘Got connections, though,’ said Gaspar.
The three wise men had, by now, all been brought down from their camels and were straightening their robes in preparation for their big moment. Melchior was checking his frankincense. ‘You can never go wrong with perfume,’ he thought. Gaspar was scraping camel doings from his satin slipper. Balthazar, meanwhile, was chastising his Chief of Staff. ‘‘Take him myrrh,’ you said. ‘Everyone likes a bit of a rub down now and then,’ you said. Nobody else has even heard of it. Have we got nothing else we can give Him? Maybe jewels, or something?’’
The Chief of Staff looked crestfallen. ‘We left in a bit of a hurry,’ he said, ‘if you remember. Didn’t really have much time to shop around and myrrh always goes down really well in my family.’
‘Your family the myrrh merchants, you mean?’
‘Come on,’ said Gaspar, who had by now got the worst of it off with a stick. ‘Let’s go in.’
The three wise men entered the stable and fell to their knees at the side of the manger.
‘Gawd,’ said Gaspar, peering in. ‘He’s an ugly little bleeder, isn’t he?’
‘That’s a pig, you fool,’ snapped Balthazar.
‘Really?’ sneered Gaspar. ‘One humped or two?’
‘I think, gentlemen,’ said Melchior, rising to his feet. ‘That we may be in the wrong place.’
Balthazar and Gaspar also rose, brushing the crud of the stable floor from their robes as they prepared to leave.
‘So what now?’ asked Gaspar. ‘This had to be the place. What about that star?’
‘It appears to have moved on,’ answered Melchior. ‘They have a habit of doing that, apparently.’
‘And the Heavenly hosts?’
‘They appear to have found themselves rooms at the Travel Lodge. Perhaps we should join them. Try again in the morning…’
‘But how long is it going to take us to find him?’ asked Gaspar. ‘How long do we have to keep looking?’
‘Who knows,’ answered Melchior. ‘Could be days. Could be weeks, years…’
‘Could be,’ said Balthazar, ‘millennia…’
The highlight of Christmas Day in the UK (after the seasonal TV ‘special’ Stars In Their Eyes, featuring pets of the rich and famous, and Susan Boyle singing a novelty version of ‘We Three Kings’ especially written for her by Richard Stilgoe) is the Great British Christmas Dinner, and it is this repast upon which this piece will focus as, to be brutally honest, I simply do not know what is eaten elsewhere in the world, although I would be delighted to hear, should anyone wish to fill me in.
The traditional Christmas Dinner contains sufficient calories to see the average Blue Whale through the winter, but it does not usually begin with any form of appetizer as most celebrants are already stuffed to the gills with candied fruit, chocolate covered nuts, mince pies, sausage rolls, buck’s fizz, cream sherry, glacé cherries and eggnog by the time they sit to eat. It is entirely normal for over-imbibed members of the family to have to be woken in order to be brought to the table, whereupon they immediately fall asleep in the chestnut stuffing and dribble gently into the gravy.
At this early stage, instead of eating, the Christmas crackers are usually pulled. The ‘crack’ associated with these sparkly seasonal tubes will inevitably make the babies scream and the elderly momentarily lose control of their bladders. Disagreements over the ‘prizes’ in the crackers, and whose flew where, may persist well into the New Year. The wise host will have a carrier bag full of crap with which to pacify the disaffected. The contents of the cracker usually consists of a paper crown which splits into two as soon as you attempt to put it on your head; a plastic novelty that flies across the room, ricochets from head and ornament before settling somewhere unseen, where it remains lost until a week later when it is sucked up with 3cwt of pine-needles and a half-eaten coffee-cream which jams the Hoover, having smeared itself over a six foot strip of mushroom shagpile. Finally, there is a joke, written, I believe, by a robot in Taiwan, which proves beyond doubt that there will never be an AI comedian. Never-the-less, it is not considered good manners to begin the meal until everybody has had the opportunity to read out their joke – even if a packing malfunction at the factory has resulted in everybody having the same one.
The traditional ‘bird’ of Christmas Dinner is, I think the goose, but this has now been firmly superseded by the turkey, due largely to its greater post-Christmas adaptability in sandwich, curry and rissole. Henry the Eighth, it is said, was the first person to eat Christmas turkey in the UK and, looking at some of the sandwiches in the shops around this time of the year, the same bird is still doing the rounds. It is traditional to concur, when taking one’s first mouthful, that it is a bit dry and ask for more gravy. As a non-meat eater, I will traditionally be asked at this point if I would like some ham.
Christmas Dinner is, in effect, a standard Sunday Roast with knobs on, separated from ‘the normal’ by volume and accoutrement:
• Brussel Sprouts are, for many people, a once-a-year veg. Traditionally boiled for approximately three weeks before the day and hidden under the table during the meal.
• Bread Sauce – follows the English tradition of taking something relatively bland and stodgy and transforming it into something even blander and stodgier.
• Pigs in Blankets – pork sausage wrapped in bacon (so, more correctly Pigs in Pig, I would argue) presents the UK diner with the unique opportunity to accompany a meal with the sensation of inadvertently driving a cocktail stick through the hard palate and into the nasal cavity.
• Cranberry Sauce – this is most un-British, like having gravy on your pudding. Tolerated only on this one day of the year. For the rest of the year such gastronomic eccentricities are left to the French.
• Wine, both red and white may be served. Grandma, robbed of her mug of tea, will reluctantly agree to have a glass of port and lemonade (‘More lemonade than port, please. Well, perhaps just a splash more port…’), before falling to sleep and coughing her false teeth into the mash.
After the meal has been eaten, the plates have been cleared and the worst of it mopped off grandad’s shirt, comes the Christmas Pudding: the densest duff since Cnut. The glistening globe is placed, steaming, in the centre of the table before being doused in brandy and set alight, to shrieks of admiration from everyone around the table, except for grandma who has woken to find her hairpiece is on fire. The brandy soaked pudding is usually served with brandy butter, brandy sauce and brandy – or perhaps that’s just our house. In the past, the pudding would contain a silver sixpence, which the lucky finder would use to get their teeth fixed.
Only the hardiest of souls, and those desperate to avoid the washing up, will attempt to tackle the cheese and biscuits after all of this. Those wishing to have a cigar will be sent to the bottom of the garden as the smell makes Auntie Vera nauseous. Unfortunately, the bottom of the garden contains a compost heap that makes the smokers nauseous.
When the traditional moaning about who always gets landed with the washing up has subsided everyone settles down for an afternoon doze.
The first to wake opens the window and lets it out.
As nobody actually denounced me as a clown for publishing a children’s poem a couple of weeks ago, I thought I’d give you the second part of it today…
THE MANY (MORE) SAYINGS OF MILLIE’S MUM.
Oops a daisy. Never mind.
It’s all your mess I think you’ll find.
Your bedroom floor is a disgrace.
Wipe that smile from off your face.
Eat your cabbage. Comb your hair.
Don’t do handstands on that chair.
Can you turn that music down?
Millie, please don’t act the clown.
Undo your shoes, don’t slip them off.
Put your hand up when you cough.
You’ve been the same since you were born.
Leave that slug out on the lawn!
Wipe your shoes when you come in.
Do we have to make that din?
Are you sure you’ve washed your hands?
Don’t leave your bag just where it lands.
Walk straight there and come straight back.
You’ll give your dad a heart attack.
Come off there, you’ll break your neck.
You’re making me a nervous wreck.
Keep away, that puddle’s deep.
I love you lots – NOW GO TO SLEEP!
There is something about being cold that is completely debilitating. Something that numbs the senses as much as the fingertips. Now, I think it only right to point out – lest you were to consider calling the emergency services – I am not talking life threatening here. Nothing close to hypothermic. What I am talking is ‘Below Optimal Operating Temperature’. I am talking chilled, not frozen. However, it is more than cold enough for me.
As the body becomes cold it begins to pump out all manner of messages to the brain, most of them telling it to stop whatever-it-is it is doing and figure out a way to get warm, that does not involve emigration.
I am old enough to remember life before central heating, when homes were occupied by small puddles of warmth within a sea of cold: the fire, the oven, the bedroom paraffin heater. I remember when the only way not to be cold in bed was to be covered in such a weight of woollen blanket that it was impossible to move. I remember the dread of having to vacate that woven cocoon in the morning.
In general, our lives now are not dogged by cold: our homes are warm, our shops and cafes are warm, our clothes are warm. We encounter cold much more infrequently and, when we do, we seek to find warmth with an increased alacrity. We do not seek warmth, we bathe in it.
I also remember draughts. Homes were full of draughts, the entry points of which had to be blocked by any means available: parcel tape around windows; paper over airbricks; giant, cloth-filled ‘sausages’ at the bottom of doors. This was the world of the draught-excluder. Unchecked draughts were the root of all illness: got a cold – you must have been sitting in a draught; got arthritis – you must have been sitting in a draught; T.B., Consumption, Pneumonia – all draught-related. Of course, the home with no draughts was also the home of suffocation – the price you had to pay.
This lack of ventilation also led to damp. Corners of rooms were routinely black with mould; windows ran with condensation; clothes were always heavy with moisture. On a wash day, the whole house could be fog-bound. A simple Sunday boil-up of spuds came with the threat of low-visibility across the English Channel.
I have always felt the cold. My gran said that I was ‘thin blooded’. I’m not sure what that meant, although I was thin. Mind you, I had that in common with virtually everybody I knew. If you weren’t skinny, then you were fat and therefore, presumably, not cold. I’m not sure why we were all so thin. We ate the kind of food that was not ready until it had had the living shit boiled out of it. Anything green required several hours of boiling before it was considered edible. A steak and kidney suet pudding may have to be boiled for several days in order to cook the three inch layer of suet which surrounded the gristle-bound lump of meat that lie at its core. These foods were meant to give us ‘a lining’, to keep out the cold.
Well, these days, I am more than adequately lined, but somehow, I still feel the cold and now, I know that it must be serious because my mind has thrown all of the words out of my head and is currently pleading for hot chocolate…
You know the way it goes; when the person with whom you are trying to have a conversation denies having either seen or heard anything, despite the fact that they were with you at the time. You wonder how this could possibly be, and then you realise that they just don’t want to talk to you. I suppose that when people really want to say, ‘Look, I can’t be bothered with you. You’re boring. Leave me alone,’ mostly they decide against confrontation and hope that by ignoring you, you will just go away. If you do not, they may answer a non-existent phone call, ostentatiously read a leaflet about herpes, or try on a succession of new hats. Anything to make you go away and do something useful, like load the dishwasher or trim the hedge.
My wife has the amazing ability to become both deaf and blind as soon as she sits in the passenger seat of our car. A typical conversation will go:
Me – I really love this song.
She – What song?
Me – This song: the one on the radio.
She – Oh…
Or, having screeched to a shuddering halt, having been confronted by a ten ton truck thundering towards us on the wrong side of the road:
Me – Bloody hell! Did you see that?
She – No.
It strikes me that most dialogues are actually nothing more than simultaneous monologues, with maximum putting in one’s own two pen’orth, and minimum listening. We’re all guilty of it: I know what I want to say, but, crucially, I have not heard what you have to say yet. No matter, I’ll have my say as soon as you stop.
Odd then, isn’t it, that loathe as we are to listen to the conversations of which we are part, we can, none of us, resist listening in on the conversations of others?
Eavesdropping is a joy that it is hard to turn one’s back on. Anyone that has ever written comedy has a fund of overheard gems locked away for future use. Seems to me that voices are getting louder and conversations less and less inhibited. It is as though, in reality, people want others to hear their conversations: a kind of validation; living proof that life is not all virtual. Anyway, sometimes you can’t help but oblige.
If you wish to go in for a spot of eavesdropping, then public transport is definitely the place to be. I’m not talking the bawled out demi-dialogues that you get from those with a mobile phone permanently screwed to their ear, I am talking bona-fide, two-way interaction, viz. the couple on the seat in front. My own favourite happened some years ago on a wet, winter’s bus journey into work. I was wedged between the window and Middle-Aged Woman 1, who was deep in conversation with Middle-Aged Woman 2 on the seat in front. The conversation is etched, as if by diamond-tipped graver, onto my brain.
M.A.W 1 – How’s your Bert? [I must be honest here, I do not remember the name, but if her husband wasn’t Bert, he should have been.]
M.A.W 2 – Oh, much the same. He can’t walk at the moment: it’s his legs you know.
M.A.W 1- Mmm, Myra’s husband was the same. He wound up in hospital. He’s on one of those intra-penis drips now…’
And that was it, I was lost. I did not hear any more of the conversation, I was too busy trying to cough up the pear-drop I had just swallowed, but those three short lines had already been filed away as one of my most prized possessions.
I think about it sometimes, when I am driving to work and I wonder, could she possibly have been right about the intra-penis drip? I thought it funny then, but now I start to wonder… I could ask my wife of course, but I don’t think she would hear me.
So, I started my day be receiving the most terrifying of all texts. No, not the one telling me that my bank account is being plundered and the only way to stop it is to follow the link below NOW! Not the one telling me that I had accidentally left my data roaming turned on whilst in Dubai and, consequently, run up a bill of £7,369 by monitoring the bus timetables in Beunos Aires. Nor the one telling me that my emails have just been accessed by a Colombian poppy salesman who is asking permission to transfer £3million pounds per week into my bank account for safe keeping. No, this was the one from my dentist, telling me not to forget my appointment next week. This is the text that reduces me to a gibbering wreck. This is the text that forces my blood pressure medication into overtime. This is the text that sends my wife off to hide everything sharp.
It brings with it the certain knowledge that some things will, for no apparent reason, begin to happen over the ensuing days:
• My gums will start to bleed when I brush my teeth, which, admittedly, I do much more assiduously in the run-up to a check-up: unfortunately closing the stable door after the double espresso has bolted.
• My fillings (my mouth is approximately 98% dental amalgam) will start to hurt when called upon to chew.
• My teeth will start to wobble.
I will spend so much time ‘checking my breath’ that people will assume that I have accidentally super-glued my hands to my face. I will find grit in every single spoonful of muesli.
My days of toffee éclairs and granola are lost on teeth that require a week’s notice before tackling a piece of toast. Such teeth as I have are my own (I stopped myself from saying all my own there, remembering how many of them are, in fact, largely lead-coloured) but the gap to tooth ratio has shifted substantially over the last few years. What molars remain are as islands in a sea of gum. Sometimes, when I have my mouth open and the dentist is speaking, I swear I can hear an echo.
When my children were young, we would have a family appointment. Whilst I was there, ostensibly, to hold their hands, they, in reality, were there to keep me calm. It is important to never show fear in front of your children – it merely gives them another weapon to use against you.
I was unaware that I was a particularly nervous patient (it had always been my belief that everybody falls apart at the dentist’s) until I realised that my dentist had, in the absence of my children, taken to holding my hand as she spoke to me, before delving into my mouth. My new dentist does not hold my hand, but I notice that she, personally, comes to escort me from the waiting room, instead of sending the nurse, which is what normally seems to happen. I’m guessing they have something written on my notes along the lines of, ‘Calm him down before you get him in the chair. May spontaneously combust.’ I may even qualify for one of those acronyms that the ‘professions’ are so fond of: SOS (Soft Old Sod) maybe, or MC (May Cry).
When I was younger, the quiet brusque efficiency of my elderly male dentist was appreciated; with very little conversation and never the invitation to speak with my mouth full of fingers. It always seemed that speed was the order of the day and, providing his basic ‘ticking off’ of teeth and associated additions was all that was required, his back-turned, ‘That’s fine. Pay on your way out,’ was music to my ears. These days, I cannot tell you how much I value the calming smile, a sense of empathy and care for the elderly. I no longer view the dentist with total fear – I just wish she’d stop sending me these threatening texts…
I urge you, now, before it is too late, to consider what it is that has drawn you to this subversive path. Perhaps you have always harboured an urge to behave subversively. Perhaps only now, after (comfortably) more than half a century of life’s travails, have you built up sufficient resentment to act. Remember: into every life a little rain must fall. There’s always sunshine after the rain etc. etc. Except that there’s not, is there? After rain, there’s normally even more rain, followed by fog on high ground and flooding in low-lying areas. Subversion comes in many guises: think Guy Fawkes attempting to blow up the house of commons; think ringing a call centre and leaving your phone off the hook; think taking an unfeasibly long time to read all of the myriad delights laid out before you on the Starbucks menu before asking the extensively over-qualified barista, ‘do you do Nescafé?’.
Whatever subversive action you decide to take, even if it is just sticking your tongue out at someone when they’re not looking, somebody is almost bound to take exception to it. If they react badly, you will find yourself in ‘a situation’. At this point adrenalin will kick in. You are unlikely to experience the fight or flight dilemma as you will be too busy running away. Whatever you do, always make certain that you have a suitable means of escape. Bicycles are excellent, but only if you are heading downhill. If you plan to escape by public transport, always ensure that you know the location of the easy access stops.
Broadly speaking, subversives fall into two categories: a) those who consider themselves torchbearers for the right and good – enemies of injustice and inequality – warriors for a righteous cause and b) those who would really quite like to get their name into the newspaper. Many of those who fall into category a) will enter into politics, whilst many of those who fall into category b) will also enter into politics. The Houses of Parliament are the subversive equivalent of the elephant’s graveyard. Politics is the domain of those who have lost all conviction – or at least home to those who have sued the press for releasing details of their convictions. Subversion is simultaneously the enemy and the father of politics – whilst politicians are often simultaneously the father and employer of any number of tax-deductable children. Winston Churchill remained subversive throughout his political career but then, so did Tony Benn and Dennis Skinner and look where it got them. For most, subversion and political success are mutually exclusive – in much the same way as hand-knitted cardigans and sexual excess. Indeed, for the majority of subversives, subversion and normal social intercourse are also mutually exclusive. Show me a subversive with friends and I will show you a liar. Subversion, like golf, is a group activity in which no member trusts any other member; consequently, most D.I.Y subversives also become solo subversives. After all, what is the point of other opinions if they do not agree with your own?
Somebody once said that 99% of all subversive activity takes place between the ears. They obviously associated with different subversives to me. 99% of what goes on between the ears of the subversives I have met is… well, zilch, quite honestly …and the other 1% involves sexual exploits – 99% of which are fictitious.
Remember, subversion is not all glamour. Che Guevara was indeed glamorous, but not until after he was dead. If you want glamour, you are reading the wrong blog – look elsewhere – there must be one somewhere about existing purely on the calories extracted from cigarettes and cocaine.
I do not seek to persuade anyone that committing subversive deeds could in any way be seen as a desirable course of action. Indeed, I consider it imperative to advise against any activity that may, in any way, be associated with terrorism or extremism and which might, ultimately, lead to the suspicion that it was me who placed the fake dog-dirt in the butcher’s doorway. Amateur subversion seldom involves killing your enemy – although it may necessitate tying his shoelaces together. If you are happy living your life as a friendless bozo, perpetrating small acts of subversion whenever and wherever the opportunity arises, distil from this such succour as you are able – then, for God’s sake, go out and get yourself a life…
This is not a terrorist handbook. If you are scanning this page at random whilst pretending to peruse some far more worthy thread, you need not be concerned – it is highly unlikely that you will receive a knock on the door from a shady-looking character with a rolled-up umbrella and a GCHQ security pass hanging from a purple lanyard around his neck. You can read on in relative safety. You are unlikely to find yourself on the receiving end of a polonium enema just yet.
Perhaps we should begin with a definition. My hastily Googled enquiry offered this – Subversion: the undermining of the power and authority of an established system or institution. I see it more as the art of being a bloody nuisance. Like stretching Clingfilm over the toilet bowl, it seldom ends well. I tend to think that the aim of undermining the entire established system might be a slightly ambitious one for a long-in-the-tooth loner such as you. I am happy to discuss subversion in all of its forms, from hacking the Pentagon computers to leaving a drawing pin on the Bowl’s Club Secretary’s chair, but I urge you to consider – those on the receiving end of acts of subversion do not necessarily share your healthy regard for democratic rights and may just call the police if you continue to shout rude words through their letterbox – worse, they might just open the door and chase you.
Subversion is a gift for life. The desire to subvert is there from birth. Any parent will recognise the look on a baby’s face as it widdles on the changing mat or poos in a freshly changed nappy. The urge to subvert grows with the child. School brings unrivalled opportunities: bird whistles behind a raised desk lid; innocently made smart-arse remarks during class discussions; getting lost on the way to classes; falling to sleep during them… all of the things that teachers love. In adulthood, the opportunities to act subversively occur daily. I am not talking about the kind of actions that could cause physical harm; I’m talking about the slight discomfort of a rubber band on the back of the neck, a dried pea in a brogue, an unpicked seam in the underwear… And I’m not necessarily thinking about actual physical irritation, I’m thinking mental too. I’m thinking about moving the most expensive suit you can find onto the Bargain Rail at Next; I’m thinking about casually pretending to pick up a loose bolt from the floor near the railings at the top of the Eiffel Tower or producing your own bottle of tomato ketchup at an oyster bar. It might sound like little more than a practical joke, but it will put a bat up the nightie of a) the multi-nationals, b) the French and c) people who insist on eating raw molluscs in public.
Subversion that results in violence is often linked with religion. Religion is, in my opinion, not something with which the subversive should become involved. Too often, the incorporation of subversion and religion can lead to shed-loads of anguish and not a little bloodshed – just think back to the Sunday school outings of your youth. If you are decided upon a career in religious subversion, there are other websites out there for you, although I would not necessarily recommend accessing them on your mother-in-law’s laptop.
I am no connoisseur of violence – I haven’t queued for a bus in years – but I am aware that some factions quite like it. I am a firm believer that blood is designed to remain within the body. As far as I am concerned, a pool of red liquid around a person’s feet can only spell trouble – unless it is being lapped up by the cat, in which case it probably spells strawberry sauce. I would certainly never encourage risky behaviour: life and limb are not designed to be exposed to danger. Extreme pain is nature’s way of telling you to stop whatever it is you are currently doing, even if it is just sitting cross-legged on a concrete floor. The only advice I can offer is that violence is seldom the answer (unless, ironically, the question is ‘what is seldom the answer?’).
Getting On 