The Great Sex Experiment - A Work of Pure Fiction

For the benefit of mankind, or indeed my own curiosity, and of course, not least, raging hangover horn (apologies), I decided to conduct a social experiment one sunny Saturday, when as a recently single man with my own pad in Manchester, employment and very few commitments, I had all the time, freedom and means available to me to in order to undertake such work. I wanted to establish if the fairer sex had a similar approach to sex, and if possible, sex drive as myself as a male. I wanted to establish if, like me, they could be easily tempted into almost instantaneous promiscuity, and, that heterosexual sex with a stranger was not only possible, but more exciting and thus better. With regards the latter, this is something I have always found to be the case, and as such this was to be a voyage of discovery into self, as well as social science and sexuality. I often find that I perform better in the company of strangers rather than those who are family or friends. Having discussed this with a family member who has known, and indeed loved me my whole life, her view was that this was because I could be somebody else when in the company of strangers, because they didn’t know anything about who I really was, and that this might not only be invigorating, but also allow for a little fantasy and escapism. However, knowing myself as I do, I know that this is not the case, indeed, it is precisely this kind of miss-judgement which association with strangers allows me to escape, and even if not, it matters far less, for they cannot necessarily know better and are unlikely to know me, or indeed anybody I know beyond one meeting, not only that, but it allows me to be exactly myself, without fear of judgement, for if they do judge, like I say, it matters not; they are a stranger. Indeed, I am less likely to initially be myself in front of family and friends, unless I see them daily or very often. This is for fear of their judgement which has to be taken more seriously, for they will see me again and again for years to come, and it is for this reason that I get nervous ahead of gatherings of, or visits to and from, people I know. It had always been less of a struggle therefore, for me to let go in front of somebody I didn’t know, even invigorating, invigorating to be one’s self rather than someone else. Because, for me, a meeting with a stranger allows for a more care free attitude and thus a confidence just to relax and be oneself, rather than a portrayal of what you think family and sometimes friends want you to be, or indeed expect you to be. I am convinced that this has something to do with why, and particularly in the case of the girls, when we are away from home, for example on holiday, we all suddenly become much more accommodating towards promiscuity. So I started out with just enough money in my pocket from the night before to get a bus to Chorlton; the more cosmopolitan and bohemian of the Manchester suburbs. I had considered walking, just on the off chance I might bump into the beautiful and extremely sexy red head who lived on route, the third to last time I had seen her, I was on route to a friend’s in Trafford and had walked up behind her, she had been wearing a pair of eighties style shiny running shorts which had been incredibly tight fitting, exposing an even tighter derrière. I had heard that red heads were the best, extremely passionate with very high sex drives, this girl was a prime specimen, a master class of porcelain skin, great facial beauty and the sort of long red hair that was rare. However, only weeks later, and still relatively recently, I had seen her walking into town, having been thinking about her regularly since the shorts incident, I thought it might be a sign, then, I thought that it might be last time I see her, and therefore my only chance, so I pulled up dishevelled on my bike and blurted out my name, address and the proposition of a date. She very politely refused, explaining that she had only recently come out of a long term relationship, I daren’t suggest some no strings action, I didn’t have the heart, or more likely the balls. I only ever saw her once more, I was again cycling, this time on the other side of the road, I kept going, although I noticed she recognised me, in hindsight her facial expression had suggested that she had changed her mind, but alas, I had given up too easily and continued on my way. Back to the now, and surely such a beauty would never require my skills, and the chances of seeing her again must be gone, I got onto the bus, there were far more likely opportunities for me on a bus - Top deck, skint, young, hormonally charged and naive, or older, uglier and playing in a lower league. I looked out of the window for red, had I seen her I would have buzzed the bell and jumped off, there was nowt doing on the bus. Upon arrival in Chorlton I dismounted at the library and walked up to the RBS on the corner to get some cash. In central Chorlton there is a cross road with banks on each corner and lots of independent shops, bars and eateries surrounding. Having walked south for twenty or so metres from the bank I came across a huge woman sat on a stool at the base of a staircase, which I guessed lead directly up to her flat above one of the shops. It was turning into a hot day, she had her legs wide and her bulky skirt hitched. She was probably in her forties but looked a lot older on account of the weight and lack of grooming. Her legs were bulbous and swollen, like a baboon’s arse, the shadowing shifted from greens to purples to white, to red. Her face was wide and sporadically sprouting with varying fleshy growths and the stumps of thick black hairs. This was a sure bet, perhaps having been successful so early on would mean that my tally for the day would set the bar for some kind of personal record, providing goods results all round! I made my way towards the woman and told her that I found her unusually attractive and that I longed to pleasure her, to meet her every sexual desire and to do so for as long as it took. The woman didn’t even hint at a smile, she became immediately hostile which took me aback; I was surprised as she told me that in no uncertain terms would she ever wish to engage in such a thing. The disgust was written across her face from the squinting of her eyes to the corners of her mouth as she said the word, ‘no.’ I walked on, unperturbed, but surprised at my results. Next I thought I would trawl the bars, but had a little time to kill before a more civilised drinking hour for the ladies. I decided to head back to the cross road and then east, smiling at every possible pedestrian candidate along the way, most didn’t return the gesture, instead staring, almost as if working out whether they were seeing things, probably more than anything it was an annoyance to them, the way anyone feels when you just have far too much to do and the last thing on your mind would be the advances of the opposite sex without the opposite attraction. Whilst driving through Chorlton a few weeks earlier I had clocked that a massage parlour had opened for business above an estate agent, about 25 metres or so from the cross road, it’s no frills, gently lit wooden staircase rising diagonally up the side of the glass fronted show room. The place must be open bloody 24/7, so I popped up to meet the Madame and establish whether this might be a goer, in the unlikely event that a plan B was required. It was a goer alright, the girls were fit, the Madame accommodating, and only £40 a pop, I left on friendly terms and exclaimed that I would be back as I bound back down the stairs. My first pub of call was to be an absolute shocker with the pub benches squashed into its front on the cross road, a bit rough around the edges for a rougher clientele. Funnily enough, on a night out several years earlier I had been propositioned by a very acceptable looking red head whilst having a cigarette outside this pub, she seemed to get cold feet however when I reciprocated, it must have been the level of urgency with which I sought her telephone number and then tried to snog her. Perhaps one day I would get third time lucky with the reds I thought. But for now, the pub was sparsely populated with lone old men nursing their addictions, with the exception of a gothic rock couple sat in one of its many corners. I sat at the bar and had a pint with the charismatic magician serving the beer. So, I tried Lloyds, a hundred metres back down the south arm and past the muckle great woman with whom I had spoken earlier, I looked for her look, so that I could reciprocate with a friendly smile of recognition and apology, she didn’t even recognise me, perhaps she had other things on her mind, sex was clearly the last of them. This particular Lloyds is not one of the chain places that are starting to look a little tatty, it is a big independent pub with an upper floor for functions and a bowling green out back. Sunday lunches and poetry evenings at their best, indeed, I had successfully courted a girl at a poetry evening here previously. I saw her come in just before my set and wrote something about her on the spot, I performed it moments later and she was hooked. Then, there was the intimate meeting with an 18 year old colleague in the disabled toilet whilst out on a farewell drinks do with work, I was on a promise that night but had to leave early to get a lift to Carlisle. I never got the chance again because I was told farewell myself, but without the drinks do not long after! There was none of that today though, no arty types or wanton blondes anywhere to be seen, only groups of couples, all of whom, if not already behaving defensively at my objective, would have to show great distain at the same. It was too early for the suburbs, there was nothing else for it, I would have to make my way to town, to maximise potential and kill time, I decided that the best thing to do would be to head off on foot via Walley Range and Hulme, possibly stopping off in a few pubs on route to see what I found. There was a red light area in Walley Range which might boost the drive, and I had heard that the none working-working classes, of whom there was an abundance in these areas, were so bored, that besides taking drugs and drinking, they did little else but copulate, often with anyone and everyone, and if you watch Jeremy Kyle, it would seem that this occurs whether they are in relationships or not, and not only that, but with other people also within relationships, their best friends, sisters, bothers, mothers, you name it! Seemed perfect, they were no relatives of mine. So I set off, and between Chorlton and Walley Range there was a traffic jam in both directions. I took full advantage of this, no longer did I look like some weirdo stalking the pubs, I had purpose, I was going somewhere, and nobody had to know where, they could conjure something up in their own imagination. I was in my best gear and I would hope that back in the day I might have had a little something, something that might still be lingering, something that in fact began to grow with every attractive female driver I passed who returned my smile whilst already checking me out. These women were in control, they were quite literally in the driving seat and in charge of the power that could prevent me getting anywhere near them. With that, must come a level of confidence, a freedom to express, a freedom from inhibition, and crucially, I was a stranger to them. I would suggest that this cauldron of ingredients heats up and bubbles over into a playful display of sexuality, but unfortunately, not in sex, which is the catch 22, for it this display would unlikely happen if sex was to be the foregone conclusion. Whilst there were no prostitutes to be seen in Walley Range, (it was probably too early in the day), I did stop at a convenience store in Hulme for a drink. There was a girl in there who looked to be in her early thirties and thus probably in her late twenties, she had obviously come down from the flats above to buy supplies, hence her slippers, and the slack Helley Hanson tracksuit bottoms easing over her slinky hips. She had a body in far better condition than her face, something which has never ever been a problem for me, after all, the head is only 10% of the fun, and they all look the same upside down. She was aware of me and didn’t seem annoyed by my attention, she worked it in fact, hopefully I made her feel sexy with the glint in my eye, it certainly brought out the best in her. Unfortunately, once outside, I soon established through her tilted giggle, squinted smiling and enquiring eyes that the supplies were not only for her. Eventually I made it into Piccadilly Gardens, having decided upon the strategy of trying the cheap city centre pubs, those often being frequented by easier women for someone like me, easier because of their social status and drunken disposition; the louder more undesirable woman, and importantly, in higher numbers. In fact what I found outside my first pub was an exceptional poet selling dreams on scraps of card, he wore fingerless gloves and talked of his mental health difficulties amongst philosophy and an awful lot else. Our conversation became so enthralled that it gained the attention of many of the people smoking outside the pub. As is often the case with this type of place, most of the clientele were smokers and by the time I had finished my own cigarette, most of the people around us had become animated and involved in the conversation. Upon now knowing most of the people in the pub, it did not somehow seem appropriate to try it on with any of them! I did however join them in a few more pints, it killed time and built courage, although, the alcohol and the spirited companionship did somewhat numb my hangover filth drive and as the people induced vibe embraced me with merriment, my objective seemed to smack with somewhat sinister undertones, acting as a catalyst for re-evaluation and a moral dilemma. I had to then consider Long Leg’s lap dancing bar in China Town to rectify this. It wouldn’t be long now before the darkness began to fall, and with that, I knew a new breed of slapper would shortly follow. Where better to head them off than Yates Wine Lodge on Deansgate, (pronounced Yahtay’s for fun). Indeed, as I sat and mulled over a few pints of my favourite Abbot’s Ale with a bag of dry roasted nuts in situ, the lighting changed, the eating dispersed and some of Primark’s shortest adorned some of Manchester’s most eclectic - short, tall, fat, thin, old, young, ancient, those who should know better and those who know nothing at all; milf’s, gilf’s and tilf’s. I had lost my sinister motives, the drink, the music and the atmosphere had seen to that, and the lone wolf was gone, imperative if I was to have any success now, for my objective remained the same. Besides a snog with a woman old enough to be my mother and short enough to blow me whilst standing up, (something that she drew my attention to by the way), I spent most of my time chatting up a relatively curvaceous but particularly sexy girl with dyed bright red hair in her early twenties. She was rough around the edges, but had that raw sex appeal that can only ever come hand in hand with that. She was also pretty smart however, this no doubt explained her companion, a geeky American student of a similar age. I laid it on pretty thick and gave it my all, brought out all of my best lines and most charming counter balances; she was having none of it. Her mate was though; she was the sort of girl that in hindsight would have had all the passion in the world, no doubt as unkempt around the edges as her friend was rough, but probably a lot more fun in the sack and ripe for the picking. I failed to see this until it was very bluntly pointed out to me by the object of my relentless pursuit whilst her American friend went to the toilet. However, I thought this might be some kind of test which I must pass if I was to get to sleep with the red head. My view at the time being, that girls don’t just want a quick fix, they want commitment, and that was what I would have to demonstrate here if I wanted the quick fix with this sexy bright headed girl. What can I say, Abbot Ale is a strong beer, and in a desperate attempt to prove my theory, I had gone against my theory and therein lurked a ghastly paradox. As the beer flowed, so too did my confidence, thus raising my expectations and numbing my desperate urgency, I raised the bar and hit it rather than just walking underneath it. I walked away from the ride that I would have been mad for earlier in the day. Not only that, but on my way out I refused to dance with the little lady and walked away from that BJ. Drink, mood and hormones do extraordinary things within their life cycles, even in men, and especially when combined; hindsight can show us that consciousness is rarely dominant. So, I went next door. To the more ‘upmarket’ bars, where surfaces are harsher, clientele selected, beers served on napkins, and therefore prices greatly inflated. Whilst the outfits adorned were just as colourful and revealing, they too will no doubt have been more expensive, and the clientele whilst very pleased with themselves and therefore rather challenging to engage, offered very little more in the way of class, they are not however aware of this, after all, the first such place had a piano. I amused myself for a long while in these bars, whilst many of the women almost looked comical as a result of their unnatural efforts, I would have happily fucked them all. It was whilst jostling at the bar at one of these places that I inadvertently pushed in front of a short impeccably groomed Persian looking male of maybe late thirties early forties, although I could be wrong because he was clearly dripping with cash and had no doubt benefitted a great deal from it. I was reminded very courteously by his taller companion that this shorter fellow was there. I was immediate and polite in my response, moving back and apologising with sincerity and warmth, I had all the time in the world and was intrigued to let these gentlemen by so I could observe. The taller fellow, though mild mannered and extremely subtle in his approach, also had an aura that demanded undivided attention and respect, his patience was unnerving; there was a serene calmness, suggestive of either a discipline capable of severe punishment, or a psychotic temper that could go without warning. There was little doubt that this was a long-term bodyguard and good friend to his master, no doubt having been on many such nights out, probably all over the world. He clearly cared deeply for the boss’s wellbeing and enjoyment, like a father or brother. I watched this beautifully mannered professional order the drinks at the bar before turning and offering me one without asking what, I gratefully accepted and the drinks were paid for from a thick fold of fifties. I had several more with these chaps at their table, they told me that the shorter gentleman was a Prince, which could explain the women that soon came to join us, the very best I’d seen all night, there was one thing for sure, the Prince was a stranger to these women, and them to him, but he was going to get whatever action he liked with them that night, alas, these girls were providing a professional service, whether they admitted that to themselves or not, and thus not relevant to my enquiries. I did however meet Kym Marsh, but unfortunately, having really hit it off with her, a miss-guided line to suggest that I was a more attractive proposition than her slightly podgy and absent husband did not bode well. I can no longer watch Corrie on the basis of what might have been, I got the impression hubby had been in the dog house and she was feeling pretty disillusioned and vulnerable that night, or at least I did when some of her friends told me that was the case. I eventually left and went on to the next generic up market bar next door. I was feeling the effects of the alcohol and was really starting to loosen up now. I stood on the end of a table of two women and started to fantasise, pretending to be soave and sophisticated, acting as if there was something purposeful and mysterious about me, maybe I was a spy, maybe I was staying overnight on business in Manchester, I most certainly wasn’t some lone letch from down the road after a shag. One of the women, women being the operative word, was particularly attractive and had scrubbed up well, the other looked a lot older, but quite similar. I had chatted up and danced a little with the fit one, and then when she went off to the powdering room, asked the other lady if she was her mother, this did not go down as badly as it should have done, she explained they worked together and were from Preston, having booked a hotel to have a night out in Manchester. I got the impression that the fit one was spoken for, but I hung around because they were talking to me and I didn’t look like some sex pest in the corner. Where one girl has accepted you, others tend to follow, the only interest I ever seem to get from girls is when I have one hooked already. It must be a beacon to other women that you have something to give, and that it isn’t an STD. It was then that I saw her, or rather her eyes, her eyes were bigger than anything I’d ever seen in a human, almost alien, she had bone structure a little like an alien too, she wore a long red cashmere coat and was all wrapped up, it was the nearest thing I’d seen to a young Michelle Pfeiffer in the flesh, she was beautiful, she was different, and she was looking at me, she too was alone. The next few hours were a whirlwind of joy. My beautiful companion was Russian, but she had found fame in one of the more recent European countries that I cannot recall, despite having been told several times. She had more recently reached the final of the equivalent of Strictly Come Dancing in that country and had decided to take some time out and work at a friend’s business in their UK offices selling what I recall to be something very innovative and cutting edge, but nothing more, it may well have been holographic projection equipment, but now I have written that I know it was not. Her main objective appeared to be to learn better English and hopefully get some acting work. She was living with her new bosses family whilst she found her feet, and although they all had fun, she exclaimed to be dreadfully lonely, so in stepped me therefore art though! We started with a drink, closely followed by a cigarette, whilst smoking the cigarette in the posh fag pit outside we were approached by a Magician, Nathan Newcastle. Newcastle was a wizard, no doubt about it. He’d dropped out of Uni unbeknown to his parents and was pursuing his lifelong dream of becoming a professional magician. He was already there if you ask me, his tricks woke me up and inspired my spirit into overspill, my generosity with pound coins reflected this and encouraged him all the more, we got half a set’s worth and parted as great friends, I kept his card and hoped one day to use it. I told and showed my dream girl all the venues containing all the names she would need to know in order to make it in the great white Manc as an actress. We drank beer in my favourite city pubs and I took her to the proper posh bars for proper drinks, like dirty Martini’s on the 28th floor and more dirty Martini’s at the Free Trade Hall. Flying on the great beauty and wonder of my companion we hit the exciting bars of the Northern Quarter and headed for the dance floors of the infamous Canal Street. It was whilst on route to Canal Street that I was caught by police urinating in a back alley behind some bins. They had pulled up in a van out of nowhere, the male officer was short and on a massive power trip, his WPC was clearly getting off on it all, they goaded me for minutes, I pulled myself together and apologised with the upmost sincerity and eloquence, they goaded me some more, I apologised again and complimented their role in society, they goaded me some more, I apologised beautifully, without sarcasm and then began to negatively evaluate myself and pledged what I intended to do about it. They goaded me again, so I apologised once more, differently each time, and then suggested what I too did for society, as a member of the same general side. I knew what they wanted say to me, how they wanted to feel, what they wanted to hear, how I had to say it, and I’d said it, avoiding the £100 fine. £100 not lost is £100 gained, so we celebrated in style. We ended up dancing the night away in Mojo’s, a characterful little late night club above a coffee shop in the city centre just off Bridge Street, famed for playing a good mix of classic tracks, allowing free entry and being open all night. Even the bar man who was normally always horrible to me was handing us out free drinks. It was a wild whirlwind of a night, until I bundled one very happy sightseer into a taxi at 4 am. I did not ask her for anything more than she’d given, it would have achieved nothing, other than to spoil what had been serene. I caught the night bus home, which was pretty full, so I stood at the front next to a skinny dark haired girl, she looked as if her young life had been a hard one, but her youth had not allowed it to completely ravage her, instead she maybe looked a little older than her character and pert little body would suggest. As she allowed herself to come up against me with the movement of the bus unbeknown to anybody else, I started to feel a tingling down below and hoped that my trousers were sufficiently rigid, and generally up to keeping things hidden. She sensed my position and started talking to me, rather brazenly, could it be that I was not only going to prove my theory, but actually be the victim of a female version of what I had been doing, all at the same time! The answer was of course, no, she gave me a pricelist and told me that I could get off the bus with her at a certain stop where she knew a place that we could go. ‘What about STD’s?’ I asked, ‘I have condoms’ she replied. ‘What about crabs?’ I asked, ‘I’m shaven she replied.’ Ah, what the hell I thought, indeed the very thought of it, nubile, youthful and shaven, her blackening front teeth didn’t even warrant consideration. We jumped off the bus and I followed her down a lane and into the back of a housing estate, then down behind some garages. She launched straight in, up against a bin, going straight for my flies, bringing me out, wrapping me up quick smart and then vigorously motioning up and down with a hand, her mouth placed around my end, just holding me, purely for aesthetic effect, it was not a BJ. Just as I started to get hard, she was gone, vanished into the night with my twenty. So, there I was, for 14 hours straight I’d been conducting my experiment. I finished off on the tarmac, the unsatisfying bolt that had driven the day wasted alone in the cold. The next morning, I woke hot with regret, the time and money wasted, the anxiety swimming through my thoughts and the acid rising in my oesophagus. Between the intermittent pangs of pain and the heavy woollen feeling of hangover, I was quite sure that I could feel prickles, or maybe itches, especially where they shouldn’t be. The more I worried about this, the more I itched, the more I itched, the more I studied my skin and found tiny red blemishes and marks. I knew that both had a minimum of two weeks gestation, never the less, it was either scabies or crabs, maybe both, oh no. The beautiful day almost gone, the whole of the small waking part of it fraught with paranoid concern, then came the text message, from my ex-girlfriend, the text that for the past few months I had secretly longed for. She wanted to meet that night, perhaps come back to mine afterwards to ‘talk,’ she’d missed me. At last sex was on the cards, but alas, only if I wanted to risk it, I wouldn’t, I could not possibly take the chance of infecting her, but not only that, risk what I now knew to be my only chance of sex outside of a business transaction, i.e. a relationship. Thus, certainly as far as I was concerned, in my day in age - I either get it within a relationship, or I pay for it. You see, on the whole, and this is only a generalisation, for it presumes I am very handsome, I would submit that the female is more powerful. Whereas more often than not, despite my findings, I cannot doubt that they have anything but a similar sex drive to men, but they are stronger than their counterparts. Most women seem to have an ability to suppress their animalistic instincts for long enough to gain the advantage, despite these similar sexual urges and temptations, whereas we guys generally cannot. Not only that, but women tend to stick together on this, and most of them try not to tread on a sister’s tail by putting it out infront. Ultimately, life comes down to sex and food, and therein lies the power of women over men, women can use this sexual power, this ability to abstain for longer in order to harness the lesser powers of man, for instance superior physical strength, but also to gain love and respect, to get jobs done, to have some serious fun, achieve a desirable lifestyle, simply earn cash, or all of those things. They are the fairer sex, but what does that mean? I would suggest only this; smaller, silkier and prettier, for they’ve got us sussed and in hand. I cannot imagine Eve being tempted by an apple, unless she was very very hungry, which I doubt was the case in the Garden of Eden with only two people on earth, whereas I can imagine Adam being tempted by Eve, perhaps Eve was herself the temptation therefore, and her sexuality the forbidden fruit. However, such a sweeping conclusion does not allow for the set of circumstances whereby, whilst having a man or several men under her spell, a lady could be getting her satisfaction elsewhere. It also does not account for the variable whereby there is a raw and instant attraction that makes the smitten party or parties, male or female, lose all control in any event. Further, women most often than not would prefer a relationship as opposed to a brief one off sexual liaison, and the old stigma of being found to sleep around does not bode well for this, especially when dealing with the fragility of a man. So, having effectively proved nothing, but having given the matter a great deal of thought, my conclusion came to this - there is nothing more confusing, and; natural disaster, war, famine and health aside, very little else of greater importance than the complexities of courting. I would however also hazard to conclude that generally women do not have a similar approach to sex as men, unless ofcourse they are doing it. I would say that the majority of woman, whilst ofcousre having a similar sex drive as men, being the same species, with the same genetically driven need to re-create, could not be easily tempted into almost instantaneous promiscuity. But I can also say this, I feel certain that singletons are all missing out as a result.

Ruby Ruby Ruby Rubhey (Speech delivered on 12th October 2013 at The Stone Inn, Hayton)

R is for Robert, without whom there wouldn’t be any of this today. U is for United, which has of course been the case for atleast some of their 40 years. B is for Beautiful, although being a bloke I’m not sure what the relevance is. And, Y…. Y is for Yes, a word which had my mother not uttered to the old man back on that fateful day in 1973, again, none of us would be here today, apart from maybe the odd local, ‘odd,’ being the operative word! - JOKING. Ruby in fact stands for curry. Back to the ‘yes,’ without that, I especially wouldn’t be here, a bloody blessing I hear many of you cry, and so I shall make every endeavour to keep it quick, clean and decipherable…, everything I’m not as a lover basically,… or indeed when making speeches for major anniversaries of my folks, such as back in 2003 for the Pearl, and worse still 1998 for the Silver. Still, I have the love of a good woman behind me now, and for those lucky enough to have this, they will know it’s worth celebrating, but for this to have had any kind of longevity, that really is worth celebrating, as a feat of true endurance! - For both parties of course. Mum encouraged me to pick fun at the happy couple today, saying, and I quote, ‘We don’t mind having the Mickey taken out of us.’ Probably just aswell; is all I intend to say on that! - WINK SMILE Massive congratulations, particularly to Dad. Forty years of being told what to do by Jude….Remarkable. Mind you, I’m not far behind you on 35! You will agree that to remain together in marriage for 40 years is not only a staggering test of love, empathy, kindness, patience and tolerance; it’s also damn right madness. And that’s when sanity is not in issue! But then perhaps it is insanity which is one of the key ingredients, and if you haven’t got it to begin with, fear not, perhaps like the case in question it will come with time, and in abundance! I guess a lot of Mum and Dad’s secret to success is you lot – great friends; an extended family really. You’ve always been there, as long as I can remember, and no doubt before, like back in the day of the 13th October 1973. So what else happened that day? Well, I can tell you… Jack Shit really. But, the day before the Israeli conflict kicked off, and the day after, there was an oil embargo and the Arabs decreased production. Oh, and Ringo released some photographs. So, nowt’s changed really. You all still look beautiful… Ah, so that’s where the B for Beautiful comes in! Brilliant. Whatever the secret, they’ve done it, and I’m sure you will join me in having every faith that they will continue to do so, and happily. So, without further ado, please join me in raising a glass to Rob and Jude! Finally, just by way of housekeeping, I just need to tell you that when the fire starts you must run like hell for that door there. Also, just to say that it is wonderful that Rob and Jude are now sharing the role of grandparents together, which is something in which they thrive, so thank you and congratulations from all the Junior Grants who have sprung up from your union. And finally, Gents, you are all on wine duty, please pour away - not literary - into glasses and gullets please.

Don't Let The Bastards Keep You Down

I will not be; a carbon copy of your own mediocrity!

Reaching 30 and Beyond

To those inordinate depressives who whine at it's prospect, I deplaud you. You are but at the very dawn of adulthood. Do not forget that to date, you have spent most of your life as a sniffling dependant child in school and education. At thirty you have but ten years experience as a fledgling adult, even within the remainder of your working life, health aside, you have another thirty years of adulthood right there. Sixty is nothing, forty is the new thirty, and thirty is the new twenty - get a grip!

Sunday Dinner

A lesser person, is the soul who picks an argument with you in an attempt to make themselves appear clever, but whose chosen position in opposition to you has come by way of a misinterpretation of you, but further, who then ignores your response, after which it has become clear that they have misinterpreted you and there is no argument to be had. Or, such a person who simply and immidiately assumes that you are a lier. Either way, it stems from a poor interpretation of you, and thus, without acceptance and appology is tremendously lesser behaviour. They are unlikley however to ever admit to the error of their ways, suggesting that not only are they thick headed, but thick skinned to boot. Alas, people are strange, and all so very different and judgemental, in the same way I think people are strange, they inturn will I'm sure think that I am strange. To worry about it is to see yourself in a semi permanent state of stress, best to just let it go and get on with what makes you happy.

None Imaginative Liar

Attack can be the first sign of a liar who lacks imagination.

Clueless Fucking Bastards

I think our innate problem as a species is that everybody knows best

Break Up To Make Up

The leaves raced each other beneath my feet like a crimson tide washing my mind away, I was drifting ever closer towards my new home from Heaton Chapel Station, preferring the idea of remaining in the cold and rain. It was becoming somewhat of a routine after work this, certainly it had for the past few weeks now, a routine takes time to become routine ofcourse, and I reckon I'd actually been feeling this way from the start. Something just didn't feel right, I thought it might have been the change, missing my city centre converted mill apartment, the first place I could call my own, the place that had left me skint for years but allowed such invigorating freedoms, a portal into the urban stars, and the blended fun pot of culture, creativity and people, all in my own back yard. Yet somehow, I found that the urban stars had been replaced with the sparsely and dim amber glow of suburban street lights. The closing of an era is not like the closing of a season, an era tends to have been with you for longer, and as far as you know, never comes round again, so it takes longer to let go, longer to start looking forward to what's next. I rounded the corner onto Green Lane and could see my hedge; I took in every last detail of the final few metres, clinging to them, trying to prevent time from dragging me forward. As I got there, I imagined my head bobbing along the top of the hedge from the otherside, I felt awkward, silly, unwelcome. I would never feel like this again. The following evening after work I decided to take the initiative, as I climbed aboard my train at Piccadilly Station I knew I only had 10 minutes before I got off at Heaton Chapel and a further 15 minutes walk before my freshly cut key went into the door. I sent out a text, it read, 'Something just doesn't feel right, I think we need to talk when you get home tonight.' Almost instantaneously a text rocketed back in response, 'Agreed.' It was not my intention to call time on the relationship, the thought of losing her was far worse than living with her, I just needed somebody to talk to about how I was feeling, just to talk through it and find a solution, I thought it best that it should be her. I've always been one for laying my cards on the table, I had nothing to hide, and life's too short to get hung up, no problem is without solution, even if it hurts a little to start with. I thought quickly about what I wanted to say. Where to start? The bedroom, and it’s not what you're thinking, it is in fact the décor. The room was white; everything in it, white, from the gare of the shabby chic bed, wardrobe, draws and bedside set, to the glare of the white washed walls and soft furnishings, to the glee of the custom made blinds, chandelier and bedside lamps. This was not a room in which I felt at home, indeed I could never imagine being ill in such a room. This was a room in which I would always be a guest, it was somebody else’s. Some of my things remained in suitcases under the bed in the spare room, I had been rationed a little cupboard space and allocated a draw, but barely enough to be on holiday, the rest of my stuff remained back at my flat, for which I was dragging my feet to find a tenant. Indeed, the home in which I found myself was somebody else’s. That somebody had, in comparison to the length of time she had been with her husband, only very recently separated. When I met her she had been living in her girlhood room at her mother and father's address in Heaton Moor, a drawn out stop gap whilst she waited for the sale of the London assets from the dream that had come crashing down around her feet. The London house and flat had remained on the market for a couple of years by the time they sold, I don't think either of their owners had wanted to sell really, and so they never lowered the price in line with the falling market. I suppose it was one of the final links they had, an excuse for continued game playing and communication, like I said, it takes longer to let go of an era. Half of the value of half of a home in London is enough to buy you a whole home in most parts of Manchester, or, most of a rundown home requiring a lot of work in the Heaton Moor area of Manchester, or, the lot when there is half the value of two London homes. This particular Heaton Moor home had been on the radar for some time, indeed since girlhood, fortunately, in her haste to claw back her independence, all previous, yet half hearted offers, on all previous homes had been bettered, whilst in the meantime the two elderly spinsters had moved out of this particular home in order to be homed, after some fifty years without being decorated, with the exception of a new carpet her father and brother had put in some ten years previous, she made the spinsters an offer they couldn't refuse. It was always meant to be. Blood, tears, smelly guts, heart, soul and a shed load of money went into her perfect home. I suppose in hindsight it had been a form of marital breakdown therapy, not only that, but I'd heard her ex had been so tight he hadn't even let her spend her own money, so I guess under the same umbrella, it was an act of defiance or rebellion too. Problem was, I don't think I fitted into to this crossover of era's really, indeed, the pre-child of the marriage, her Springer spaniel, Barclay was much more of a consideration, I guess in the early days that had just made me want her more. In the more recent days, I had started to feature a little more, the novelty of the new home was being replaced by the reality of living alone, that was my guess anyway. She insisted I move in, so I did, I guess it was love, or as near as damnit. So now, here we are, it's not what I thought it would be, and I don't think it's what she thought it would be either, judging by her abrupt and apparently mutual response on the text. I guess she thought that she could just carry on where she left off in her former life, that comfortable, familiar and easy routine. That life was over though; it had been smashed by the husband that she thought I would simply replace. The truth was, I was somebody very different, and life with me, especially at that time, was no comfortable routine. I think the reality of that reminded her more of what she had lost, the new era was not shaping up in quite the same way, it's easy to put the past on a pedestal in hindsight, and she was choosing to forget why the era had ended, or was she? Perhaps also, she struggled to allow herself to let go again, precisely because of how the former era was ending, or indeed had ended; in fear of a reoccurrence. When I got in she was not yet there so I got myself a beer in nervous anticipation and sat forthrightly at the head of my prize possession, a darkly stained modern cut oak dining table. It was one of my prize possessions which had been no mean feat to move, but a pushover to take pride of place in the heart of the home, unlike some of my more obscure items which were less likely to see daylight ever again in this gaff. I had cigarettes in my bag should things go badly, I was buying them a lot at the time. Soon enough her key entered the front door and I braced myself. She seemed cold and distant as she came in and made her way to the kitchen to open the wine she was carrying before plonking her glass down next to me, followed by the bottle. She sat down forlorn and looked at her glass. I decided to open, I told her that she may have noticed I’d been somewhat down recently and that I was struggling to adjust, something just didn’t feel right, and that perhaps she didn’t want me there really. We had already separated before, she had dumped me less than twelve months earlier, a tough time, I had lost what I thought was my career job later that same week, and in extremely unfair circumstances which tore me apart. I was hoping that this time we could have worked something out, things had moved very quickly in this particularly short period within our two year relationship, perhaps it was time to take a few steps back before moving forward again more gradually. I hadn’t been able to advocate this at the time though, and I think she thought I was dumping her before I was able to, she had after all dumped me a year earlier for about a 6 week period. Before I could explain myself fully, she got it in quickly that she felt the relationship was over, I didn’t comprehend what she meant at first, but as I tried to re-interpret what I heard out loud, with no helpful responses, my heart sank helplessly deeper into shock. Clutching at branches as I fell, I quickly suggested we go to the pub to have one last drink together, perhaps in a hope that this would trip a nostalgic outburst that may make her reconsider, we had after all spent all of our good times together in the pub, something in itself that should have perhaps sent alarm bells ringing. She agreed, but then I’d never known her not agree to a drink, in hindsight however, I learnt that this was simply to keep me sweet, in an attempt to make the break-up as amicable as possible from there on in, and in fear that I might get upset and damage her home when moving my stuff out! How little she really knew me at that time. The nearest pub was the Moor Top and I got stuck in good and proper, as if I was drinking for my life, and she wasn’t too far behind me. The only time the stress and pain of the reality of the situation seemed to subside was when I was gulping back larger and smoking. It was decent of her in that she tried to explain her position, although unhelpful because she wasn’t really able to. I was such a ‘loving, giving, kind, fun and decent bloke,’ I didn’t deserve her. The last part of that sentence perhaps highlighted to me what the problem was, my first thought was, could it be that I didn’t deserve her because she has been sleeping around, and there you have it, the paranoid jealousy and mistrust that had plagued me, and therefore subsequently her throughout our time together. But no, that was not the reason. It must therefore be because she was not ready for another serious relationship just yet and so I empathetically suggested that she mustn’t blame herself for her husband having met somebody else and punish herself further by not letting anybody new into her life, for fear of history repeating all that terrible pain. After all, as a jealous but philosophical boyfriend in all of my failed relationships at that time, I was very much of the view that you only truly have control of yourself, and sometimes not even that, others however, they are an entity entirely of their own volition. Unsurprisingly, this didn’t help my cause; others are afterall influenced by others in their decision making, for instance husbands by wives, but even if they were not, I was in myself an entity of my own volition. I continued to blurt out my theories as to why she was making this decision, she wanted more time to enjoy her house, she wasn’t ready for us to get too serious, moving in together had all happened too quickly, I wasn’t her husband and we needed more time for her to get used to the idea, I needed to grow up and calm down, deal with my paranoid jealousies, all of this could and would be countered I promised. No, no no, I was not going to get the satisfaction of feedback, I really don’t think she knew what she was doing at the time, I know now that she certainly didn’t know what she wanted medium to long term, it was a confusing and difficult point in her life, and one I don’t think I will ever know the half of, one thing was for sure at that moment however, she knew what she wanted in the short term, and there was no changing her mind. We got up to leave and she re-assured me that she’d loved our time together, she really cared a great deal for me, and for my family, she was so so sorry about what she was doing, would probably regret it, was probably making a big mistake, and that it was her and not me. I phoned my mate to come and collect me an hour or so from then, and we went back so I could pack some stuff up, I’d have to come back with a van for my table. Back at my beloved flat that night, it really and truly hit home that the grass was always greener on the side that you make it so; the luscious pastures that I remembered were baron now, and the garish white room I had been staying in was the Garden of Eden. I longed for her as I writhed on my bed in a pain that was not actually there, wide awake in a terrible and exhausting tiredness, I called out her name many times before finally getting up to watch the dawn in with a pack of cigarettes. It’s strange witnessing the world wake up when you don’t want to be a part of it, it’s very existence, the reality of it means that what had happened really had happened, and that it is inevitable that there is no escape from it, it isn’t going to go away, and it’s going to get worse and take a very long time before it gets better. What if it didn’t get better, what if she was the fleeting of happiness? No-one else could cuddle like her; no-one else would ever be as compatible and chilled as her. Oh how I tortured myself, and yet, just prior to her dumping me, I had been looking at other women and thinking, hypothetically, that if she were to dump me again I’d make the most of it and never go back this time. I went into work the next day and felt truly horrendous, although there were kindly people around me who talked me through the slumber; it wasn’t until my old man called around mid afternoon that it all came out. Its one thing talking to colleagues, it’s quite another when your old dad asks how you are, a rare and very poignant moment, not good for holding in the tears when you’re already highly emotionally charged, and so out they burst, from eyes, nose and mouth. Dad said he would come down straight after work on the bike. We had a few pints, or atleast I did, down Liverpool Road, sitting outside at the White Lion, dad had a t-shirt on with a face scarf loose around his neck, his grey wizardry hair dishevelled from beneath his helmet, he wore his armoured Kevlar kecks and muckle great biker boots. He let me talk it out and kept the beers coming, although not saying much, his responses were short and perfectly timed, though probably prompted, he allowed for that, and they were exactly what I needed to hear. It was unusual that it was my dad that was the person sat there with me on that week night evening in Manchester, we had been somewhat estranged in what were for me, my wilder days, and for him, his busier days, and for both of us, our fairly recent days. This was something we’d done off our own backs too, I don’t even think anybody else knew. We rounded the evening off with a curry at Akbar’s, and after six poppadoms, two chilli chicken balti’s and a large family naan between us, I began to feel a little less scared about the prospects of my future, indeed, there was a warming of the heart, I’d touched base within the bosom of security that only family can provide, combine that with a hot curry and larger, and yes, there is a great comforting and warmth. We walked back to the flat, the air was cooling now and it was getting pretty dark. We got back to the bike in my open air garage. The old boy got kitted up in his big breathable biker jacket with skid trays and reflective strips, he clambered onboard and the bike roared into life, amplified by the cover of the garage and projected out of its open front to frighten the life out of the cool urbanites living in posh urban splash apartments around the courtyard. When the helmet went on, although he remained to put his giant armoured gloves on, he was gone, behind a veil of kit and noise, and ready for blast off. As I listened to the engine tear the old man through the night, from Hulme Hall Road, to Castlefield, to Salford, and then no more, a pang took hold of me and dragged me back into the world into which I had only recently be introduced, and that sense of loneliness and despair again, only this time, pangs grip, if only very very slightly, was loosening. I always knew that this was only ever going to be a reality for as long as it took; I just hadn’t until that moment known how long that would take, for until then, it hadn’t let up. If I could feel even very slightly better in a day, even with good days and bad days, I’d feel very much better in a month, and better still in six months. Lying in the dark I considered the old man in my mind’s eye, an hour into his journey, tearing up the M6, it would be lonely up there, exposed to the elements and nothing for miles upon miles but your thoughts, there were probably not many other vehicles on the road at that time, mid week. I was worried about him a little; there was no spare wheel on a bike. But then, to worry, I knew was to under estimate him, just as I had done his wisdom until that evening. I never did let myself get over Sam, although it got easier, I knew I didn’t want to get over her, and so I moved on after a few months, started living my life again, and she came back. We have a daughter now, Annie Rose, so I’m a dad and dad’s a granddad. Little does Annie Rose know how very nearly she may never have been; now that would be a tragedy for the world.

Syria

I hadn't realised that the Syrian crisis was largely due to sectarian differences, with minor religious differences at the heart of those... Cue mass genocide on both sides; cue 'civilised' western world; cue evil dictator and brutal regime; cue weapons inspectors; cue lots of use of the word 'evidence;' cue many more deaths. I don't know; what we advance with the brilliance of technology and medicine, we cull with stupidity, - it's damn right cyc..lical.

How Do You Eat Yours?

Incidentally, how do you eat a Jaffa Cake? I eat around the jelly centre, then take off any additional sponge before melting the chocolate off in my mouth with hot tea leaving a perfectly formed orange jelly centre which can be eased gently into the palm of one's hand.

To Know Too Much

It's not how much you know, it's how you think about it.

Wanna Be Londoners

London is full of people pretending not to be from somewhere else, a number of whom I know from my home town of Carlisle!

Medlock and Wagtail

A Wagtail deftly flits from stone to trolley amongst the Manchester Medlock as the little river gushes from an underground stint beneath Oxford Road. The waters are clear and sparkle all the more as they enter the piercing new light of the day. The dog legged stint boils with gusto for a few moments more before returning back under the city from whence it came, replenished all the while as it runs off with the quick drain early morning rain. The Wagtail doth stay on however, to hunt within the confines of it's urban domain, and Medlock and Wagtail are seemingly unperturbed, by crisp packets, road signs, bottles and sin.

Square Peg Round Hole

To those who say I am shit at what I do, I say that is what happens when you force a square peg into a round hole, and you can never say I don't try.

Different Folks

I have noted of the human condition that we all have our own way of doing things, and we all think our own way is the best way, this difference in practice even exists within families and between life long friends, harmony is usually however maintained, until such things are done together.

Never Say Never

To those who say I am a failure, I say I have not yet finished.

For Robert's Wife

It’s time you boys were home now - Bruce, Robert, Adam, Victor... And Robert, I wanted you home for your birthday, it’s been two weeks for some time, and your little girl needs you, I need you. The North Sea does not however; it’s a cold bleak horror by day and a colder black horror by night, and it’s by night I think of you always, mostly by night, when rest fails me under our blankets; How may I rest whilst you have none? You will have been guided by Peterhead light as you came home to me that night, and yet, you could have been left out there forever; twelve miles out of sight. Alas, the ‘Sapphire,’ she is home with us now, she clutches unscathed to the Port’s thick arm, an empty vessel awaiting a debate to establish her fate. She reminds me, that we have your vessels home too now, for the sea cannot have those, I have need of a grave for you Robert, so I can take our only daughter to you, with each time she looks for her daddy.

Memory Trouble

My memory must only be located in the left side of my brain, for I only truly have capacity to recall that which, in my mind, may be considered artistic.

The Fool

The wisest man, more often than not, has already been the fool

Telepathy

You will no doubt have experienced the phenomenon whereby, out of the blue, you may have either dreamt, thought, or talked of someone who has been part of your life previously, but not for some time. Then, either a matter of hours later, or maybe the following day, you either hear of them, or indeed from them, and equally as out of the blue.// I believe that this is possible because we are all inter connected by some kind of telepathy, like a wireless network throughout the collective subconscious, maybe even transcending right across the natural world.// Somehow, over the years, we have lost the ability to be conscious of this, but it’s still there, and just occasionally we tap into it, almost by accident, sending up a thought of someone who may be receptive enough to have picked it up subconsciously and then in turn, subconsciously acts upon it.// In the same way, sometimes I come across my ideas proving successful for someone else, with whom I have never discussed them, or indeed, about which I have never discussed with anyone. Maybe these ideas already existed within a higher plain, and I have simply found a way of tapping into them, just like those who may have made something of them, or maybe I, or them, put the idea up there, upon the information super subconscious by way of deep thought to begin with. It would explain why scientists so often make similar discoveries so close to one another but completely independently.// Of course, it may also be purely coincidence, and a matter of, ‘great minds think alike,’ but I believe that, in some circumstances, great minds think alike because they are truly great, in that they are able to tap into, and utilise something beyond current understanding.

Mutual Recognition

My dreams were provocative throughout the night and lingered into the waking day. My whole essence coursed with desire for the sexualised sultress that wanted me so deeply and yet had been forbidden by the overriding dominance of dream. Who was she?// I’ll never know, but she did walk through my waking day that very day, and directly into my carriage. I recognised her instantly, as her left eye took sight of me from below a single lifting lock. She recognised me, and stared a little in dismay, for our brief time thereafter, there was a mysterious tension as she would look at me, and then I her.// After only one stop my opposite disembarked and turned, and I watched her watching me disappear from the platform.// This happens to me from time to time, not always sexualised, it can be anyone in any number of circumstances.

One To Think About

Development is a form of destruction.

Who's There?

As I lie in bed, my window slightly ajar, lets in the summer’s evening air from deep within suburban High Wycombe. My bedroom nestled in between five others, my inner week sanctuary after a tiring day and the inevitable tea time social of shared accommodation. At last, some time on my own to reflect, my door tightly shut, they know not to disturb, it is usually open, and throughout the night on a weekend. A passenger jet flies overhead; it is unusually the only sound at the time and holds clear as it moves across the sky above my bedroom. Closing my eyes, I picture first the nose of the plane, making swift but gentle headway through a clear and crimson sky, then I peel away and down the fuselage, its length lit with windows filled with happy heads in my mind’s eye. I picture the people in their plane, some sleeping, some eating, others engrossed within the flashing blues of their screens, and the hot hostesses working the aisle from time to time. Others look down upon my tiny town as an amber glow of clustered urban suns, the social dynamics of hundreds of homes, doors to doors, streets to streets, crawling and nesting. I can picture them and their surroundings; I wonder if they picture me and mine? I’m thinking what somebody else might be thinking, and suddenly, somebody else might be thinking what I am thinking - it is me, I think.

Waterborne

We are a species evolved of a saltwater habitat, and born of one still.

A Good Day's Observations

A bird who's fit, snogging a lad who's fat. Nice to see that. The meat in Aldi comes from the Ark itself. Face to face with a fox...a real one.

Ready For Fatherhood

Ready for fatherhood now, got myself a Wikepedia app.

Greed?

Greed is what makes he metaphorical world go round.

Humpty Dumpty Post Stagadoo

My mind is in a thousand bits, and entirely occupied with trying to put itself back together again.

Mastering The Very Basics First...continued

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

Politically Correct Rascists

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

Hindsight

The benefit of hindsight is somewhat overrated; it's always late.

The 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.

Society 5

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

Society 4

God forbid that any other being be allowed to exist alongside the human being, or anything at all in the way of the so called progress of the human being, including the human being.

Commonwealth Karma

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

Try and Try Again

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

The Truly Clever

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.

Race Card Getting Tatty

To play the race card in British society today, 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.

Mastering The Very Basics First...continued

The grass is always greener on the otherside until you get there. The grass is always greener on the side you allow it to be.

More Trouble Behind The Eyes

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

Trouble Behind The Eyes

Being natural is one of life's more challenging poses.

Eyes Like The Wings of A Butterfly

Her eye opened gently like a butterfly And then closed again quickly All shy

Growing Old Grumpily, Or Growing Old Gracefully?

There is no excuse for an old person not to have gained something in wisdom, other than loss of faculties, or none to begin with.

I am Fast Becoming

Trapped by the trappings of a materialistic world.

Society 3

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

Sofas 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.

Subsequent Impressions Count Too

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

We should listen to the Dalai Lama but we're too addicted to trauma

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.

For All Their Fuck Ups

Mankind...deep down, predominantly kind.

Mastering The Very Basics First...continued

Everybody makes mistakes. It's what you make of them.

Mastering The Very Basics First...continued

The quickest way to lose something is to keep everything.

The Early Bird Doesn't Always CatchThe Worm

The night owl regularly beats the morning lark to the bakers.

Tempting Fate? (Interpretation 3)

If it is one's fate, then how can one tempt it? It is our destiny to push the boundaries.

For Those Who Don't Take The Trivial Things Seriously

'Thou shalt do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Although, if you have a high capacity of tolerance I would suggest lowering the threshold.

UFO's

I hear that US drones are currently in use over Britain. I look for to meeting one at kick out.

War

Wonderful worldwide unity, with heavy fighting in parts.

War Basics

MOD. Insure your son's limbs.

Mastering The Very Basics First - continued

Behind a barrage of bark often lies inexperience.

Mastering The Very Basics First

Sometimes folk won't see the solution for the hang ups - what's been has gone, so lets move on! Time's a ticking.

Times Are A' Changing

Permanent markers no longer have the intoxicating headiness.

Olden Day Remedy For Frustration

Hitting a brick wall just isn't the same without the satisfaction of pain. Brick, mortar and a hot sticky graze; over paper, text and a tense frustrated gaze.

My First Batch of Cubans

Earth is like a cigar; an acquired taste well worthy of the perseverance.

The Benefits of Drink

Drinking is not an escapism, it's an emersion into life. Drinking is not an escapism, it's an emersion into the spirit.

Inflation

Big wild world don't take tenners.

Science Will Take Us Closer To God

I have absolute faith in God, why should the magic stop here? To CERN, may you take us closer than fasting and orgasm.

Fatalist (Interpretation 2)

If you're a fatalist and you think you can sit back and become who you are, chances are you won't go very far.

Society 2

The pacifist, like the meek is fair game. What a bloody shame.

Cognitive Behavioural Therapy

It's not the end of the world, it's a way of thinking.

But They Got Us Into This Mess

Leave the old codgers alone Osborne! They're partied out.

Life

Life is a melting pot. Let only the creativity explode.

Bureaucratic Knob Jockeys

The bureaucracy is the route cause of the problem for which it seeks to avert blame.

TransPennine Express

When does delay no longer actually classify as such by way of absolute consistency?

A Word Lost

Hello is a word replaced; what do you do? A phrase in its place. And so this society brings out my absurd creativity.

Britain's New Favourite Words

John Simpson, editor of the Oxford dictionary is a total legend. What an eclectic plethora, a plethora of eclectic. Eclectic, plethora. Plethora, eclectic, legend, legend, total legend...wonder if he does a thesaurus.

Britain's New Favourite Word

Wow, has history ever known so many legends, a new word will have to be invented in order to accurately describe these people.

The Black Dog

Ahh, thank the sod of the earth, it's just a full moon a pullin, not the black dog. Ain't seen that gruesome pup for a while.

What Is To Become?

Patience is a virtue for which there just isn't time.

We the British...And Our Weather

Oh how the weather catches us unaware, this year, last year, the year before...

Only Metaphorically Speaking?

The weight of the world must surely rise with the population, strong shoulders will be required.

Vertigo

Vertigo loves the stars, but feels like falling in to them.

Only Sometimes

Sometimes, I think I could just love people to death.

Society 1

We're surrounded by wolves and sharks every day - circling in wait for a hint of weakness.

Ghostly Goings On

During my time living in Britannia Mills, from May 2005 to September 2011, I would often be woken by what I can only describe as an extremely loud rushing noise, to the point of roaring, straight into one, or sometimes both ears. If you can imagine the feeling when somebody shouts straight into your ear, almost making physical contact, it causes you to shiver down that side of your head and neck, well, this would do exactly that too. I am a very deep sleeper, and will sleep through more than I would say is normal, this does mean that I am not the best at rousing in the morning, but after this phenomenon, I would not only wake immediately, and with a physical start, I would be left wide awake and completely alert, often very initially whilst the noise would still be ongoing, (although this would only ever occur prior to me having opened my eyes and risen), thus however, confirming to me that it was not something I was dreaming. On one very memorable occasion, as was most often the case at Britannia Mills, I was sleeping on the left side of my bed on my left side. I very suddenly awoke to the feeling of being watched, because of the haste with which my mind had so suddenly put me into gear, my mind was sharp before my eyes had opened. I knew that something was looking directly at my face, I could sense the closeness, and I knew that whatever this was, believed me to be asleep. I am often pretty forward with presences, sitting up and talking aloud to establish if I can help, or asking for peace so that I can sleep, so I decided to open my eyes suddenly and stare straight back without fear. Upon doing so, I was face to face; there was barely a foot between myself and the spectre. I gave the spirit a real shock, the face distorting as it vanished almost instantaneously. But, herein lies the proof of what I describe, a witness to the very same, in the form of my new girlfriend at the time, Sam Ashton. For there was a further element to the activity, again, only ever occurring whilst in bed, and this was to experience an external force running down the very middle of one’s back, causing a spasm like reaction, the back to arch with a rather forceful ticklish thrill, and followed by shivers down the spine. I experienced this most frequently, and was less sure that this might be caused by something other than myself and my covers. However, having told Sam nothing of all of this, on the morning of her second visit, I was not too perturbed when she described having been woken by something running down her back, what did give me goose pimples however, was that some time later, having fallen back to sleep, she had been roused again by a terrifyingly loud screaming into her ear! In September 2011 I moved in with Sam.

Life After Life

If we are conscious of nothing before birth, surely then, the likelihood is, that there is nothing after death, unless perhaps there is no memory carried between one state and another, in which case, there is as good as nothing.

Art Take 3, (Take 1 was written 7 years ago and re-worked 2 years later in Take 2, both were then lost)

Appreciation of art takes one beyond the confines of frame or space; it can be a window into the topic it tackles; into the artist’s mind, and/or; into the world in which the work begins to exist, even those worlds within which it exists thereafter and throughout time, a portal for the imagination if you like, and capable not only of capturing history, but of making history, by styling and defining worlds. Like every method utilised in the documenting of history, art can be open to propaganda and manipulation, by way of the politics it seeks to represent, or its message, whatever they may be. It is afterall, left to the creator to decide what picture they wish to paint, certainly metaphorically speaking, and depending on the medium and the circumstances, it may be literally too. Sometimes swayed by commission, the audience, mental illness, blindness, syphilis, style, drug and alcohol abuse, but imperatively physical and emotive, for art must be sensed, so as to stir something within the soul, a longing, melancholy or joy, but fundamentally, thought. It is this in my view which makes art, not only does the artist make the piece literally, they make it something more than the physical, by putting a little of themselves into the piece for you to think about, filling the audience with intrigue, not just for the human element within their material piece, but more importantly an intrigue into the artist. The works of artists of every type must be good to be successful, but thereafter, it is the star behind the works that makes them special to the audience, even if we know nothing about them. We are after all human, and nothing is more exciting and interesting to us than ourselves and other humans. Thus, a little of the artist will always live on in their work, like a long term harbour for expression. Art can be influenced, then on occasion balanced, whether secretly with symbol, or within the subliminal by the rebellious artist, or, it can be balanced and beautiful from the beginning, and upon completion, thereafter subjected to distortion and turmoil. It may even be impossible to tell either way, there may be nothing there in any event, or possibly a hint, but just to spark rumour, wonder and debate. From quite simply pure truth, as far as known at the time, from impressionism to realism to surrealism, art represents every spectrum of humanity, and from its very beginnings too, even representing itself through the conceptual. Our lives are; our interpretation of a series of images every day, pictures, whether influenced by all manner of persuasions or not, the artist, like us, is simply an interpreter, a middle man, and therefore in all of us. When I in turn come to interpret a work, for instance a painting, I want a peek at what goes on outside of the frame, at the moments of the art’s creation, when life is being captured and explained from another’s perspective, it is the artist I wish to imagine and understand, for it is they who have formed a link between this world and something more spiritual, Devine even, whether from within the imagination of themselves or others, or from right in front of them. They have taken life and brought it to life, immortalising it, along with themselves. Art is to temporarily contain elements of chaos, so that they may be held for a time, observed, enjoyed even. The forming of a temporary order to the disorderly beauty of things, so that we might then own it, and/or possess it. I hope you enjoy my art, for that, I would like to think, exists in what I have just written.

Pain Relief

A technique of the mind that may allow for a little relief of temporary pain, whether this be fleeting, such as experienced after a knock, or passing pain, such as experienced with a headache. Although I am sure this is a technique honed by Buddhist Monks who set themselves on fire in protest, it is very unlikely to assist whatsoever in circumstances of extreme and/or prolonged pain. The method is simple; it requires focussed concentration on the area within the body that is causing the discomfort. Start by closing your eyes in order to get the hang of it, be aware of your mind only, then rid it of all thoughts, you should be aware of self, and of your positioning, that being within the head. It is now a matter of taking your mind from within your head, to the position of pain within your body, or if that pain is in the head, to the area at which the pain is most concentrated. If it helps, imagine your mind travelling from your starting place and through the body towards your ailment, alternatively, you can project your mind straight to the area. Once there, try to travel deep into the pain itself and put all of your concentration into that area. Now, this may sound ridiculous, but try with all of your concentration to worsen the pain. I hope that when you get this right, you should find that the pain does quite the opposite, if only for brief interludes whilst your concentration ebbs, and then lapses. Practice may very well make perfect, although I wouldn’t wish the need for that much practice upon anyone. Having thought about this technique thoroughly, I wonder whether, by sending signals from the brain, and to the area of pain, this somehow works against the signals travelling the opposite way, from the area of pain, to the brain, where it is then perceived as pain. It could also be that this technique works by simply taking the mind off the perception of pain by distracting it somewhat, I am sure this is how cannabis works in pain relief, by numbing the brain to its perception of pain.

Sometime Before 11/3/11

This time I knew exactly what I was doing, but the concept was so completely new to me, it was as though I had invented it, like a composer dreaming up a composition, a scientist a solution or a writer an idea. I thought this was inspiration, but I knew right away it was inspiration destined for another man. Quite possibly even the dreams or a reality of another man. // I was deep under water, the bombs were large but manageable manually, their strength was to be in their number; sparsely surrounding the fairly distant coastline would be ample. They were chained and bolted to mounts fixed into the sand of the seabed, allowing them enough length to move with the current and float above their mountings, the waters were not savage and clarity was good, the sand was gold in colour and lay in gradients like dunes. I had no idea of what the effect of what I might be doing would have, and no idea why I would be doing it, not whilst in the midst, nor in the immediate hindsight upon waking, what I did know, was that they were destined to blow.

Sometime Before 9/11

Warm air rushed past my ears like a hurricane and picked up the dust spilled heavily from above. I’d been running up a series of escalators for what had seemed a long while, and then the fire fighters came, running down past me as quickly as I ran up the opposite way. They seemed like ghosts as they bounded by in silence, unaware of me, and for a little while, everything went slow. I could make out the bright hats and purposeful clothing, but they were faceless men. I could not fathom why I was going up the escalators whilst they and others, all seemed to be headed down, I was very much going against the grain. Never the less, this was a dream in which I exercised no control and minimum self awareness, I was someone else at that point. It wasn’t until I eventually launched off the top of an escalator and found myself in a large glass foyer that it became apparent I had in fact been a long way down, underground; it must have been several floors. I had been headed for the exit which now presented itself before me, then slowing to a walk, I proceeded in serene calm. A pang hit as I exited and saw law enforcement officers on my right, but then lifted, as I saw an old childhood friend stood waving over the roof of a an automobile from the driver’s side’s open door. I smiled and broke to a jog towards the automobile, unless I was shot from behind, which seemed unlikely now, something had been accomplished, there was a sense of elation. I have never felt a sense of achievement in a dream, before or since, to this day I can only guess at what had been achieved. // I only ever told my then girlfriend of what I had dreamt. When we were dismissed from a lecture theatre to telephone home and find the nearest television that fateful day, I hadn’t made a link. It wasn’t until I saw the much later footage of the fire fighters from within one of the buildings that I went green, I had seen it before.

Sometime Before February 2001

I was not alone, there may have been one or possibly two working with me. Distinctly vivid however, was the feeling of intense pressure; it was an anxiety ridden dream. // I found myself in a laboratory, it may have been the second or third floor up - I recall options of escape playing through my sleeping mind, the external windows along the back wall being one such option, and the height being an issue. A heavy sealed door with a thick circular window was for those few fleeting moments my only sanctuary from which to work behind. As if peering through the eyes of another, fully briefed more competent man, I worked quickly, methodically, and took something. It was something that I didn’t really see, perhaps a sample of some such. I recall test tubes and what looked like vacuum packs, but nothing more. It was then that I became aware that there were people in the corridor franticly trying to work their way in. They were armed and began to shoot through the glass in the door. I was again aware of a companion, the door swung open and the figure was gunned down, I would like to say by accident, in the midst of the frenzy; in that my associate had not been aimed at, but I cannot be sure. I was making for the window towards the middle of the room with whatever I’d come for secured with me, I slipped sideways out of the top of the window and was gone.

E-mail To The President

Dear Mr President, I understand that you have discovered a Vimana in Afghanistan, if so, why can you not tell the people? For if it is indeed the case, the truth belongs to mankind, the people must be awakened from their slumber. Yours sincerely Adam Grant

Know It All Do You?

There's nothing worse than a know it all. If they did know it all, then they wouldn't be one, there'd be no talking over, butting in, interrupting, showing off and belittling. They'd shut the fuck up and actually listen once in a while.

The Church of Eddie Stobart

There is a new build Church just outside the small west Cumbrian market town of Wigton, I went there once, with my then girlfriend and her family, her family were local to the area at the time. They were practising Christians and regulars at the Church, they were well respected within its community, and despite the father being virtually illiterate, or at least incomprehensible, he was given the honour of doing regular readings. Him being devout in every way of course, other than selling insurance and getting a young girl, the same age as his daughter up the duff before abandoning her. The poor girl in question had helped in the mother’s shop whilst the family had a stint at living in Peterborough, the family sold up and moved back to west Cumbria soon after. The daughter, and my girlfriend of the time, was the polar opposite of her father, she was far from devout in anything, other than the none practice of sex, in the latter, most unfortunately for me, she was verging on fundamentalism, in the former, dangerous, damn right dangerous, I never did trust her. Her brother was gay, but alas poor lad, was shackled by his good Christian upbringing. The mother, well, she had a slyness I could never quite put my finger on, on occasions it felt belittling to be in her company, but an excellent cook and wonderful smile none the less; I was sure that was semen down her blouse after she had collected the father from the station one evening, upon his return from a business trip, maybe she preferred to avoid full intercourse, like her daughter, it was the most I would ever get out of her. The Church had a relatively large but rural catchment area; the congregation was therefore also quite large once concentrated. The original Eddie Stobart, Eddie senior, was there on the morning that I went with the family, he was being honoured with a water colour on behalf of the congregation, on account of him paying a quarter of a million pounds for the building of the Church. There was some unashamed arse kissing going on that day, I can tell you, the water colour however, looked like it had been picked up in a charity shop and would be heading back to one. During the course of the service, all about wisdom, love and forgiveness, I noticed that there were some less than friendly glances going from one side of the aisle to the other, not to mention a far from devine atmosphere, but it wasn’t until the service had finished, and the mingling social of departing commenced, that it became apparent that the Church was segregated, completely split in two, like the parting of the Red Sea. I made some enquiries from the family. Indeed, there had been a colossus falling out between the members of the parish, it was of course to do with power and money; the distribution of church raffle funds and other such fund raising issues, and the best candidate to take the helm of the headless Sunday School for the kids, on account that a deeply strange and overly nice young couple were planning to elope. There was no disguising the lust that the male half of this couple was radiating towards my then girlfriend, and no disguising the lust radiating towards him from his young fiancée, and every other badly groomed adolescent girl in the place. If their plan was not to emigrate to a ranch in a desert of North America and form a ‘community,’ and that well spoken marra has not done so since, then he hath missed his calling. Anyway, between the sexualised undertones, the rift and the hypocrisy, I was beginning to struggle to breath, and my smile was beginning to hurt my face as I was being introduced to some plastic programmed, almost zombie like people, with their big smiles and over friendliness. I got out quickly, marching into the car park and a bright and fresh sunny morning, the birds were singing and the leaves rustling on the trees, I felt immediately cleansed. My conclusion; that the human element in religion is the reason for its existence, and yet religion in turn seems to do nothing more than amplify the flaws of humans, whether from the very large scale, right to the very small. For me, it is a hindrance in the pilgrimage towards goodness, and so I carve my own relationship with God.

Perhaps

Perhaps God has not abandoned nor forsaken us; God has given us life, life with free will and free reign. The fall out of our many difficulties may seem entirely unjust, but the worst of such difficulties are also often of our own making, and surely should not be blamed on God's lack of intervention, just as they should not be undertaken in the name of God. Had God not given us the free will just to get on with it, despite the efforts of religions not to let us, there would only be a fraction of what we have to gain, perhaps we therefore only have ourselves to blame. However, those man-made injustices that breach innocence; and those that are not man-made, they seem a tall price to pay for freedom of reign, and seemingly at random too. Perhaps therefore, mankind is a life form pushing forward as one, surviving through numbers, and surviving through the fittest of those numbers, like all life along side us. The greater the numbers, the more chances there are of at least some success, but alas, with that, and it would seem somewhat unjustly, a lot of individual cases come to nothing. The primary example of this is to take life at its very beginnings and to fertilisation. So too can it be considered on a galactic and subsequently planetary level, I wonder how many planets have died for every Earth that lives. Perhaps life must be cruel to be kind and yet be without concept of either. Therein, it may not be all about us; it may not even be possible for it to be all about us. Merely sewing the seed of the bang may have taken God to the very limits of possibility, maybe that alone is enough and the rest is down to chance, an infinite number of chances within ifinity, and for that to have in turn grown into something so astoundingly complex and beautiful, and to continue to do so, maybe that alone is enough. What there is, may not yet be perfect, but perhaps it is not yet finished, and in the meantime, everything coming into existence must play its part. Perhaps there have been many more injustices than there are now, just to get us here, and perhaps there will be far fewer as we move towards where we are going, perhaps the worst and the best are yet to come, perhaps, perhaps.

Religion

Man made to meet man's needs.

Bitter and Twisted

On occasion I have found myself to be inadvertently caught up in minor feuds involving at least one party who could be described as, lets say, bitter and twisted. There is a good chance there are more such parties, but to be honest I try to stay out of it, backing away quickly without any further investigation than is required simply to clear my name, if that maybe necessary. Alas, you do not get to pick your family, nor necessarily your friends either, but then loyalty spells longevity. It is greatly unfortunate that because I am neither naturally conniving nor manipulative, I do not function at all well in the worlds of those who are, and who thrive within this cesspit of society. I have a natural aversion towards lying and tend to lay my cards on the table, I do not actually wish to offend anybody and never set out to do so, even if they are entirely worthy of it. So, when I am caught up in any such simmering scenario that looks likey to manifest itself as a feud, arguements or simple animosity, I am often made a scapegoat, and before escape, on one particular occasion have been tarnished as bitter and twisted myself, in hindsight, and in my view, by the very element(s) I consider now to be the bitter and the twisted. Now, I am a worrier, I believe that it is this that allows me to be the person I am, a good person. So, as I do when I am made out to be something by somebody or something else, something that deep down I know I am not, I will still allow a period whereby I will torture myself by way of thinking that perhaps I am such, this in turn will give way to a period of deep analysis, both of self and of the scenario in which I am, to an extent, accused. With regards bitter and twisted, if I were judged to be bitter and twisted, and had acted in such a way, then to be thought of, or accused as bitter and twisted, I would consider to be fair enough, I would take it on the chin and feel as though I had been deservedly judged and would try my best to make amends. However, with further thinking, if I were indeed bitter and twisted, then it is unlikely that I would take this position. A bitter and twisted soul would surely not accept the verdict, but instead turn it around upon the accusing element or even an entirely innocent party inadvertently caught up in the matter. I must therefore conclude that I am not in fact bitter and twisted; it must in fact be my accuser(s)! And on that basis, I have not accepted the verdict of another, but instead turned it back on them, they could also be entirely innocent in all of this, which begs further thinking, am I therefore in fact bitter and twisted, and therein lays a paradox. Let’s be practical about this however, both God and I know that it is not me with secrets and lies; indeed, I am without motive, intention or agenda, I want nothing to do with it and nothing from anyone, I want damage limitation all round, for everybody, I just want out.

Sugar Daddy

We’ve all witnessed the prosperous ageing man, probably with ex-wives and a family in the wake of time behind him, arm in arm with a beautiful, and much younger women, both dripping with cash and at play in some sophisticated playground. A few years ago now, I thought about this situation. It would be easy to conclude that the younger woman is actually dating the lifestyle and the bank balance over the man, however, in order to achieve this, she must also be with the man - there is no escaping this. One might then conclude that the young lady is to a degree, prostituting herself in order to achieve a more luxurious and lavish lifestyle, maybe even with ambitions of long-term security. This may or may not be true in each different case, but to believe this across the board, as is often what happens, would in my submission underestimate the complexities of a woman. Whilst I would agree that there is more opportunity for such a man to meet such a woman, both putting themselves out within rather similar and certainly exclusive circles, and have little doubt that the man’s money and it’s possibilities play a fundamental role in the woman’s initial attraction, there could be varying degrees of ambition, intelligence, independence, motives and indeed bank balances that may in turn be held by the woman, and which remain hidden, on occasions from the man in question, but always from the prying public, unless of course it is already in the public eye. Influence and power can also be strong assets for the courting older man, or indeed towards making him a target to be courted, although, such assets often go hand in hand with money. Fame, as a standalone, I would say is less so of an asset, certainly in cases where we are considering some longevity, unless of course accompanied by one or all of the aforementioned. What I have observed, is that when the relationship has formed and the couple are within one another’s sole company, the young lady more often than not looks happy. Now this maybe because they are in the excitement of the early throws of adventure, made possible by the man, whose happiness needs to be maintained. No doubt assisted by the fur and cashmere, the Christian Louboutin, the Mulberry and the Dior, but fundamentally and humanly happy to the core. It is only after the young woman becomes a married older woman or longstanding mistress that the cracks can set in, if love has failed to blossom, lifestyle aside, she will realise that as a couple, the two people are worlds apart, which can breed bitterness and resentment at what might have been elsewhere, (love and happiness), and thus, regret and unhappiness, leading to, let’s hope, another cycle. However, it is the throws of the early non marital relationship of the older man and the younger woman that interests me. The relationship must inevitably be sexual, and whereby the young lady may be somewhat repulsed at the prospect, the motive behind this somewhat frowned upon set up, is such that any aversions are swiftly overcome. I would believe that this has to be the case across the board, thus, including those women that may not be fundamentally motivated by financial gain. Those young women that go on to form a relationship, and most do, will surely be copulating regularly thereafter, as is the case when all sexually active couples are within their early throws. It is only upon becoming an unhappy wife or long standing mistress that there would be less sex. The happy younger lady who remains on the hairy Rolex clad arm, I would suggest has found something she likes about the man alone. It may be that in normal circumstances such a beautiful young lady would not find herself naked with a far older and much less beautiful man, and yet through the motives discussed, she has. Thereafter, it may be that she has discovered something that she would not normally have discovered had such a man been physically the same but average in status. Just maybe, and thanks to the money for getting us here, but putting money out of the equation between the sheets, there is good none financial endowment and young lady is physically satisfied. When the money and/or status are put aside, the debate then is whether the relations constitute prostitution. Possible not, there may be an intellectual and physical connection, however, I believe the answer would of course only present itself if the money and/or status were taken away entirely and forever, and therefore, until this is the case, the couple are in my eyes, innocent until proven guilty. As to whether there are innocent intentions, my view, is that it would not be beyond reasonable doubt that either party could be guilty of this, mutual consent however, is somewhat of a compelling argument and quite capable of overruling any judgement, if you ever found the proof to begin with that is.

It's Never The Right Time

I must not be, nor become, a, 'now is not the right time,' sort of person. I would say that 25% to 30% of my green lights have been missed as a result of such behaviour already, and that can only lead to regret, and regret is an emotion that can only lead to further green lights being missed. I would say fucking go for it, even if you don't feel like it.

Over Socialised

Every time I am to enter into any social occasion, it is with a degree of apprehension and nervousness that I do so. The less I know those within the situation, the less my nervousness and apprehension. The latter observation is unusual; most people I know would suggest the opposite, which is what drove me towards questioning my behaviour. With Freudian method, looking back at my childhood and early adulthood, my parents regularly held large social gatherings which in hindsight slapped with presenting as social climbing and status maintenance, effectively presenting appearances and keeping up those appearances. I was often called upon to essentially network with what were supposed to be my parents longstanding and good friends, which I’m sure many of them were and still are. It’s just that many of them, I was regularly reminded, were also potential employers. The problem was that there would always be a degree of expectation, to be polite, to be achieving, and to almost sell oneself. It was like talking shop with the movers and shakers before even having set up a shop whatsoever. It was if that all these people had to talk about with me was my exams and career prospects, maybe they thought this was expected of them in the same way I thought a formal and well structured spewl in response was of me. I dreaded these situations and have been rebelling ever since. I now get too drunk in social situations and tend to try to make the conversation either shock or take on an unorthodox slant. I generally take things a little too far. My view is that this is a form of coping mechanism that I have subconsciously developed for social gatherings, which, as a result of my later childhood years continue to make me nervous. Although you are still being judged in social situations where you don’t know anybody, for me, I feel less under pressure to impress and am therefore more likely to do so. Possibly because any impression is likely to fizzle out and be forgotten by a person I do not know and am unlikely to see ever again, and whom bears no link with anybody I do know. In short, it may be that I have been ‘over socialised,’ one thing I do know is that as an adult I try not to talk of career prospects with youngsters if I can help it, although I must admit, it does appear to be the most obvious topic between a slightly older child and an adult of no relation, there is often very little other common ground. The difference I suppose is that I am no employer, and they know it.

Nostalgic Anticipation

Hovering outside the Night and Day, and the day is holding on for longer, the warmer half-light left, lingers still, fighting off the dusk. The air has taken on a scent once again; there is sweetness even in the blackened Northern Quarter, as though the plumes of Peak District pollen have stooped in the afternoon and onto Piccadilly. Nostalgic anticipation and excitement for lighter night’s sweeps across my sky blue mind like wisps of summer cloud and the sound of light aircraft overhead. I am waiting for Rich to join me for an after work beer, the first of the year, and my senses transport me as he runs late. First, to childhood, and of a smashed lollypop on a neighbour’s hot door, the ginger cat and the orphaned robins, allotments and a red toy car thrown in rivers, then, the angst of goading sunlight through bedtime curtains. To flattened nettles, apple fights and trees, the meadow and the madness of its gypsy horse, to the dens and the gangs, and chippy teas. Next, to early adulthood, and the electricity that charged explorations into the realms of the night out. Entering the buzz of busy pubs, over the lip of open doors to meet friends before the summer’s sun sets, and the nervous anticipation of meeting someone you fancied, and yet willing it so, with all of the will in the world. Then, onto to the clubs that were an extension of sixth form, the short skirts lined up and queuing around blocks. Eventually, to the bigger cities for a taste of independence, and for more of the same - right up until Rich tapped me on the shoulder. Like a near death experience the best bits had raced before my mind’s eye, the present hint of seasonal change triggering nostalgia for the past such seasons, looking forward now with excitement for what was to come around again.