'I shall be gone awhile' Captain Oates said to Scott as he left the tent, never to be seen again. And so off I wandered into the distance, around 300 metres, and hit the crowds. One could be forgiven if I chose to take that particular course of action, given that I find crowds as exciting as a bad case of the pox. The fact you know what lies ahead, and that what you're going to do, in this case get some film footage, means the level of ignorance is zilch.
I am talking of the Christmas market, and on the opening day nothing could be worse than milling with the throngs of sweaty humanity in all its glorious anonymous forms. The reason for my steps into the unknowingly known, is to film the event and eventually make a short film, that I can upload to this blog; if one has to suffer for one's art, I see no reason why others shouldn't as well. Endeavoring on this particular quest has been a bit of an eye-opener, and looking at the daily rushes I'm both delighted and equally horrified with my efforts. Delighted that I managed to actually film some shots that are half decent, horrified that I appear to be suffering from utter drunkenness at times. I do take my hat off to any director of photography, and any films I watch in the future will be more favourably looked upon.
Of course, filming crowd scenes with a cast of an unsuspecting thousands of unpaid extras leads to some luvvies getting in the way, at the most inopportune moments. But at other times, pure farce ensues such as when a delightful female butt cleavage wanders into shot, gratuitous sex scene, or a young child upon a carousel horse thinking the wooden rendition will go much faster if he rides it with a zealous intensity. Then there's the two horses pulling the stagecoach, which wends its winding way through the old city, leaving behind fresh evidence of not being very happy with forever going round in circles; the intelligence of horses is largely underrated in my book. The silly season continued with the refuse lorry stopping outside the bank; appropriate I thought considering the amount of crap the financial sector has dumped on us for the past year or so. I did the unforgivable and with the microphone recording the scenes, I can be heard to say 'bugger off'. I'm a little surprised that the microphone didn't pick up the occasional expletive I muttered, but then I must have been in my Marlon Brando voice mode, and so wasn't picked up.
Getting back to the filming, I'm a little surprised that I'll have to go back and do more filming, which gives me further insight into why so much material ends up on the cutting floor, edited out, never to be used in the final polished version. I filmed some two hours worth of material, and still there's not enough for a 15 minute film. But more importantly I managed to learn a lot in such a short space of time and I feel more confident about tightening up the shots I take. The other thing is that I filmed in the dark, and the camera didn't like it; mind you I don't think I would appreciate it all that much if I had a bright light shining intensely into my eyes.
Will I ever become a Scorsese, Lean or Fellini? No, but then I wouldn't want to be, although I'm fairly certain they weren't without their own trials and tribulations when they started out on their magnificent careers. If I manage to put something together that's half decent I'll be happy. All in all I'm fairly sure Hollywood's not waiting for me to knock on its door, if it is, it has a long wait.
Here I must end, I can hear the shower calling me. I'm off to a concert where I'll be watching Handel's 'Messiah' being performed, and if nothing else it'll be a pleasant few hours to pass the time away.
An individual stroll through life, often taking an amusing view, or sometimes a little more serious one, depending on the mood.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Christmas...and the Camel.
Got the devastating news last night over a wonderfully refreshing radler, shandy to non-German speakers, that the Christmas market was opening this weekend. This annual event, celebrating centuries of yuletide, the German fascination for wooden toys, the coming together of people over a hot mug of punch, is upon us, and I will be inflicted with its grotesqueness. Not a happy moment, and one that seems to come ever more quickly with each passing year.
Ok, I know that I sound miserable, and as my son said the other night I should watch Scrooge to remind me of what Christmas is all about, nevertheless the Christmas market is a very severe pain in the butt. There are literally thousands of people who visit it during December, most are tourists, most of whom are carrying cameras and camcorders, most of whom think it's perfectly acceptable to get in your way as they take photographs of their loved ones. If this wasn't all there is to contend with, the market is set up in such a way that the stalls are set up in rows, with very narrow passages, making it virtually impossible to start at one end and not be in a bad mood by the time you get to the other end.
To the first time visitor the market is a thing to be enjoyed, and even I have to admit that such was the 'adventure' on my very first visit that I did enjoy it, mostly because it was new and unknown, and I was endowed with an abundance of ignorance. Five Christmas markets on, in as far as it is humanly possible, such romantic delusions have been abandoned and in the cold light of December, my only wish is that I was elsewhere, deeply so.
Having got that off my chest, and as the season of goodwill to all men (and women) is now upon us, I think it's appropriate to talk about camels. Why camels I hear you muttering to yourselves as you plough through this, sitting comfortably in the sanctity of the one room, where nobody disturbs you. Should you actually be reading this elsewhere, I thank you. Should you be reading this in the toilet, please be careful when you finish as the edges of a laptop can be a little rough on the skin. But I digress from the subject of the camel, and if I were the camel I'd have the hump by now. On the other hand, if I was a female camel I'd get the hump twice; which would tend to prove that men are more forgiving, don't get the hump so often, and only have the capacity for half an argument. But that's by the by.
So what's so fascinating about camels? No idea really, except that I thought the camel should get a mention as it rarely gets one. This, after all, is the season of goodwill and camels deserve as much goodwill as the next man. Yes, I know, lots of mentions about men but it can't be avoided for the purposes of literary greatness. Although I will admit that I've never met a camel who could claim any form of literary greatness. To my knowledge there's no Camel Wordsworth, Camel Shakespeare, or Camel Dickens; but then again there's Camel Sutra, so there is one I guess, although his book on physical distortions and flexibility are far too advanced in its thinking for me.
The camel isn't a particular favourite of mine, unlike the dolphin who will always be tops or the gannet - a type of booby (no jokes please), but you can't help but admire this ship of the desert, even if they can be a temperamental so and so. Ask yourself where would the world of cinema be without 'Lawrence of Arabia? For that matter, where would David Lean, Alec Guiness, Omar Sharif, Anthony Quinn and Peter O'Toole be without the camel? These are serious questions that need an answer!
This brings us back to the beginning, and my miserable comments about the Christmas market. The camel, along with the donkey, two stubborn animals, who actually play a fundamental role in the story of Christmas, without them there would be no Christmas, and no Christmas market. On that particular note, I wonder how good the camel is to eat?
Ok, I know that I sound miserable, and as my son said the other night I should watch Scrooge to remind me of what Christmas is all about, nevertheless the Christmas market is a very severe pain in the butt. There are literally thousands of people who visit it during December, most are tourists, most of whom are carrying cameras and camcorders, most of whom think it's perfectly acceptable to get in your way as they take photographs of their loved ones. If this wasn't all there is to contend with, the market is set up in such a way that the stalls are set up in rows, with very narrow passages, making it virtually impossible to start at one end and not be in a bad mood by the time you get to the other end.
To the first time visitor the market is a thing to be enjoyed, and even I have to admit that such was the 'adventure' on my very first visit that I did enjoy it, mostly because it was new and unknown, and I was endowed with an abundance of ignorance. Five Christmas markets on, in as far as it is humanly possible, such romantic delusions have been abandoned and in the cold light of December, my only wish is that I was elsewhere, deeply so.
Having got that off my chest, and as the season of goodwill to all men (and women) is now upon us, I think it's appropriate to talk about camels. Why camels I hear you muttering to yourselves as you plough through this, sitting comfortably in the sanctity of the one room, where nobody disturbs you. Should you actually be reading this elsewhere, I thank you. Should you be reading this in the toilet, please be careful when you finish as the edges of a laptop can be a little rough on the skin. But I digress from the subject of the camel, and if I were the camel I'd have the hump by now. On the other hand, if I was a female camel I'd get the hump twice; which would tend to prove that men are more forgiving, don't get the hump so often, and only have the capacity for half an argument. But that's by the by.
So what's so fascinating about camels? No idea really, except that I thought the camel should get a mention as it rarely gets one. This, after all, is the season of goodwill and camels deserve as much goodwill as the next man. Yes, I know, lots of mentions about men but it can't be avoided for the purposes of literary greatness. Although I will admit that I've never met a camel who could claim any form of literary greatness. To my knowledge there's no Camel Wordsworth, Camel Shakespeare, or Camel Dickens; but then again there's Camel Sutra, so there is one I guess, although his book on physical distortions and flexibility are far too advanced in its thinking for me.
The camel isn't a particular favourite of mine, unlike the dolphin who will always be tops or the gannet - a type of booby (no jokes please), but you can't help but admire this ship of the desert, even if they can be a temperamental so and so. Ask yourself where would the world of cinema be without 'Lawrence of Arabia? For that matter, where would David Lean, Alec Guiness, Omar Sharif, Anthony Quinn and Peter O'Toole be without the camel? These are serious questions that need an answer!
This brings us back to the beginning, and my miserable comments about the Christmas market. The camel, along with the donkey, two stubborn animals, who actually play a fundamental role in the story of Christmas, without them there would be no Christmas, and no Christmas market. On that particular note, I wonder how good the camel is to eat?
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Revenge of the Trash Bin!
Today's one of those days, where having finally got your head around the need to turn into a computer geek, you're on a mission. Of course, the need far outweighs the actually meagre talent by which to execute such lofty ambitions. However, you're confident that whatever little knowledge you do have, will be sufficient for the task ahead. I should add at this point that there's no braver man than a fool on a mission, especially one that's largely self-taught, and one who's about technically advanced as the elastic on a jockstrap. Never mind, if nothing else one of the greatest testaments to the success of men is their somewhat naive ability to out-think their actual ability to think. By the way, this is known by two terms in the English language (1) delusions of grandeur and (2) a hopeless romantic.
Having got up before 8am, an excellent indication of determination to overcome the dire struggle ahead, I turned my beautiful laptop on, so whilst I'm preparing breakfast, then commencing with the necessary ablutions that are always mandatory upon rising, she's warming up nicely, expectantly awaiting the gentle caress of my delicate fingers. There's nothing that gets her going more than the gentle touch of fingers, caressing her keyboard. Watching her respond to this tender manipulation can only bring a smile to my face; a radiant and contented smile that signals nothing but pure pleasure.
Such a start gives a deep sense of accomplishment. In that very moment there's the acknowledgment of the close relationship, which intimately exists. At that moment you are at one with your beautiful laptop, and you're at peace. One can only sit back for a moment or two and marvel at the joyful union of like-minded spirits, softly enjoined together in a single purpose.
Thus with a dogged determination known only to the male species, females generally look on with a sympathetic smirk, you head into the wilderness. Let there be no misunderstanding here, I'm utterly convinced that the task ahead is a piece of carrot cake (I've mentioned carrot cake, not because it's got anything to do with the point in question, but because I like it, which is a good enough reason in my book, which by the way will be published at some point, but that's another story...). Anyway, enough of this prattling!
Some 12 hours later, after suitable pit stops for much needed sustenance, the following applies:
Having got up before 8am, an excellent indication of determination to overcome the dire struggle ahead, I turned my beautiful laptop on, so whilst I'm preparing breakfast, then commencing with the necessary ablutions that are always mandatory upon rising, she's warming up nicely, expectantly awaiting the gentle caress of my delicate fingers. There's nothing that gets her going more than the gentle touch of fingers, caressing her keyboard. Watching her respond to this tender manipulation can only bring a smile to my face; a radiant and contented smile that signals nothing but pure pleasure.
Such a start gives a deep sense of accomplishment. In that very moment there's the acknowledgment of the close relationship, which intimately exists. At that moment you are at one with your beautiful laptop, and you're at peace. One can only sit back for a moment or two and marvel at the joyful union of like-minded spirits, softly enjoined together in a single purpose.
Thus with a dogged determination known only to the male species, females generally look on with a sympathetic smirk, you head into the wilderness. Let there be no misunderstanding here, I'm utterly convinced that the task ahead is a piece of carrot cake (I've mentioned carrot cake, not because it's got anything to do with the point in question, but because I like it, which is a good enough reason in my book, which by the way will be published at some point, but that's another story...). Anyway, enough of this prattling!
Some 12 hours later, after suitable pit stops for much needed sustenance, the following applies:
- Excellent start
- Interruptions, very delightful in one case, very weird in the other
- Wholesale massacre of hard drive (done gingerly, scaredy catty operating, idiot in charge)
- "Up yours!" replies trash bin (jealous of me & laptop) refusing to do anything I tell it
- Trash bin threatened with punitive action, I threaten to put Barry Manilow in the bin
- Trash bin gives in, emptying its lot (arrogant smile on my face)
- Trash bin knowingly smirks (he who laughs last, laughs longest)
- 'C' drive before the start had 9GBs free, after 12 long hours it's now got 1.9GBs free
- Trash bin now in fits of giggles
- I can't find Barry Manilow
- I give up
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Men...& a question of multi-tasking.
It's been nearly a week since my last blog, largely due to having little to say about much in particular, which must come as a relief to the ozone layer. During the past week it seemed like an endless journey of one frustration after another, where no matter how hard I tried to work, work had very little in the way of focus. That's my own fault I know, but then I'm my own worse enemy at times, the more so when my brain, little and useless as it normally is, decides to go on a creative 'bender'.
The bender has nothing to do with gulping down copious amounts of alcohol, but more to do with the brain's perverse desire to think, and think far too much. These are dangerous waters; made even worse by bobbing about inside the available cavernous space of my skull. This grey matter, lurking furtively, perched high upon broad shoulders, suddenly explodes in a torrent of frenzied activity, causing the neurons to short circuit. The ensuing blackout, it might be favourably looked upon, is Mother Nature's way of keeping 'man' in his place; something which no-one could reasonably argue against, unless you happen to be a man.
That glaringly honest remark, remarkably said by a man, who strenuously denies he's in anyway to be considered remarkable, is perhaps no more than an acknowledgment that, generally but still true, men are largely incapable of doing anything remotely useful and worthwhile if they have to multi-task. A radical feminist once said that 'an individual working on a single task is a man, two tasks a very confused man, and a man working on three or more tasks at the same time, a goddamn genius who's fighting with his inner desire to be a woman.'
Men are notoriously inept when it comes to doing several tasks at the same time. Think of all those symbols of human greatness: the splitting of a single atom led to the A-Bomb accomplished by a number of men; yet it took only Madame Curie to see through every man with the x-ray at the same time. Newton's theory of gravity was born out of trying to discover why he kept being hit by apples, thrown by his female relatives who were washing, cleaning, feeding babies and doing the pots at the same time. It took one man to discover the wheel and his wife to find many uses it could be put to, much to her lasting regret. The list goes on endlessly.
Of course it might be argued that Mother Nature is very cruel to men, in that she gave him the choice of two brains, for the purposes of multi-tasking. As an evolutionary experiment it failed, which is why Charles Darwin never mentioned it in 'The Origin of Species', that and the fact he was a man. One brain sits at the top, which is often confused by the brain lower down below the belly button. Although to be fair, the upper brain works out the best way to naturally sow the oats, the lower one eventually carrying out the theory in practice. Even here Mother Nature confused the issue further by ensuring that some oat stalks performed better by leaving the husk off, some did better by putting the husk on, some oats had a trial run but filled out blank reports.
Mother nature then went on to introduce a thing called the 'G-Spot', causing men endless hours of lost sleep after it was mentioned by the 20th Century's greatest female thinker, 'Cosmo Politan'. Cosmo, some say, is Mother Nature's finest contribution to finally killing off any doubts that men could multi-task. Since the G-Spot was gloriously revealed to the world, women suddenly found that there was a much better way of making multi-tasking a more pleasurable experience.
I dedicate this particular blog to Susie in California, Steph in Australia, Tanz in the UK, & finally Isa who is somewhere in the world thoroughly enjoying herself at the moment. Without these particular individuals, the world would be immeasurably more serious than it is, and I thank each of you for making me laugh, and allowing me the privilege of sharing particular moments in your lives. Each of you have proved time and time again that the male species is only able to function if he's only required to do one thing at a time.
The bender has nothing to do with gulping down copious amounts of alcohol, but more to do with the brain's perverse desire to think, and think far too much. These are dangerous waters; made even worse by bobbing about inside the available cavernous space of my skull. This grey matter, lurking furtively, perched high upon broad shoulders, suddenly explodes in a torrent of frenzied activity, causing the neurons to short circuit. The ensuing blackout, it might be favourably looked upon, is Mother Nature's way of keeping 'man' in his place; something which no-one could reasonably argue against, unless you happen to be a man.
That glaringly honest remark, remarkably said by a man, who strenuously denies he's in anyway to be considered remarkable, is perhaps no more than an acknowledgment that, generally but still true, men are largely incapable of doing anything remotely useful and worthwhile if they have to multi-task. A radical feminist once said that 'an individual working on a single task is a man, two tasks a very confused man, and a man working on three or more tasks at the same time, a goddamn genius who's fighting with his inner desire to be a woman.'
Men are notoriously inept when it comes to doing several tasks at the same time. Think of all those symbols of human greatness: the splitting of a single atom led to the A-Bomb accomplished by a number of men; yet it took only Madame Curie to see through every man with the x-ray at the same time. Newton's theory of gravity was born out of trying to discover why he kept being hit by apples, thrown by his female relatives who were washing, cleaning, feeding babies and doing the pots at the same time. It took one man to discover the wheel and his wife to find many uses it could be put to, much to her lasting regret. The list goes on endlessly.
Of course it might be argued that Mother Nature is very cruel to men, in that she gave him the choice of two brains, for the purposes of multi-tasking. As an evolutionary experiment it failed, which is why Charles Darwin never mentioned it in 'The Origin of Species', that and the fact he was a man. One brain sits at the top, which is often confused by the brain lower down below the belly button. Although to be fair, the upper brain works out the best way to naturally sow the oats, the lower one eventually carrying out the theory in practice. Even here Mother Nature confused the issue further by ensuring that some oat stalks performed better by leaving the husk off, some did better by putting the husk on, some oats had a trial run but filled out blank reports.
Mother nature then went on to introduce a thing called the 'G-Spot', causing men endless hours of lost sleep after it was mentioned by the 20th Century's greatest female thinker, 'Cosmo Politan'. Cosmo, some say, is Mother Nature's finest contribution to finally killing off any doubts that men could multi-task. Since the G-Spot was gloriously revealed to the world, women suddenly found that there was a much better way of making multi-tasking a more pleasurable experience.
I dedicate this particular blog to Susie in California, Steph in Australia, Tanz in the UK, & finally Isa who is somewhere in the world thoroughly enjoying herself at the moment. Without these particular individuals, the world would be immeasurably more serious than it is, and I thank each of you for making me laugh, and allowing me the privilege of sharing particular moments in your lives. Each of you have proved time and time again that the male species is only able to function if he's only required to do one thing at a time.
Monday, November 9, 2009
For the love of an onion!
So how was your weekend? Did everything go to plan? Did you decide to be completely decadent and spend the entire weekend sleeping? Or did you helplessly watch it drift by, as though it had a mind of its own?
Like most of my well laid plans, I had a dream too! But my dreams tend to get waylaid by some impish joker, who thinks nothing of throwing a spanner into the works, that or throw a bucket of water over me. For the first time in more months than I can remember, I decided I'd have a weekend free of toil. The plan was to spend as much of the weekend as possible being 'arty'; waving paintbrushes like a Japanese robot, freed from the monotonous practice of building endless cars that nobody wants to buy, who suddenly discovers life. Life would either be seen by the robot to be a splendorous tribute to Mother Nature's determination to overcome all obstacles in her way, as is par for the course (well done Tigress Woody), or be faced with the unenviable truth that life at the mill is a somewhat pleasurable form of slavery.
So there I am, up at 6am on Saturday morning, the autumnal darkness no different to going to bed at 2am, as I often seem to these days. By 9am I'm doing the food shopping at the local supermarket; thank god for small supermarkets! Nothing worse than having a shopping trolley, suffering from a cranky wheel determined it's the boss. Have you ever wondered how many hours of your life you've wasted wrestling with a trolley, only to come away with the crap beaten out of you? Yes, you do the sensible thing and exchange it for another, only to find that it's decided that as a fully paid up member of the 'Truckin' Trolleys' Co-Operative Union, it's going to be an even bigger pain in your butt, than your former headmaster was giving you several strokes of the whippy stick.
I was in luck as the trolley decided it was going to give me an easy time; by 9.30 I was back on the streets, loaded up with healthy food, it had 'Bio' on the label. I've always taken those three letters on trust, never once questioning whether 'Bio' means produced naturally, produced as a result of biological and chemical warfare, or biodegradable and therefore the end product will rot down without too much damage to the environment, but may well cause a blockage elsewhere in the system. 10 minutes later I'm back home, whipping myself into culinary thoughts of the first excellent homemade chicken, leek and mushroom soup of the friggin' chilly season. But upon emptying the three shopping bags, a glaring omission, the humble but very essential onion. One can only take pity on a fully grown man, who's boyish excitement is a more delightful sight than his normal miserable, chewed toffee, face, who collapses into a Tsunami of doubt, quickly followed by the ungentlemanly expressions of a great ape after being told by Desmond Morris that he and the idiot are closely related.
Plan B was eventually brought into play, as soon as the hairshirt had been removed, and the self-flagellation with a washing up sponge had been completed. One can only admire the tenacity of a man on a mission. Plan B is always brought into play for the only reason that it makes those who use it appear organised, have options, and is useful to have around in an emergency. Nothing could be further from the truth. Plan B is nothing more than an exercise in seeing how far you can out do the imagination of Hans Christian Anderson. Basically Plan B follows the well-trod path of cock up, reaction to cock up, and intelligent response to undo said cock up. There's perhaps no greater sight than a man with his cock up, doing all he can to save face at the sight of his cock up, finally overcoming his embarrassment at that moment in time.
By now it was around 10.30am, and as with any conflict involving the British mentality, a frappe was in order; living in foreign climes for some time tea has largely been replaced by the exotic nature of coffee's ability to be disguised in any number of ways. Despite it being friggin' chilly, and hanging on to the last vestiges of machismo, an ice cold frappe still holds an appeal and not one you let go of lightly. So frappe and sandwich, I was feeling hungry due to the shopping trip, and the overworked brain that had at least decided most of it was going to enjoy the weekend, and come what may do no work.
Eventually, I returned to the city centre, a few minutes from my doorstep and proceeded to find the missing onion. As the outdoor market is in the main square of town, I was surrounded by the fruit and veg of the season, neatly laid out in mutlicoloured rows of succulent and tasty offerings. As I wandered from stall to stall I couldn't remember what I wanted., which I have to admit is somewhat worrying. Standing there, I suddenly remembered that I needed something else, which had nothing to do with peppers, apples or bent cucumbers, but for the life of me I couldn't remember what it was either. Had I been aware of my forgetfulness perhaps I might have rightly concluded that senility was on its way, but somehow forgetting what forgetfulness is can be a mixed blessing.
But after 3 hours or so wandering aimlessly about in department stores, which is always a nightmare on a Saturday, where I bought some DVDs and boxer shorts, neither which were needed in the great scheme of things. I was rescued from the thickness of my own fog by that all American hero, CAPTAIN STARBUCKS! Those who may decry Starbucks clearly have never experienced its uncanny ability to sweep away the brain's stubborn nature. Sitting outside in the cold, enjoying a piping hot Grande coffee of the week, watching people going about their business, is all the recuperative medication one needs to remember that you've just spent endless hours doing precisely nothing. But the one thing I did remember was that I needed an onion.
The rest of the weekend? I went back to work and had dinner on Sunday with another dear friend. At least if I'm working, enjoying the company of a close friend, I'm not in the slightest danger of forgetting......How did I say I was going to finish this blog?
Like most of my well laid plans, I had a dream too! But my dreams tend to get waylaid by some impish joker, who thinks nothing of throwing a spanner into the works, that or throw a bucket of water over me. For the first time in more months than I can remember, I decided I'd have a weekend free of toil. The plan was to spend as much of the weekend as possible being 'arty'; waving paintbrushes like a Japanese robot, freed from the monotonous practice of building endless cars that nobody wants to buy, who suddenly discovers life. Life would either be seen by the robot to be a splendorous tribute to Mother Nature's determination to overcome all obstacles in her way, as is par for the course (well done Tigress Woody), or be faced with the unenviable truth that life at the mill is a somewhat pleasurable form of slavery.
So there I am, up at 6am on Saturday morning, the autumnal darkness no different to going to bed at 2am, as I often seem to these days. By 9am I'm doing the food shopping at the local supermarket; thank god for small supermarkets! Nothing worse than having a shopping trolley, suffering from a cranky wheel determined it's the boss. Have you ever wondered how many hours of your life you've wasted wrestling with a trolley, only to come away with the crap beaten out of you? Yes, you do the sensible thing and exchange it for another, only to find that it's decided that as a fully paid up member of the 'Truckin' Trolleys' Co-Operative Union, it's going to be an even bigger pain in your butt, than your former headmaster was giving you several strokes of the whippy stick.
I was in luck as the trolley decided it was going to give me an easy time; by 9.30 I was back on the streets, loaded up with healthy food, it had 'Bio' on the label. I've always taken those three letters on trust, never once questioning whether 'Bio' means produced naturally, produced as a result of biological and chemical warfare, or biodegradable and therefore the end product will rot down without too much damage to the environment, but may well cause a blockage elsewhere in the system. 10 minutes later I'm back home, whipping myself into culinary thoughts of the first excellent homemade chicken, leek and mushroom soup of the friggin' chilly season. But upon emptying the three shopping bags, a glaring omission, the humble but very essential onion. One can only take pity on a fully grown man, who's boyish excitement is a more delightful sight than his normal miserable, chewed toffee, face, who collapses into a Tsunami of doubt, quickly followed by the ungentlemanly expressions of a great ape after being told by Desmond Morris that he and the idiot are closely related.
Plan B was eventually brought into play, as soon as the hairshirt had been removed, and the self-flagellation with a washing up sponge had been completed. One can only admire the tenacity of a man on a mission. Plan B is always brought into play for the only reason that it makes those who use it appear organised, have options, and is useful to have around in an emergency. Nothing could be further from the truth. Plan B is nothing more than an exercise in seeing how far you can out do the imagination of Hans Christian Anderson. Basically Plan B follows the well-trod path of cock up, reaction to cock up, and intelligent response to undo said cock up. There's perhaps no greater sight than a man with his cock up, doing all he can to save face at the sight of his cock up, finally overcoming his embarrassment at that moment in time.
By now it was around 10.30am, and as with any conflict involving the British mentality, a frappe was in order; living in foreign climes for some time tea has largely been replaced by the exotic nature of coffee's ability to be disguised in any number of ways. Despite it being friggin' chilly, and hanging on to the last vestiges of machismo, an ice cold frappe still holds an appeal and not one you let go of lightly. So frappe and sandwich, I was feeling hungry due to the shopping trip, and the overworked brain that had at least decided most of it was going to enjoy the weekend, and come what may do no work.
Eventually, I returned to the city centre, a few minutes from my doorstep and proceeded to find the missing onion. As the outdoor market is in the main square of town, I was surrounded by the fruit and veg of the season, neatly laid out in mutlicoloured rows of succulent and tasty offerings. As I wandered from stall to stall I couldn't remember what I wanted., which I have to admit is somewhat worrying. Standing there, I suddenly remembered that I needed something else, which had nothing to do with peppers, apples or bent cucumbers, but for the life of me I couldn't remember what it was either. Had I been aware of my forgetfulness perhaps I might have rightly concluded that senility was on its way, but somehow forgetting what forgetfulness is can be a mixed blessing.
But after 3 hours or so wandering aimlessly about in department stores, which is always a nightmare on a Saturday, where I bought some DVDs and boxer shorts, neither which were needed in the great scheme of things. I was rescued from the thickness of my own fog by that all American hero, CAPTAIN STARBUCKS! Those who may decry Starbucks clearly have never experienced its uncanny ability to sweep away the brain's stubborn nature. Sitting outside in the cold, enjoying a piping hot Grande coffee of the week, watching people going about their business, is all the recuperative medication one needs to remember that you've just spent endless hours doing precisely nothing. But the one thing I did remember was that I needed an onion.
The rest of the weekend? I went back to work and had dinner on Sunday with another dear friend. At least if I'm working, enjoying the company of a close friend, I'm not in the slightest danger of forgetting......How did I say I was going to finish this blog?
Thursday, November 5, 2009
A short history of bonfire night.
I'd completely forgotten it was bonfire night in the UK. For those who don't know about this particular event, of sorts, which has spawned enough historical myths to be the basis of JR Tolkien's weighty tomes 'Lord of the rings', I'll try to enlighten you.
Firstly, it's the very British way of supporting the underdog, by burning effigies to declare their immense joy at Guido (Guy) Fawkes being dispatched for attempting to blow up parliament and get rid of a bunch of cronies, enjoying the high life as Members of Parliament. As history shows us, nothing much as changed.
Secondly, it was a dastardly attempt to get rid of the King, not because he was a particularly bad guy, but because he was a protestant, whilst Guido and his mates were catholic terrorists who thought Britain would be better off in the European Union of the time. Again, nothing much has changed, except if you're English you still want to remain a castaway on a desert island. If you're Scottish, you like the idea of annoying the hell out of the Westminister mafia, so you'd like to be more European. If you're Welsh, you only want to see more sheep roaming the hills.
Thirdly, Guido took the full brunt of the polite manners the English are famed for. He was politely told he was going to be tied to a post, which sat on top of some fine wheat sheaves left over from the harvest festival, underneath were faggots and kindling, and then after the archbishop had prayed to God to save Guido's tormented soul, he would be set alight. Guido not wishing to appear a miserable bugger, and to prove his English credentials, said 'thank you'.
The English establishment, not wishing to let the peasants forget, agreed it was permissible to have a bonfire every year. The establishment secretly agreed that burning an old guy every November 5th would in fact reduce the numbers requiring the services of the Poor Law, and would also greatly reduce expenditure on pensions.
As Guido was being burnt at the stake, the good English peasants threw potatoes at him, which duly landed in the fire. It was soon learnt that the time it took to burn an old guy, was exactly the same time it took to bake potatoes to perfection. This is why baked potatoes are enjoyed on bonfire night, fillings for the baked potatoes came a little later, when the English wished to show the world that they could outdo French and Italian cuisine.
The use of fireworks stems from the need of the military to test new smart bombs. Sparklers on the other hand are used to remind people that once upon a time there was no electric lights, and that it's the only way to find your way across a muddy field on a very dark night in November.
So there we have it, a brief historical account of why the British celebrate bonfire night, eat baked potatoes, use fireworks, and wave sparklers around like lunatics.
Have fun tonight and make sure you know where you put the bangers!
Firstly, it's the very British way of supporting the underdog, by burning effigies to declare their immense joy at Guido (Guy) Fawkes being dispatched for attempting to blow up parliament and get rid of a bunch of cronies, enjoying the high life as Members of Parliament. As history shows us, nothing much as changed.
Secondly, it was a dastardly attempt to get rid of the King, not because he was a particularly bad guy, but because he was a protestant, whilst Guido and his mates were catholic terrorists who thought Britain would be better off in the European Union of the time. Again, nothing much has changed, except if you're English you still want to remain a castaway on a desert island. If you're Scottish, you like the idea of annoying the hell out of the Westminister mafia, so you'd like to be more European. If you're Welsh, you only want to see more sheep roaming the hills.
Thirdly, Guido took the full brunt of the polite manners the English are famed for. He was politely told he was going to be tied to a post, which sat on top of some fine wheat sheaves left over from the harvest festival, underneath were faggots and kindling, and then after the archbishop had prayed to God to save Guido's tormented soul, he would be set alight. Guido not wishing to appear a miserable bugger, and to prove his English credentials, said 'thank you'.
The English establishment, not wishing to let the peasants forget, agreed it was permissible to have a bonfire every year. The establishment secretly agreed that burning an old guy every November 5th would in fact reduce the numbers requiring the services of the Poor Law, and would also greatly reduce expenditure on pensions.
As Guido was being burnt at the stake, the good English peasants threw potatoes at him, which duly landed in the fire. It was soon learnt that the time it took to burn an old guy, was exactly the same time it took to bake potatoes to perfection. This is why baked potatoes are enjoyed on bonfire night, fillings for the baked potatoes came a little later, when the English wished to show the world that they could outdo French and Italian cuisine.
The use of fireworks stems from the need of the military to test new smart bombs. Sparklers on the other hand are used to remind people that once upon a time there was no electric lights, and that it's the only way to find your way across a muddy field on a very dark night in November.
So there we have it, a brief historical account of why the British celebrate bonfire night, eat baked potatoes, use fireworks, and wave sparklers around like lunatics.
Have fun tonight and make sure you know where you put the bangers!
Being positive!
Last night was something of a relief after spending two days on producing an ebook from scratch; lots of headaches and thinking that the word 'numskull' was purely invented for my own personal use. The good news is that I'm nearly there, the only problem being the formatting, which leaves much to be desired; Oh the joy of enthusiastic ignorance, and men with new toys.
Returning to last night, I finally bumped into a dear friend I hadn't seen for a while, which was AB FAB! I guess, thinking a little more deeply than I normally do, which probably accounts for the painful big toe, I'm blessed with friendships that can be separated by long periods of time, but reunited again seem to naturally continue from where they left off.
As we chatted, it was a lovely feeling having that all too rare ability to make someone smile and laugh. No, I'm appalling at telling jokes, my comic timing died a very sad and lonely death long before I was actually born. My forte, god that sounds pretentious, is my unfailing sense of humour when it comes to the moment at hand, or a particular situation I find amusing for some strange reason. This I developed at primary school, where as a bullied 'fatty' I was the blob on the end of several beatings. I discovered that wandering around the playground on all fours, acting as though I was a St. Bernard dog, was the cause of much merriment amongst my peers, and much to the annoyance of the teaching staff. More importantly the bullying ceased for a while. In the end I suppose I couldn't escape the attentions of my tormentors, but the respite was welcomed.
My friend, as I walked them home, said I sounded very positive. I guess I am positive, much to do with finally working out what it is I actually want to do in life. But to do what you really want to do, race south American sloths over the 100 metres, is going to be hard and you can't help but be positive. If life's taught me one thing, bananas taste nothing like carrots; being positive is simply...well...not being negative. And if you can understrand that much, you'll never put batteries in the wrong way again.
Thanks for joining me. Keep smiling, it makes you either stand out in the crowd, or the cause for you being locked up in a mental asylum. Either way, it makes you different...that's why your friends love you! ;-)
Returning to last night, I finally bumped into a dear friend I hadn't seen for a while, which was AB FAB! I guess, thinking a little more deeply than I normally do, which probably accounts for the painful big toe, I'm blessed with friendships that can be separated by long periods of time, but reunited again seem to naturally continue from where they left off.
As we chatted, it was a lovely feeling having that all too rare ability to make someone smile and laugh. No, I'm appalling at telling jokes, my comic timing died a very sad and lonely death long before I was actually born. My forte, god that sounds pretentious, is my unfailing sense of humour when it comes to the moment at hand, or a particular situation I find amusing for some strange reason. This I developed at primary school, where as a bullied 'fatty' I was the blob on the end of several beatings. I discovered that wandering around the playground on all fours, acting as though I was a St. Bernard dog, was the cause of much merriment amongst my peers, and much to the annoyance of the teaching staff. More importantly the bullying ceased for a while. In the end I suppose I couldn't escape the attentions of my tormentors, but the respite was welcomed.
My friend, as I walked them home, said I sounded very positive. I guess I am positive, much to do with finally working out what it is I actually want to do in life. But to do what you really want to do, race south American sloths over the 100 metres, is going to be hard and you can't help but be positive. If life's taught me one thing, bananas taste nothing like carrots; being positive is simply...well...not being negative. And if you can understrand that much, you'll never put batteries in the wrong way again.
Thanks for joining me. Keep smiling, it makes you either stand out in the crowd, or the cause for you being locked up in a mental asylum. Either way, it makes you different...that's why your friends love you! ;-)
Monday, November 2, 2009
Work, the law & a wonderful hug!
The first Monday morning I'm officially unemployed, I have to go back to my old workplace because my darling of a lawyer, in truth and being a gentleman at heart she's a magnificent friend, tells me late last night there was still a little doubt about the settlement I'd reached. Thus, being no wiser about the joys of legal wrangles, legal loopholes, and worse of all legal language, I find myself arising out of bed at 6am, utterly brain dead, dragging my saggy bottom into the shower.
Why I mentioned my saggy bottom, I've no idea. My guess is that I'm being utterly selfish, and because I've suffered for keeping my nose legally clean, then you can suffer along with me; the law above all is blind, just, and O so very fair. Anyway, ignoring the Brothers Grimm moment of lucidity, eventually I arrive back at the former place of employment. I'm not too proud to admit I was once a lackey, but now I'm a visitor, which in terms of psychology felt a little weird, or that might just be me. You can argue amongst yourselves on that particular point.
Ringing the front doorbell, of the former company, which is either a completely different approach to getting inside the building, or that they don't let any riff raff in anymore without an excellent reason, I'm allowed to enter. Entering into the main foyer the girls on reception are pleased to see me, one so delighted that she drops her headset and gives me a massive tight hug. Getting to my age in life I'll bathe in the moment...
It was good to see a few old faces, commiserating with me, wishing I was back doing the job I thoroughly adore, teaching. But this isn't possible given the state of the economy, although I did say that I'd go back if I was asked. Some were surprised to see me, as they should be; no that was awful, I sound arrogant...not like me at all, after all being English I know my place, presently in the dole queue.
I saw the head of HR, who said that everything had finally been settled and he had been in touch with my lawyer, so I didn't have to return after all. My lawyer, bless her, called me around 10 minutes later to tell me that everything had been settled. This seems to be one of the joys of the whole thing, which put a smile on my face, the person who told me I was being let go assuring me that I was actually being let go, whilst my lawyer tells me after the event. I know it sounds a little strange, this particular way of doing things, but she's been fantastic throughout the whole process and a wonderful friend. The reason for the back to front jungle drums scenerio, is due to her making sure that I was protected, such care tends to make you feel a little humble.
With that in mind, it's not often that you find yourself being hugged by a number of beautiful women, missed by former male colleagues, and mollycoddled by an agent of the law. Nor is it every day that you find that the words you write are being read in places such as California, New York, Ireland, Brussels, Canada, and the UK; another humbling, but exciting, feeling. To everyone, friends who are supportive of my desire to write, the individuals who take the time out of their busy lives to read my thoughts, and my former colleagues, I thank each and everyone of you.
Sadly, or happily if you've fell to sleep by now, I have to get back to the real world and finish washing the pots. Writing a blog is wonderful, it's called aversion therapy I believe, the downside it has to end at some point.
Bye for now, and keep smiling ;-)
Why I mentioned my saggy bottom, I've no idea. My guess is that I'm being utterly selfish, and because I've suffered for keeping my nose legally clean, then you can suffer along with me; the law above all is blind, just, and O so very fair. Anyway, ignoring the Brothers Grimm moment of lucidity, eventually I arrive back at the former place of employment. I'm not too proud to admit I was once a lackey, but now I'm a visitor, which in terms of psychology felt a little weird, or that might just be me. You can argue amongst yourselves on that particular point.
Ringing the front doorbell, of the former company, which is either a completely different approach to getting inside the building, or that they don't let any riff raff in anymore without an excellent reason, I'm allowed to enter. Entering into the main foyer the girls on reception are pleased to see me, one so delighted that she drops her headset and gives me a massive tight hug. Getting to my age in life I'll bathe in the moment...
It was good to see a few old faces, commiserating with me, wishing I was back doing the job I thoroughly adore, teaching. But this isn't possible given the state of the economy, although I did say that I'd go back if I was asked. Some were surprised to see me, as they should be; no that was awful, I sound arrogant...not like me at all, after all being English I know my place, presently in the dole queue.
I saw the head of HR, who said that everything had finally been settled and he had been in touch with my lawyer, so I didn't have to return after all. My lawyer, bless her, called me around 10 minutes later to tell me that everything had been settled. This seems to be one of the joys of the whole thing, which put a smile on my face, the person who told me I was being let go assuring me that I was actually being let go, whilst my lawyer tells me after the event. I know it sounds a little strange, this particular way of doing things, but she's been fantastic throughout the whole process and a wonderful friend. The reason for the back to front jungle drums scenerio, is due to her making sure that I was protected, such care tends to make you feel a little humble.
With that in mind, it's not often that you find yourself being hugged by a number of beautiful women, missed by former male colleagues, and mollycoddled by an agent of the law. Nor is it every day that you find that the words you write are being read in places such as California, New York, Ireland, Brussels, Canada, and the UK; another humbling, but exciting, feeling. To everyone, friends who are supportive of my desire to write, the individuals who take the time out of their busy lives to read my thoughts, and my former colleagues, I thank each and everyone of you.
Sadly, or happily if you've fell to sleep by now, I have to get back to the real world and finish washing the pots. Writing a blog is wonderful, it's called aversion therapy I believe, the downside it has to end at some point.
Bye for now, and keep smiling ;-)
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