An uneventful life

Accidents happen when you least expect them. I was eating an apple in the kitchen staring at the rain pelting across the window, and pondering on a chapter that was causing some difficulty. It was a three apple job – it could easily have been a four apple ponder – but for the accident.

I raised the apple – a Braeburn – to my mouth and chomped down with some force – so much force that the apple sheared in a crunch and the entire north face of the Braeburn continued its upward trajectory and hit my nose with even greater force.
I never realised before that apples sting. I felt my nose had come off. Wondered what I was going to say and how long the pain would last. In the mean time I destroyed the evidence, consuming the offending fruit in vengeful bites, but swallowing carefully in case the Braeburn planned a counter-attack.

My nose continued to throb. One nostril seemed blocked, by blood or an errant pip. It was time to see how bad it was, consider how much of the truth to tell my wife. Hit by an apple? For God’s sake. I entered the bathroom with some trepidation and stared into the reflection of a virginal nose, a nose unscathed, blameless, unblemished.

I felt cheated.

Send in the Penguins

The Romans were supreme pragmatists, expert at ‘borrowing’ the best military tactics and weaponry from those they conquered. The British, too, are noted pragmatists, operating on the maxim of ‘If it ain’t broke don’t fix it.’ As the British Empire reached its peak so, too, did the eccentricity of its top Generals, their ability to recognise what was broke, or indeed a dead parrot, floundering in complacency.
The Boer war proved something of a shock, our eventual victory a close run thing, and immediately afterwards the Elgin Committee was established to explore what had gone wrong.

Some pushed for the abolition of the sword and lance as viable weapons for cavalry. Sir Ian Hamilton argued that ‘compared to a modern rifle the sword or lance can only be compared to a medieval toy.’

Leading generals were not impressed and continued to champion the use of lance and sword as cavalry weapons of choice.

General French and General Douglas Haig – key figures in World War I – were the most vociferous against reform, arguing the virtues of slashing and stabbing; the shock of the charge.
























General Brabazon went one step further – the tomahawk. He argued that the power and momentum of a cavalry charge - with men swinging tomahawks - would sweep all before it. It had, he argued, proved highly effective on the Afghan frontier – which is clearly where we’re going wrong now.

Lord Esher, a man of dry wit, recorded Brabazon’s appearance at the commission:

‘He drew graphic pictures of a cavalry charge under these conditions, so paralysing to the imagination of the Commissioners that they wholly failed to extricate the General or themselves from the discussion of this engrossing subject.’
















It was an interesting position to take because the Boer war had clearly demonstrated the devastating effect of artillery and long range rifles. Generals with their powerful, aristocratic connections, however, carried some clout.

The Elgin Commission did what the British always do in such circumstances.

Compromised.

The cavalry would be allowed to keep their swords but, much to the disgust of traditionalists, they would carry rifles as well, and learn how to dismount and fire.

I love eccentricity and so, clearly, did General Brabazon* but was the tomahawk any more eccentric than the lance – a nine foot bamboo cane, tipped and reinforced with steel?

The British tomahawk would have been made from English oak, steel from Coalbrookdale, and decorated with pigeon feathers, perhaps coloured. They’d have made a pretty sight charging against machine guns. It could have been worse. We could have had Generals arguing for blow-pipes.

We could of course have sent in the penguins.


















*Ordered to shave off his beard, the younger Brabazon also shaved off one half of a large and luxuriant moustache, startling observers on the regimental parade ground.

Group think

I hate groupthink and what’s worse, there’s no escape. I’ve been there: Catholic, Marxist, teacher, musician – even writer – the effect is the same. Consciously or unconsciously you censor your mind. You can say that you don’t – like St Peter said he’d never deny Christ. And then the cock crowed.

The truth is you tailor your words and, if you’re not careful, your thoughts to a wider group view. There is a liberal/radical consensus, a tribe that can be insufferably smug, as though believing they are the repository of all that is truthful and good.

There are ‘rednecks’ gun lobbyists, euro sceptics, Tories, Neo Cons, Protestants, Catholics, Wiccan, Jedi and atheists - more tribes than you can shake a stick at and the bottom line is that each of them have probably the same measure of goodness and generosity of spirit. It’s just hard to discern and sometimes harder to acknowledge this without howls of protest from whichever tribe you happen to find yourself in.

The most insidious group think in this country is the BBC. You never get the news. You get an interpretation. It is good that I sit in the dark and alone with only a teapot for company when I put on the Today programme. The gloom is punctuated with much irritation, sometimes loud curses my wife wouldn’t tolerate. It’s the complacency, occasional self-importance, giggling undertone, snide asides and pharisaic questioning nudging the listener along the right tracks. Over the years it's become worse, a sly, benign intolerance.

The boast is objectivity, allowing every voice to be heard - only some voices are more equal than others. It is easy to ‘encourage dissident views’ if you select carefully and control the debate, then what you’re getting is the illusion of impartiality; not free ranging but battery thought.

The main stream media patronises and infantilises large swathes of the population and relentlessly pushes its sense of the truth. And yes, you may say, Fox news is worse; better the BBC than News Corporation. Well, in my opinion, what’s worse is having only one ‘tribal’ view. Having a yin but no yang.

Humans are tribal. I like to think I’m not but I am. I belong to the tribe that loathes anyone who ‘knows’ the truth. And the BBC reminds me of the Renaissance Catholic Church in that respect. It has many virtues and the vices of a monopoly. Ah, time for another cup of tea - or something stronger.

There’s always tomorrow.

‘Alas, I now repent me sore that I ever suffered you to go away, I care for match nor nothing, so I may once have you in my arms again; God grant it! God grant it! Amen, amen, amen ... God bless you both, my only sweet son and my only best sweet servant and God send you a happy and joyful meeting in the arms of your dear old dad.’

Now who the hell, wrote that? Not me for sure. Nor have I ever exclaimed: ‘God's wounds, I will pull down my breeches and they shall also see my arse,’ though I have many times felt inclined to do so. And, on one memorable occasion, Jarvis Cocker did.

No, the guy responsible for both these remarks was our own dear, sweet dad, James 1st of England and 6th of Scotland.

The second remark is both funny and crude, especially coming from the mouth of a king. The first is just downright weird. As paternal letters go it makes Victorian sentimentality acerbic in comparison. James is not just wearing his heart on his sleeve; he’s embroidered it with jewels and flashing neon lights. The weirdness is that his love for his son, the ill-fated Charles 1st, is fused with his more carnal love for his ‘best sweet servant’ the Duke of Buckingham.

I’ve never had that problem. The Duke of Buckingham leaves me cold. But could I ever write a letter like that to my own children? My ‘sweet son’ would shudder being in the arms of his ‘dear old dad’. My daughter hugs me regularly.

My own father wrote me a brilliant letter shortly after I was born. He was at sea. It’s a strong letter, wistful, loving, hoping for great things. And yes, I think there is a case for fathers to write at least one letter to their daughter or son. It’s something treasured and never forgotten.

I’ve not done it yet. My father was wise, writing his shortly after I was born. The later you leave it the harder it becomes – a bit like writing a Will. You don’t want to think about death and posterity.

Do Angels get bored?

Neat wings, but not biblical.















I was pondering on Angels whilst drying myself after my early morning swim. Not the seraphim and cherubim, but the common and garden Guardian Angel that stands behind our respective shoulders.

The thought came from nowhere, though that’s not strictly true. I’d seen ten minutes of a Sunday programme where this very nice lady said she’d seen her first guardian angel as a child and has continued to see them ever since. She caused some flickers of interest and unease when she assured the audience that she could see each of their guardian angels, and continued to extol their virtues and how indebted we are to them.

So the thought came from somewhere, but why think of it now? Had my forty five lengths triggered a neural impulse, or was my own guardian angel just plain bored and bent on mischief? Reminding me it was there? Did it feel undervalued?

I dry with a large white towel. I start with my back, pulling it back and forth diagonally from shoulder to buttock, changing direction with a brisk twirl to the other shoulder before attacking the small of my back. That’s a horizontal movement. The arms come next, then my front with particular attention to buttocks and groin. Then it’s the legs, calves and shins, in front and behind, leaving the toes till last. The whole process takes about fifteen minutes from shower to leaving the changing room dressed.

And my question is this: What is my guardian angel doing during moments like these? What is it doing for much of my mundane and boring life, those long tracts of time - eating, sleeping or, as we do everyday, operating on automatic?

Raphael and Gabriel do the important stuff, like appearing at crucial moments with crucial messages. But what do they do in those great tracts of time in between?

And Guardian Angels: Listening to those interminable pub conversations; shopping trips, Zumba classes, line dancing, squash, drying in between the toes. Even the angels of Jagger and Richards, Bill Gates and Obama must find it heavy going after a time. Not withstanding being privy to their innermost thoughts…it must tire…after a time. When all is said and done, the famous are like all of us: tossers at heart.

So does a Guardian Angel get bored? It is one of the great mysteries of life.

























And how do Guardian Angels propagate to keep in line with population growth?

Humphrey Bogart and the Fruit fly

It’s nice to know we’re so closely related to the fruit fly – men at least. Why is that? Why do all these experiments focus on the hapless male, in this case the drunken hapless male? I’m talking about alcohol and tricks played on male fruit flies.

These men in white coats put male fruit flies in close proximity to female fruit flies. So far so good.

Party time.

The bad news is the male fruit flies grossly outnumbered the female fruit flies – (Can’t you just hear those scientists snickering?) – and thus revealed the abject folly of prohibition. The rejected males sought solace in drink, alcohol being the next best thing to sex.

Fruit flies self medicate as do mice, rats and monkeys that are subject to isolation, bullying or aggression.

It suggests that aspects of the brain’s reward system have changed little since we crawled from the primordial ooze, in particular those brain chemicals linked to addiction.

It seems to me the obvious way to solve this problem is to ensure that everyone has a regulated amount of sex on a daily basis, which would ensure that no one was isolated and everyone would be too blissfully content to bully or fight.

Dr. Markus Heilig, the clinical director of the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism and the National Institute on Drug Abuse, sees thing differently. Though not involved in the research he argues that the findings supported new ways of treating alcohol dependence. He is urging researchers to investigate ‘several compounds aimed at blunting alcohol urges.’ In other words don’t solve the problem, mask it with drugs.

And what a tragedy that would be – losing the dark lyricism of an alcohol culture. One day, far in the future, the humble fruit fly might have its own Casablanca:














Play it once, Sam. For old times' sake.




















Here's looking at you, kid.























Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.

























What is your nationality? I'm a drunkard.


Meanwhile we shall be taking prozac.

Lost in a screen

‘Living in the material world’ is sometimes seen as a bad thing, but at least it’s three dimensional. When I walk the streets of London (not my night-job) I’m forever swerving from side to side trying to avoid intense men and women staring at smart-phones and iPads, lost in a screen.

Once upon a time I’d make a conscious effort to avoid a man or woman talking loudly in the street to an invisible companion. Now I’m surrounded by them. There’s no escape. It’s me that’s become odd: Nobby-no-mates - sans earpiece and cell-phone – a sad little man with day dreams for company. Sometimes nothing. Dead space in the head. Wonderful.

One day they’ll come looking for me. Soon it’ll be the silent pedestrian that people steer clear of. Why are they silent? No friends? What’s wrong with them? We’ll be rounded up like stray dogs by well meaning social workers and forcibly taught the wonders of mobile technology.

Google have gone a stage further with their planned launch of Google eyeglasses. When I was young, children with glasses were called ‘goggle-eyes’. A term of abuse. Presumably Google-eyes’ will carry more chic.

These glasses will project entertainment and data straight to the eye and will appeal to, amongst others, Gamers who can conquer whole universes as they walk. It will be a weird balletic dance as both they and I attempt to dodge and swerve in random synch.

Google-glasses will stream information about any given building or object you are interested in; they will have Sat Nav. They will also have the potential for facial recognition. Yes, I know we are quite capable of doing that by ourselves – if we know someone to begin with. This is the augmented kind – streaming the face to a database that will then stream back everything that is known about that person. Bit like Facebook in your face. I imagine you could have premium services for the congenital nosey – or prospective employers.

Bump into someone into a pub and the glasses will be able to tell you the guy is a psychopath - before he lands you one in the stomach. Meeting someone for the very first time and the glasses will be able to tell you how many friends you share in common.

Or you could both just take them off and let the glasses commune in peace. Have a pint.