The Perils of Parenthood

The trouble with early parenthood is that everyone knows better than everyone else.

The Perils of Politeness

Recently, I was told that I was the rudest person that the person doing the telling had ever met. This was somewhat of a feat, as I dare say the teller must have met a great deal of people in her lengthy lifetime, not that I would dream of saying such a thing, I am far too polite for that. The situation arose upon my evening commute home from Bury Tram Station. There are two possible outgoing trams from Bury, an Altrincham Service and a Piccadilly Service. Because Bury is the end of the line, both services go the same way for a lot of the way. Having been well practised in gauging the trams over the previous two years, I was familiar with both the best, and more often, worst case scenarios when it came to Metrolink, or Metrostink as it often was, having passed through Radcliffe. What tended to be the case, was that there would be one service departing from Bury, on average every 20 minutes, (although it was not unheard of to wait for up to an hour). Therefore, whether this service was an Altrincham Service or a Piccadilly Service, it made sense just to jump on and get going. I learnt very quickly that if you waited for one of the services in particular, then you tended to get a run of three or four of the other service in a row first. Further, as I’ve already said, both services went the same way, only taking different directions upon reaching the Market Street stop at Piccadilly Gardens in the centre of Manchester, at which point, if you were on the incorrect service for the remainder of your journey, you could hop off and walk over to a stop on the other side of Piccadilly Gardens, taking approximately 30 seconds. You would then find yourself at a tram stop from which there were trams stopping bound for your final destination from two different directions instead of only one, thus doubling the frequency of potential trams you could catch for your final leg. Alternatively, if your final leg was to Piccadilly Station and you were on the Altrincham Service, (rather than the Piccadilly Service), then the other option would simply be to walk from the Market Street stop straight up the street to Piccadilly Station, taking in the region of 2-3 minutes. Don't worry if that doesn't make sense, just keep reading - you can trust me on this. So, there I was, sat waiting onboard an Altrincham Service and bound for Cornbrook in Castlefield, Cornbrook being on the Altrincham line, there was therefore no need for me to change at Market Street or anywhere else for that matter. As we all waited for the driver to arrive and the tram to depart, the carriages were gradually filling with passengers. There were already several older ladies seated, clutching handbags within their laps, shopping around their ankles. One lady was sat a row in front of me and to the left side of the carriage, I was on the right. I noted she had sat on the outside seat leaving the window seat empty, thus ensuring that nobody could sit next to her, and all those by now standing would have to remain as such, many of whom would be jerked off balance upon us setting off, something that very few Bury Line passengers seemed to learn from. A very smart gentleman then embarked in a suit, brogues, a cashmere scarf and a beige Mac, he was pulling a small wheelie case and would not have looked out of place on the Tube, on the Bury Met however, he did. The gentleman spoke out with a view to acquiring some friendly advice from the masses, addressing everyone in the carriage; the great unwashed of the JSA generation together with its pensioners. ‘Excuse me everyone, is this the right tram to get me to Piccadilly Station?’ He enquired. It was unheard of to strike up a line of communication quite so loudly and with anyone who cared to answer from the nearest thirty or so people, not only that, but disclosing details of your journey to the few unsavoury strangers no doubt in the midst, and much less with an American accent. The carriage went silent for several seconds, nobody wanted to put their head above the parapet, to do so might draw a share of this strange man’s attention and therefore the damning opinion of the shallows of ignorance. All around were stuck fast in their ways, because to become unstuck would be to strike out for something different that may upset, offend or be jeered at by the mob, and so, all of those individuals who remained in silence to please the mob, were actually inturn those who made up the mob. For to show no character, is better than to be a character; characters are the butt of the jokes, the scape goats and the talked about, they are the roofs short of slates, better to sneer than to take the risk sheltering a stranger. Not for me though, I was from the other end of the line, and my ferocious need to be friendly and helpful flowed out with similar depth and decibels as the enquiry had. I was as out of place on that damn tram as the American man, simply forced onboard by a driving ban. ‘You are actually on an Altrincham Service, so strictly speaking, not quite the right tram, however, you are as well to stay onboard because the Piccadilly Station Service will not be through for a while yet and you’ll have to wait for it out there.’ Bury tram station is particularly ugly, set down in the bowels of some strange concrete and rusted iron monstrosity, the tracks enter up through the middle acting as a funnel for the cold winds and the rain. This is not to mention the druggies and alchs who pass through from time to time threatening, bothering and intimidating. I explained to the gentleman that, ‘once you get into the centre of Manchester you can get off at the Market Street stop and walk a few hundred metres up the street to Piccadilly Station, or, you can change for a Piccadilly Service, they’re a lot more frequent in Manchester, I’ll point you in the right direction once we get there if you like?’ Just as the American gentleman was in the process of thanking me, an angry and condescending voice piped up in attack. ‘This is not the Piccadilly Service, you’ll have to get off and wait for one, it'll say Piccadilly on the front.’ It was the lady who was sat on the row in front hogging the two seats. I explained as passively as possible that, yes it was an option to wait at Bury, but he may be waiting some time and would certainly be waiting less time once in to Manchester, he would also then have the additional option of walking the short distance straight up to Piccadilly station if he wished, but that was entirely up to him. I wanted out of what was looking very likely to become a confrontation, I cannot stand confrontations, they make me so angry, usually because I will have tried everything I possibly can to defuse or avoid them, so to then become caught up in one blows my mind and upsets me greatly. 'You’re wrong,’ said the woman. I turned to the gentleman and said calmly and quietly, ‘I really am terribly sorry about this, but I’m not wrong.’ The woman turned towards me and replied with great abruptness and vigour, ‘you are the rudest man I have ever met.’ Several minutes later the tram set off and I didn’t say another word until Market Street, when I pointed out the Piccadilly tram stop and Piccadilly Station to the American gentleman and wished him a safe onward journey, apologising again for the uncomfortable and unpleasant situation we had found ourselves in. The gentlemen gave me a smile full of empathy and tipped his hat into the night.

Nativity

If you’re not a member of the National Trust then there are a few locally known parking areas around the Lyme Park Estate where you can park up for free. One of which is around the back of the estate on the road side, just past the village of Poynton. The problem is that on a nice sunny day when a few folk have the same idea, there isn’t enough space for more than say, twelve cars. The next problem is that once you realise that there isn’t enough room, you have to continue making your way up the road until you find somewhere wide enough to turn and without a stream of traffic bearing down on you. We ended up following a small gravelly road off to the left which took us up towards a Church and further still, a farm with stables. The Church had a car park within its grounds, so we drove into the car park in order to turn around. The empty land was peppered with signs making it abundantly clear that strangers were far from welcome. Whilst Mary found reverse, an elderly lady approached my side of the car, the side nearest the Church. She could only be described as being on the rampage, I was quite astounded at her pace considering her age and build, her jowls thundering up and down, her face torn with anger right across its bridge and out to each ear. Three tiny dogs came yapping behind her. The woman was well dressed, too snooty looking to have been general dog’s body for the Parish, she was in-charge, she exuded her authority, worse still, she was a jobs worth. Somebody clearly unable to think outside of her own box, a stickler for the rules and a bureaucrat to the letter, a person without ease of access to the virtues of sense, patience, empathy and understanding. This lady was clearly void of compassion too; one only had to look at her stomping towards us in snarling distain, us being a quiet couple of whom she knew nothing, whom she had never met. She knew what we were instantly, we were exactly what she wanted us to be, and thus we were pigeon holed along with everybody else, she was as instantly judgmental as a guard dog’s instinct. As you will have gathered, was I. We would rule the day, but then so would she. ‘Okay Mary,’ I said, as if talking about the gentleness of the weather, ‘don’t look now, just pretend like this mad woman isn’t even there, find reverse and lets drive out of here without a care in the world, if you have to look in her direction, look right through her.’ We did just that, and observed the old lady’s winged arms flaying with rage in our rear view mirrors. We had left the ‘private property’ in less time than we would have done had she managed to stop us and tell us off. Clearly however, from her inflamed rage upon our exiting the empty ground, that was not what she had wanted. It would seem that the empty car park no longer belonged to God, there were others with fiercer claims, and just as those claimants pass through as tenants of their own lives, they pass over their lands, like a dog and her garden, the grounds remaining fundamentally unclaimed in longer terms. Having eventually been able to find some room further down the road, we had initially seen the funny side of the old lady’s behaviour, however, there was also some pity, and a little sorrow. Is there an excuse for the failure of a person to have grown in wisdom from a lengthy pilgrimage of experiences – abuse, loss of faculties and illness aside? Surely to do so is to have failed to take head of the lessons of a lifetime that allow us to evolve as human beings? That to me would be a waste, for there is a duty owed to thy neighbour, as well as thyself. Mary gave birth in the early hours of the next morning. *************************************************************

Everybody Can Change

There is a time when folks know you so well, they never truly know you again

Near Death Experience

To feel truly alive is to have come close to death without debilitating injury or illness. A fright works a treat.

Havana

Havana. She’s like a post apocalyptic Barcelona. The Gilf of the colonised worlds. You can see she’s been beautiful, but her graceless ageing has a quality of disgrace and urgency that super charges the senses, and her once great beauty, though still evident, is, and has been for sometime, open to anyone and everyone. Like a lady of breeding sold out, accessible and tragic, but without repair or remorse, and without shame, merely flooded with a richness of character that exudes seduction and compels fascination, with at first, a little fear. There is a rhythm to Havana, and the entrepreneurial nouse of her pimps astounds as communism breeds capitalism from the ashes to which it had first reduced it. Havana is the time capsule whose seal has failed and let the salt spray in, then left to time, allows a glimpse back in to 1959, but at the same time, forward, to what could be any European City desiccated of grandeur and left to be raped of her practicalities.

A Moor Top Afternoon

The half cocked smile of nervousness plagued an insecure man as he joined his long term associates on a table sat in silence. It was half past three on a Saturday, the pub would never really get going. It was the sort of place that kept changing hands, constantly under new management as the last character was either arrested or simply disappeared. Each time the Moor Top re-opened her doors, her walls had become increasingly bare, the fixtures and fittings having depleted further, the kind of place where nobody knew anybody’s full name. Yet somehow, against all the odds, and much to the disappointment of the local rumour mill, the place never did have the latest boarding removed to emerge a Pizza Express or an Albert’s Shed. This would have been much more in keeping with the upwardly mobile aspirations, and indeed achievements of its catchment area. The man’s associates were however men of routine, they had been coming to this pub for a long time, originally for the football. It was a City pub, or at least it had been. Now they came more to feed habits or to escape their real homes for reasons that in turn had escaped them. They had sat on separate stools for years in relative silence, they probably still would be, if not for the man, their change spread out in front of them in its entirety at the bar, everything must go, except for the occasional crumpled notes which must remain firmly in one’s pocket upon departure, undetected. An evening could be measured by both punter and bar staff with a glance at a man’s neat yet order-less spread of change. Trusting for all to see, until somebody gets too close that is. The man quickly broke his table’s silence, blurting out several words at once until he found his rhythm, and with a glance at his glass, a little confidence too. Today’s topic, miniature radio controlled helicopters, again. Hidden looks of distain bounced around the man instantly, the sort of looks that are apparent within the eye of the beholders, but which are not nearly as obvious on the outside, they were as quicker reactions as one would expect from fighter pilots, they’d be lost on the untrained eye, even on one another had the topic not been broached several times already that week. The man was upbeat, possibly undeterred as a result of his excitement, or possibly as a result of some kind of cognitive thinking technique, honed over the years to preserve himself from hurt, either way, a man like him never missed a trick, just as he never let on, the lack of enthusiasm had been detected. The man would carry on regardless. After all, it was he who had discovered these little micro-flying gems in a not infrequent visit to Manchester’s Modelzone. Having already flown one in store, the man had been so impressed he’d immediately bought a job lot, along with not quite enough batteries. An enthusiast of models from boyhood, the whole radio controlled helicopter thing had always been beyond reach. Notoriously difficult to fly and bloody expensive, they were an inaccessible magic for the true model aircraft enthusiast, the fanatical. Not so any longer, the Chinese had brought them to the masses at a scale that could be flown indoors and a price affordable to an adult man. It was up to him now to introduce them to as many people as possible, people who would have certainly remained ignorant otherwise. Surely they would recognise even just a little of what he had, this was bound to be a hit with the kids and therefore his peers for that reason alone, surely this would make them all smile. It was not about glory for the man, it was about acceptance and a little recognition, about making people happy. The man once again enquired as to how his associates had faired with their families since returning home from the pub with radio controlled helicopters. The relevant gents grumbled into their glasses with strained smiles and humoured the man. It was the least they could do, to expend some energy on somebody known to them for so long, somebody who continued to make the effort so generously with them. The truth was, that out of all of them, only one still had children at home, and those particular kids had been un-interested, un-interested in their father more than anything, simply being of an age where everything other than the opposite sex, social media and intoxication was just, ‘gay.’ In a nutshell, they were too old, and too young, stuck in the middle of the hormonal misery that was home life, keeping morale beyond suicide with regular wank fests and the pride taken in being so emotional. Another recipient thought of his helicopter still hanging in the closet under the stairs from the Modelzone bag in which he had brought it home, it had actually made sense to him, until the next morning when he had awoken thirsty and sore. He however dutifully acknowledged the gesture by offering the man another drink. The man accepted a Whisky with a cube of ice, and then brought out a tiny helicopter from a polythene bag to charge on the table in readiness for flight. As the Malt went down the little helicopter lifted from the table and hovered beautifully at eye level like an android Dragon Fly. The man had been practising. He rose from his chair and walked out into the pub to start recruiting more enthusiasts. This immediately struck a chord with a bored barman who had taken receipt of a little helicopter himself. The man enquired as to whether the barman had managed to get some batteries, if not he would fetch some in next time. Indeed the barman had, and the man was genuinely over joyed to hear that after several successful flights, the barman’s helicopter had been brought down by his cat and lost a rear propeller blade as a result. The man informed the barman that if he had a good look in the helicopter’s box he would not only find a spare propeller blade, but also a strip of metal with an adhesive back, the purpose of which was to glue to the nose of the helicopter to improve flight handling. The man flew his helicopter down from above the fruit machine and skilfully hovered the aircraft in front of the barman for a closer inspection of the nose, before landing it on the bar. The barman had thrown his box away, unbeknown, so the man agreed to acquire some spares on his behalf. The man then offered the controls to the barman so as to evidence his claim about the flight handling. The barman took the controls and opened up the throttle with far too much haste, sending the helicopter climbing rapidly up until it hit the ceiling, the barman tried to steer it away causing it to bounce along the yellow anaglypta, like a moth on a strip light. The man quickly told the barman to reduce the throttle, at which point the helicopter plummeted into a pint glass. The counter reaction to which was more throttle, and the poor little machine rocketed back up, hit the roof, and then fell back down again. The man’s face was a picture of seriousness as he sought to assist his young apprentice gain control of the tiny helicopter that was by now tearing across the pub. Those left drinking took in the spectacle as it unfolded, and all heads lifted, then fell back down again with a smile. Sales stayed up that Saturday, while conversation, glasses, and a helicopter rose, then fell back down again. And the man in the midst appeared to say the wrong things as he listened intently without evidence. This man he would always be, no matter what he did now, for he had always been this man in the minds of those who mattered to him.

Madness

Millions of tonnes of fuel burned and lives risked over millions of hours for five days every week each year so we can use the Internet and telephones elsewhere.

Fate

Well, good old fate, gets us there in the end, sometimes gradually, sometimes sooner. Must be some kind of chaotic order that makes the blue print of genetics predictable into the long-term for fate, despite the freedoms of spirit. At least I think I'll go down those lines when my daughter asks where she comes from, or maybe I'll let fate decide

Human Spirit

Isn't the spirit a pal; clouding realities to suit, persuading of a positive perspective.

Pet Annoyance

'You're so vain, you probably think this song is about you.' But Carly, you do nothing but repeat this line throughout the song, are you sure it isn't about the person you are singing about!

Experiencing An Experience

Gaining experience can be a pretty demoralising experience in itself. The fear of it occurring again assists no end with the retaining of the lesson.

Money?

Gravity is what makes the world go round.

Lessons on Legacy

If the new series of Dallas has taught me anything, it's that land is no legacy.

Super Sense

Paranoia is a difficulty in the initial years, but with experience, can be harnessed in the later years.

Easy Rider

Watched 1969 film, 'Easy Rider' yesterday, nowt much changed over there then.

Conspiracy

Three hours before the first plane hit, Lord Carlile of Berriew QC agreed to accept appointment of the brand new role of Independent Reviewer of Terrorism Legislation.

Fatalist (Interpretation 1)

If one is aware of one's own mortality, one can truly live.

Gaza

It's time civilisation was able to grow out of martyrdom. God needs to bang his children's heads together, for it is defamation of his character what they do in his name. Bring on another coming, so that we can sort all this shit out.

Flying

To be successful in taking flight you must first journey your mind into to all of the major muscle zones and then systematically and consciously relax them right down, as if one by one they are all that is of you, it's a kind of meditation of the muscles. Loosen them off without movement until they feel so light, it's almost as if they are no longer there. This takes the upmost concentration to begin with, but can be turned on and off quickly with practice. Do this right, and the body will feel tingley, a little tickleish, almost getting to the point whereby you will want to wriggle in order to avert hysterics. The feeling could almost be described as a fraction orgasmic, like the rush in the back of your head when a stranger or little known associate is unexpectedly attentive and kind to you. The art of flying, is about as easy to to describe as it is to master. Once concentrated enough upon relaxing almost to the point of pleaseant pain, as the mind moves from zone to zone, come out of yourself very gently, whilst maintaining the pulse of relaxation throughout the body with your mind. Have a look around, if you're up, you're off, it's not a superman thing, it's more of a gradual weightlessness, or floating thing. Concentration must be maintained at all times, otherwise you will find yourself sinking back down, or if already at great height, possibly even plumetting. Flight is difficult under fear, which is almost entirely when I end up using it. The fear will often persue on foot from below, although very occassionally swoops down from above. Let the fear in, and you will sink into a matress and pillow, let it go, and it falls further behind and is gone, making for much easier flying. The fun really starts in making jumps from collosal heights, such as off bridges, cliffs and mountain tops, over gorges, rivers or sea. You may or may not find base jumping at bedtime quite so easy as lift off from the ground, although I personally find it easier. It takes courage to leap from an unholly height, even if you know you are dreaming, although the longer the fall, the longer there is to relax, gather your glide and become a feather. It is important to remember that the dream is the wave upon which you are surfing, lose the dream and there is nothing. The dream can be overwhelming, you can forget that it is only a dream and the fright can either wake you or deter you. My advice, take a leap of faith. And by the way, you don't die when you hit the ground in a dream, I've tried. Flight is never guaranteed, but a safe landing is. The last instruction, above all else, you must wake in your dream without waking from your sleep, you must be aware that you are dreaming and maintain this.

The Autumn

I see the leaves are racing each another across the pavements again.

First Impression... Balls

It is a shame to write off a lifetime of impressions based only upon the first

Fashion Is The New Religion

I'm sure we would listen to the Dalai Lama were we not such trauma junkies, we would probably even do a little of what he advises were it not for being trapped completely by our own trappings, which ironically include statues of the Buddha and meditation paraphernalia.

Sofa's With Soul

After sustained use, some possessions took on a quality of spirit that endeared them to the possessor, and like a Gladiator who had earned freedom from his master, they became more of a companion, like an old faithful or a trusty stead, they were loved members of the family by whom they had been acquired;  heirlooms. This was materialism stripped back to it's purest form, a meeting of quality and appreciation that is now drowning within the monster it has become.

High Street Practice

Amnesty International: 'Would you like to sign a Christmas card for somebody who has lost their liberty for you, lots to choose from?'

Shopper:  'No.'

Amnesty International:  'Why?  Is shopping more important?'

Shopper:  'Yes.'

Beaurocrats

Do beaurocrats have no concept of dust?
They should do, they make enough of it!
The problem is, they make us waste our time making it too.
Beaurocrats - life is for getting things done so that we can live it!
Beaurocrats - the purpose of your existence is futile!
Beaurocrats - everything runs out, everything is forgotten, you and us too!

Rose

A bold red of rose petals dying deeper in richness on your bed; my heart no longer pounding, no longer bled.

Catch 22

Unlucky in love - drown sorrows - wrong impression - unlucky in love.

Reaching Thirty

For the first time upon reaching a particular age, it truely felt different.  For me, it was the realisation of amounting to simply this.  I amount to, and always will be, this.  My dillusions and fantasies faded, and without them, the fun became much more pure.  Pure of thoughts of grandeur, the anxieties to impress and of any need whatsoever to compete, pure to appreciate one's lot and life as it is.  The mind has never been so free, and never had such potential as a result.

Addressed To Them Both

I see them somedays in my mind's eye, they are arm in arm, peering from a flat a long way up in the Je-Jiang province, the day burning out over dense reds beneath.  I do not like to think of either stuck fast and alone in transit, hauling a case off a flight delayed into a city of ghosts, losing each other's photographs at dawn's border.  Unless ofcourse, they are going home to one another, full of tales and desperate for a kiss.

I am glad that neither of them must wonder of the other from sealing memory, nor wait for each other to arrive, only to be passing through.  I do not wish theirs to be a fleeting bliss, but a daily bliss, annually, in places with alternative headlines, to vitoe our gossip, file bills that need translation and throw out their winning numbers; oblivious.  I wish for them to enjoy life without Next and John Lewis, on toy phones with plastic sweets and pearls, so that mail comes addressed to them both.

I do not like to think of either alone, nor breaking fret at a challenge only to fail without the other there with a mug of tea and popcorn.  I wish for them that they may discuss current headlines that day, not for it to have been a month, or to have missed even a single hair grow.  Their life together is a balancing game and an exploration, may they be each other's country.

And You Were Only Ever A Lover

The day is hot and I feel jilted as a dishevelled beauty leaves my lover's lair.
The beauty's eyes full of sleep and health from recently left lust
  The smell of sex does not linger in the air, but it should.
My lover looks seriously into my eyes, her's dart
  Feverishly they try to stay upon mine.
A half heatred introduction reveals that she knows no name
  And the warmth of soft scents, morning sun kissed cheeks
  Leaves my senses be and I grow cold.
She'd layed it on the line from our start -
'Sleeping with a girl is only a lustful act, like watching pornography,
  it is not love, for I only have love for you.'
It seemed like fun then...
It breaks my heart now.

Castlefield Flats

Word was the town laid you to rest,
I did not see, for I lay in the grass
  Alas, awash with shame.
For I could not trade a suit that day
  And each and every person wore theirs.
How could I steel a suit on such a day?
Remember how we nursed broken heads and dry tongues?
  With talk forever lost in time we spoke.
I woke you with words
  And you warned me of the fruits of a life misunderstood.

Memory

Pockets of memory, like ghosts within time, haunting places, music and rhyme.

Self Portrait

I do not aspire to any of the classes, I am classless, transcending the boundaries to suit myself.  I do not wish to slot in, and cannot be defined by a particular thing.   I have no desire to be any of you, but I have every desire to do what you all do, with all of you.  I am a Champagne socialist with a tattoo and a kebab.  I drink in working men's clubs and under Michelin stars, often in the wrong attire.  I am who I feel like at any given time and I never grow bored.  My taste is for culture, all of it.  My manners are impeccable and my intrigue insatiable.  I am as individual as the next man.

Envy

The grass is always greener on the side we allow it to be.

Prancing Peacocks

Funny old thing society, and the formalities we have to flex our intellect within it.

Keeping The Masses in Their Masses

If it comes under Section 1 (a), (b) or (c), then you meet criteria to undertake Section 2 (b) (i), (d) (ii) or (f) (iv).  But if you undertake Section 2 (b) (i), (d) (ii) or (f) (iv) then under Regulation 3 it can't be done under Section 1 (a), (b) or (c). Any of the above can be achieved under slip rule X,  but revised amendment rule Y has the effect that there is a discretion for slip rule X to be blocked. Please now note that all of the above is currently being reformed so that a less democratic friendly arrangement can be devised.  When this comes into force on a date prior to the date notification is given, it will effect all decisions from 12 months prior to what might be the date it came into force or an entirely different date, post amendments.  Until then, refer to Schedule 3, then 1, and subsequently 7.  Throughout, consideration must also be given to Article 6 and 8 of the Human Rights Act.   Once that fails in the initial Courts then consider your rights of appeal to the High Court, then subsequently the Court of Appeal, then Europe, all of which require consideration of entirely different more complex law, oh and you might want to consider Judicial Review at any given stage, again requiring consideration of further law.  All of the above must be backed up and can be argued against by way of the alternative and highly ambiguous form of law, that is, former court decisions on all relevant points, known as case law.  Finally, please be aware of all legal loop holes, those we know about can be found elsewhere, for those we don't, please rely on all other sources, otherwise you may, completely by suprise, find one being used against you on the day to great effect.  Should you find any new loop holes yourself, please let us know.

Natural Progression

Nature is without prejudice or persuassion, it never quits.  The sun sets over any man made mess and rises over it again in the morning.

We Want it All, And We Want It Now; Fuck The Future

 God Would Be Furious...But We Have The Free Will and Progress Never Peaks.        

    Thank goodness global resources will last forever, they are as bottomless as the earth itself.  

    It is capitalism that makes the world go round while she insatiably feeds her suckling pigs.

    There can be no over consumerism, it is what we get paid for and how we get paid.
    To be successful is not to make anything, we have the poor for that, let's keep it so.

    To maintain success is to borrow money, then print money, and crucially, to oppress.

    We have no use of anything beyond our lifetimes and so forethought and investment is wasted on such things.

    We have no duty of care towards the future generations of any creature, they are not us.

    Fish populations are so plentiful we can kill everything to take only the fashionable. 

    There is no need to wrap something once when we can wrap the wrapping, box it, and then bag the box.

    It is not necessary to walk to the local shop, you must be taken, along with the two tonnes of steel that encase you.

    The skies and the seas in their vastness simply clean all our mess away like sewers off the edge of the earth.

    We do not need the forests to breathe, nor keep the soils from desert, we have money.

    God forbid that any other being be allowed to exist alongside the human being, or anything at all in the way of  it's progress.

    Alternative energies are not required, there is enough black stuff to burn, the odd spillage is neither here nor there, there is that much.

    Nature evolves constantly to nurture our whims, and thus, the colder regions grow warmer for us.

    We want it all, and we want it now, we'll do anything to get it, and then we throw it away. 

    We are the centre of the universe, superior beings, giants that may be witnessed from the furthest reaches of time and space.  

    Our's is the world and everything in it.

Glastonbury One Liner

We come here to this field in the middle of nowhere to escape it all, and yet right now, this field is everything to all that we seek to escape.

What Goes Around...

And so the diseases we exported of old come back to haunt us as that world now comes to us.

Oscar and I

Sometimes I can be so pre-occupied with being myself, there is very little time to be just that.

Thought In Progress

To play the race card in British society today, more often than not, is to disrespect those forefathers who had every right to do so.  We should never forget the slave trade, but we should get over it.

Clever Is Compassion

A truly clever person never assumes intellectual superiority and never belittles, but instead seeks to understand, often discovering that they were not as clever as they first thought.

Human Civilisation

God forbid that any other being be allowed to exist alongside the human being, or anything at all in the way of  it's progress.

Class Observation

As life becomes comfortable, the need to sustain this takes priority over those who remain otherwise.

Good Craic

No good dominating the dynamic and sapping the energy flow, it puts you on top, but depletes all of what you are on top off. The secret is to enjoy receiving and distributing as evenly as possible, the craic must flow.

Fifteen is The New Three

In 15 years, I'll be 50.  I remember being 15, and that doesn't seem long ago, nor long alive.  Another 15 years and that's the lot, life flies and even the longest is short.

Too Much of A Good Thing Gone Mad

I don't think in terms of race, until the politically correct remind me.

Primal Instinct

It is instinctive to prey on the weak, it is intelligence that curbs it.

A primal instinct of the civilised world, the world in which we are seen to encourage and do encourage the survival of the un-fittest.  A world in which there is more than enough to go round.

The wolves and the sharks will always be circling.

For the People, By the People

Individually, life can seem a terribly pointless game we all play. Much of our day to day stresses being completely irrelevant as far as the bigger picture is concerned, much of what we do, forgotten within our lifetimes. Individually, we, the mass majority, are inconspicuous in history, but together, we are making history.

Lost and Found

You need to start writing again. Yes, think of what you lost, but think of what is being lost, and will be lost further, with each year passes.

Make Me A Proverb

I am the blank canvas that you project on. Your judgement is the picture that you see. Set me free; paint like me

Music Memory

The feeling when music transports you right back to
the time when it meant the most to you, and for a short moment in time, it's real
again...

The Additional Sense Experiment; (The Sex Sense)

The Hypothesis:-

There is a myth that as humans we make use of, on average, only 10% of our brain.  Now, that leaves a lot to the imagination, or at least to a percentage of its potential.  One possibility is that of an additional sense or senses, or sixth sense.  It is well documented that those who lose a sense can gain a heightened level of sense in the remaining senses, thus compensating towards the loss.  This heightened level of sense is in my view evidence that more of the brain can be utilised when required, and to such an extent that there is almost a mystical quality to it.

Well, it is my hypothesis that there are also additional senses available to us that are as yet unexplained and undocumented.  For instance, when on foot, on the tram, or even in the car, sometimes I will feel myself being drawn away from what I am doing to concentrate on something else, often in a completely different direction and at some distance away.  Upon gaining focus, which on occasion has required getting closer, by and by I have found myself to be looking at a particularly good female specimen.

This happens with such consistency, that I believe there is an additional sense that goes beyond the physical senses, and that doesn’t just pick up females, it picks up the highest quality, often at quite a distance, often within hundreds of people, and can be from within an air tight environment such as a vehicle, unperturbed by extreme weather conditions or fading to no light.

The Experiment:-

Piccadilly Gardens, Manchester, home time, late autumn, getting dark, weather conditions: poor.  So sure I was of proving my hypothesis, I decided to have a little wager with myself.  Head down, I watched my feet, amongst many others, displace the rain as I walked, moments in and the urge took me.  I looked up and slightly to my right immediately and instinctively.  At about 2 O’clock and 100 metres there was a lone female stood waiting near a bus stop in a black rain mac, she had long black hair apparently over the top of her mac and lofted down her back.  I was so convinced that at closer inspection she would be a hotty, and my super sense correct, that I made said hypothetical wager that even without closer inspection, so reliable was this sense, that I could confidently confirm to myself at that moment that I would ‘give her one.’  The bet being that, if I was wrong, then, hypothetically speaking, I would have to have sexual intercourse with a munter.  On the other hand, if correct, my hypothetical prize would be the same, but with one obvious difference, and therefore, entirely to my benefit.

As I approached to within 30 metres or so of the results, she turned her head slightly to the left and towards me as if aroused by a sense herself.  Perhaps there is a similar sense in females!  Closer still, her exposed calves grew larger and her frame bloated out a little, filling the mack tightly above and below the belt line.  As I went past on her left, I turned to my right to look back, as if to re-consider my route.  Subtly I caught a glimpse of my results.

The Results:-

Yes, I would definitely have, ‘given her one.’

The Analysis:-

We all have different standards and like different things.  I do not consider the hypothesis a total failure simply because I would be happy to have sex with, and can find something beautiful in, most women; warts, chins, maturity et al.  Indeed, it was the scales in which I measured my results that were incorrect, so I guess, for this immediate experiment, that is my result; the threshold upon which I allowed my results to evidence my hypothesis were too low and therefore the hypothesis was not disproved, as perhaps it should have been on this particular occasion.

The Conclusion:-

In short, the bet contained no real forfeit and the bar of proof was essentially set too low; I would have willingly had sexual intercourse with any results and probably chalked that up as a result at the time.  I suppose results are results, it’s how you interpret and measure those results that counts, to accurately do so would be to take into account the many variables of human taste, somehow developing a universal scale that allows for the mean of the variables. 

What's Been Has Gone

The past is to learn from and to move forward from, even if you make the same mistake twice, or thrice. The past is not to get hung up on, the past should not screen the solution, blinker, blind, nor inhibit the now. There is no time for grudge nor regret. The past is to be enjoyed, it is not a weapon, the past is merely the subconscious, the past after all, has been and gone. You must start again, and again, and again. Keep on making the past, it is the future. Let's keep it there.

Shipping Forecast

Catching glimpses from a stream of almost incomprehensible language, like a school boy in French class. Gaining just enough for a journey in the mind's eye, around the coast and capes of the isles in the wind and sea sprayed black. Bobbing lonely on the swells, lifted above the rocks, pounded and cold. A twig on on a spate, a ship at sea, a listener in a nice warm bed - calm and comfortable, floating on the listless ease of the late night waves.

Playing The Part Expected Less

Former social dynamics used to be all too easy to slip back into at times of re-union, the becoming again of the person you were because the dynamic is unaware of who you now are.  This form of regression subsides along with the person you were as you grow from being a new adult into a mature one.

Playing the part expected of you less. 

Living the part unexpected more.

Old Souls

Surely the beauty of on old soul is that it must be a good soul, otherwise there'd be no coming back.  It's just another crack at the whip with a little more wisdom.

Lost All My Work

When you lose a creation, you have to try like mad to recreate it.  You never will, but you will end up with new creations instead, some of which might even be better.

Tragedy

Is there anything more beautiful than tragedy?  The beauty intensified by it's untimely loss, no time to peter out and fade away, a shock followed by a human and instinctive hankering for what is lost, unusually fresh

Mind Travel

If you cannot wait for something, you will always have to travel through time. Think of the given point in time to which you wish to travel, log it, then get on with life. Once you reach the logged point in time, take a moment, think back to the time when you logged it, connect the two points in time, then forget the interim period.

Some Moments

Some moments are not to be captured by the arts, to attempt to do so can lead to such moments missed, succeed to do so, and that work is lost. Either way, they are gone.

These moments are for capture by memory or not at all, and though that memory may falter or fade, without it, that moment is lost, and so, the memory will never let it go.

Such moments are magical, alluding the physical like a spirit, haunting the memories that keep them so. Such moments become us.

Dear Martin

Further to our conversation regarding social engineering and in particular the radical possibilities of either surgical castration or even worse still, death camps, my view is that to engineer society in any way at all is deemed to failure.

In my submission, the difficulty lies in the human condition in that whatever the fundamentals of a society, whether it be predominantly fascist or communist, or anything in-between, whatever religion, level of development, royalist, loyalist, republican, or even geographical situation, indeed the list goes on; the human condition is still there. Our inability to work together on a planetary scale right down to a neighbourly scale, the corruptibility of man from the leaders to the drug users, I would suggest is incurable.

Profit and power are such potential evils that to allow those with it to engineer our society in the first place would be catastrophic, for those with either, or both, are not always right, have often lost sight, and are usually corruptible or corrupt.  The Catch 22 being that if there was social engineering then  the need to out do our fellow man is instinctive, natural competition leads to heirechy which in turn leads to positions of power and everything underneath.  Therefore,  any engineered society is susceptible to hierarchy and thus corruption.

Hitler, for instance, would always have failed as a social engineer eventually, as did Napoleon in 'Animal Farm,' there can be no utopia, unless maybe for the individual, who must first pass the pilgrimage that is life and possibly find it in heaven, although I'm sure many come close in life within the right environment, afterall, 'you get out of life what you put into life,' says the old soul.  Perhaps you come round again and again until you reach a certain state of self development, hence the ever increasing population nowadays!  Maybe this is God's attempt at socially engineering the Kingdom of Heaven and earth.

Harmony is balance, balance is the co-existence of rich and poor, good and evil, government and the great unwashed, Islam and infidel, social engineers and their opposition. Things would ofcourse be very boring without a bit of diversity within societies and between them.

Evolution In A Digital Age

The evolution of man is less physical, more profit driven.  It becomes an expansion of the mind into a brain that is already there.  An expansion into the realms of complexity, in unison with, and in part, as, the universe.

And so, driven by profit; the catalyst for imagination and inspiration, there exists creation and innovation in our worldly wake and across the ages.

Our purpose, most simply; a link in the progression of everything, everywhere.