Nature Calls

I was so naughty last weekend that I would say I now deserve a thoroughly good spanking to the bottom. It’s a pity I didn’t get one, I suppose (boom, boom!), but then that is the problem with my life – there’s nobody around to keep me in check and for whom I have to behave responsibly. There’s only me to set the standards for my behaviour and of course, I sometimes lower those standards to a level where the moral code is supposedly transgressed. Moral code? Whose moral code would that be? Surely, morality is in the mind of the beholder? Ah-ha, I hear you mutter, now we have a paradox – or maybe it’s just a conundrum – for how should morality be measured? Should it be a code imposed upon ourselves from within, or should it be something that is imposed upon us by society? To be sure, society has an obligation to create a framework in which it safe and decent for us all to live, but it is our responsibility to decide for ourselves what is right and what is wrong.

And so on reflection, it could be said that what I did at the weekend was not wrong, even though in Society’s eyes it might have been immoral. I didn’t harm anyone (except perhaps myself), and I had a huge amount of fun too, so, what’s the problem? Well, I don’t know – most probably the gauge for that is that I still feel so guilty! It’s an eternal inner wrestle – if we set our standards too high and then dip beneath them, we feel bad; if we set the bar too low and behave accordingly, then society judges us as guilty (and might even lock us away). The dilemma is a bit like switching lanes on the motorway when there is a traffic hold up in front. Whatever we decide to do, we’re wrong. Eee by gum, the human condition, eh?

You will know that I don’t watch much television, and who can blame me when all I hear from those who do is complaints, criticism and grumbles? If it’s not someone moaning that a certain contestant on a selection show “woz robbed”, then it’s someone else protesting that the wrong Barbie (or Ken) has been fired from the Apprentice House by Sir Alan (or Sue-Ellen, as I call him). Failing that, you’ll hear people bemoaning the fact that Sir Alex’s boyz woz equally “robbed” last night by the Spanish; or that despite the title of the programme, it now transpires that Britain actually doesn’t have talent – all Britain has, is “freaks”.

So, my advice to you all is to forego these transitory glimpses of the so-called showbiz world of tawdry aspiring celebrities, and tune instead to the restful pageant of country life that can be found amongst the leafy glades featured on ‘Spring Watch’. Oh yes, here you will find coverage of badgers tearing young rabbits to pieces in the dead of night; a male goshawk snatching a bullfinch in mid-flight, roughly plucking it of all feathers, and then throwing its corpse into the nest for his wife to carve up for her fledglings. Here you will witness two male adders ‘wrestling’ for dominance in the bracken-covered hills of Wales; or a female stoat dashing across a busy car park, carrying away to safety one of her own young in her mouth.

However, it beats me how the presenters of this programme – all grown adults I might add – can get quite so excited about the sight of a mother chaffinch feeding a dragon-fly into the gaping mouths of her offspring, nor how they can become so very nearly hysterical over a one-second fleeting glimpse of the rear-end of a scurrying pole cat. I say, calm down presenters – it’s only the countryside! If you really want to watch some genuine animal behaviour in action, then you should pay a visit to my apartment one weekend. And bring your night-vision camera.

Enough said.

A Writer's Craft

I love people watching, and I love listening in to other people's conversations too. My parents always said that as a child, I was a 'right nosey parker' and if ever there was a spat going on in the street, or if an old woman had feinted outside the Post Office perhaps, I could always be found on the front row of the gathered crowd, gawping.

It's part of a writer's craft of course, to earwig into what other people are saying and if possible, to take notes that might be used later when trying to create realistic dialogue. For example, it's oddly difficult to write your characters engaging in a conversation that is banal, without making the dialogue itself too banal for the reader to read. So, imagine my delight recently when I witnessed a conversation that was so bizarre, and yet so dull, that I had to write it down for fear that I wouldn't believe later what I'd heard. I was sitting in the reception area of an office building waiting to be collected by a client. There was another man waiting, and his contact came in before mine. It was obvious that these two people had met before, but that they were slightly uncomfortable in each other's company. Here is how it went:

WOMAN [entering reception]: Hello, there. Sorry to keep you waiting. Are you ready to go?
MAN: Yeah, I'm okay. Good.
WOMAN: It's nice to see you again, but I do wish you hadn't called your children what you did.
MAN [slightly taken aback]: Oh, why?
WOMAN: Well, because me and my brother are Sarah and Simon as well.
MAN: Oh, I see.
WOMAN: Yeah. [awkward pause] Sarah Elizabeth.
MAN: Sarah Louise.
WOMAN: Simon John.
MAN: Simon George.
WOMAN: Oh! [nervous chuckle; another awkward pause] Are you used to smokers?
MAN: As in? [pause] How do you mean?
WOMAN: Well, as in, do you mind if I smoke in my car?
MAN: Oh, no. Not at all.
WOMAN: Only some people don't like it. And then I wouldn't do it.
MAN: No, no. It's fine.
WOMAN: Well, come on then. [Exeunt]

I just love that, don't you?

It's All Right Everybody - God's In His Heaven

One of the most cynical pieces of text ever written is: "Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." It ranks alongside: "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth", and both maxims are written from a position of power and are designed to keep the less privileged in their miserable, holy-ordered place. The intention was to ensure that the poor and dispirited – the servant classes – would not try to climb out of their gutters and attempt to upset the comfortable existence of their educated masters. It's deplorable that such arrogant and contemptuous manipulation was carried out under the disguise of godliness by those unsaintly tyrants, but so it was for centuries.

I was reminded of this iniquitous behaviour when I heard a track from 'Fiddler on the Roof' on the radio the other morning. Ostensibly, the lyrics to this song ("If I Were a Rich Man") are meant to amuse us – in fact, they are somewhat condescending in the way they mock this simple peasant man and his rather crude ambitions of how he would display his wealth if he had it – but there's also a subtle cruelty within those words. I'm talking about the bit when the character reaches the end of the verse, and cries out to the Lord in questioning despair:

"Would it spoil some vast eternal plan...
... if I were a wealthy man?"

I don't know if the writer intended this line to be sung with such heartfelt humility, or whether it was just Topol's interpretation of it, but if ever a man displayed his own insignificance within the pitiless authority of the 'World Order', this is it. There's a kind of rage in there too – a fury against the injustice of God's power and the helpless condition that so many people like this plain working man were expected to endure (and still are). Topol might just as well have sung the words: "God, you're such a selfish bastard" and indeed, if God existed, he would be.

Of course, we are further reminded of such inequalities when we read of the recent vices of our dearly-beloved elected leaders. We are expected to understand, to forgive, and almost to pity such cretinous liars as Margaret Beckett when she declares that she made an erroneous expense claim because she was simply "too busy" to check the details. Try telling that to Her Majesty's Revenue & Customs if you're "too busy" to complete all the details on your tax return; or try telling that to the benefit hounds if you're a single mum who was "too busy" to inform the authorities that you have a part-time boyfriend who sometimes buys treats for your kids.

It's a disgrace, so it is. However, if the bible should happen to be correct in its predictions, and the kingdom of heaven really does belong to the meek and the poor, then we can all be damned sure that our snout-troughing MPs won't be inheriting it, that's all I can say.

Filthy, cheating, slimeball, grabbing bastards – the whole lot of them.

By Dawn's Early Light

Most people complain – reasonably enough – when they have to endure travelling both to and from work in the dark. They claim that they're like pit ponies; never even seeing the light of day. Well strangely, I feel just the opposite. For a couple of weeks now, dawn's rosy fingers have already spread themselves across the sky by the time I get out of bed (at 5:30 a.m.) and although this sounds unlikely, I find this mildly depressing. I'm not quite sure why this is, but I presume it's because it brings with it the realization that we are already hurtling dangerously close to the Solstice. There's nothing wrong with that, I suppose, but I rather like the idea of creeping up slowly towards the Solstice and savouring the growing pleasure of its arrival with the relish of anticipation. These light mornings have rather jumped out at me with a somewhat indecent haste, and I don't feel ready for them. Woah, slow down, year! Don't hurry to throw away your charms too early, please.

Anyway, I'm not thinking about that just yet, because it's still the weekend (just). I've had a lovely time because one of my daughters (the one who lives in Switzerland) has been home for a visit. It's been fun, and over the last two days a vast quantity of wine has been drunk, and an equally vast amount of food. Last night we went to a Greek restaurant just around the corner and made the mistake of ordering three 'Special Meze' from the menu. This is a series of 'tapas' style dishes that are brought to the table in waves – a bit like bombing raids really. When we thought that we really couldn't eat any more, the waiter just kept returning with more and more trays laden with plates of delicious food. It all became quite embarrassing towards the end, and the only thing we could do then was surreptitiously to tip the contents of several plates straight into a plastic carrier bag when the waiter wasn't looking. We rubbed our tummies and licked our lips in appreciation whenever the waiter reappeared; he politely feigned astonishment at our fortitude in clearing the plates, and pretended not to notice the ever-bulging and slightly leaking carrier bag on the floor. The estranged Mrs Pilgrim's little dog has some tasty treats in store, that's for sure.

The weather this weekend hasn't been good – strong winds and heavy showers. But I see from an item on the televisual news this evening, that we will all be shedding some clothes by the end of this week. Hurrah! Now, if the dawn will insist on presenting itself at an indecent hour of the morning, then at least we should get a bit of warm weather to go with it, eh?

Take That!

What happens in the brain, when you grow up in an environment that celebrates violence? This was a question that Michael Portillo asked tonight in a programme where he was attempting to explore the motivation in the human psyche that causes some of us to revel in violent behaviour. Is it because aggression is "hard-wired" into us? Despite other cultural influences, despite education, laws, and the conventions of other social controls, some of us still enjoy taking part in bloodshed and conflict. And even if we don't enjoy doing it, some of us just enjoy watching it. Is this true? Are we really programmed to become excited – even uplifted – by brutality?

If it is true that we are programmed because of our origins to be aggressive, why are so many of us repulsed by violence? Why is it that so many of us refuse to engage in acts of gratuitous aggression? Where did this self-control (for that is what it must be) come from? We are sometimes told that people with a history of violent behaviour have a different level of a certain enzyme being released into their pre-frontal cortex; as if it were not exactly the fault of the perpetrator; more of a chemical disorder. But Michael Portillo's investigations suggest something different – that the majority of murders, for example, are committed by people who weren't acting on impulse, who weren't subject to a sudden rush of malevolent biological juices; but by people who made a conscious decision to kill.

Is this correct? What about people who have been subject to the horrors of some savage trauma and who – although would not normally see themselves as vengeful or aggressive by nature – find something being released in themselves which causes them to lash out in some iniquitous act of brutality? I wonder which theory is true.

Likewise, I wonder what kind of motivation caused my Great Aunt Dolores Mackliskey (the one who was run down by a lorry and yet survived, and who later took up playing the xylophone) to commit the most appalling act of violence against yours truly one day? We'd been on safari in South Africa and Dolores thought it would be a good opportunity to take in a bungee jump. I told her that I have a morbid fear of heights, but she wouldn't hear of anything so "girlish" in her "favourite great-nephew", so we made our way out to Mossel Bay where she signed us both up for the famous Bloukrans jump off the old Gouritz bridge. I was shitting myself to be honest, but all my protestations were met with a thump around the head from her crocodile-skin handbag, and repeated cries of "Cissy!" I had no other choice but to get strapped up and eventually launch myself from the parapet (Dolores, in characteristic chivalry towards my younger generation, opted to go second).

I'll tell you how horrifying the actual jump was on another occasion, but for now I'll let in you on what I consider to be my great-aunt's murderous intentions. When I'd finished the (admittedly exhilarating) bouncing, and was waiting to be hauled up by the somewhat hunky short-clad blonde South African young student, Dolores thought it would be amusing to pick up a nearby machete and slash the cord holding me aloft. Imagine my terror as I was suddenly plunged 35 metres, head first, into the swirling river below. As I thrashed my way to the shore, convinced that I was on the very brink of being avenged by relatives of my great-aunt's handbag, I assumed some technical hitch had caused my demise. Only later, when she laughingly slapped my water-soaked back and declared that she hadn't had as much fun since the time she'd shot her fourth husband by "by accident", did I realize what a truly psychopathic travelling companion I had become saddled with.

Her excuse? She'd been traumatised, she claimed, by being forced to eat sago pudding at boarding school. Well (and steam still comes from my ears at the thought), weren't we all?

Warning!

I was writing on Facebook this morning about the pigeons in the underground car park in our apartment block. There were notices up on Thursday saying: "WARNING: A pigeon shoot is taking place today – please be aware". This troubled me somewhat. There are great troops of pigeons living in the car park – have been for some time, and they appear to be on the increase. They're a nuisance because they shit all over my car (and everyone else's), especially when I've just had it cleaned. It's funny how they seem to know that – they must see a nice, shiny clean car and think: 'Ha! A new target.'

They not only shit on cars, but also down the walls, over the metal air-ducts that line the ceiling, across the water pipes, and on the floor. The whole place stinks of pigeon shit – yes, they're a damned nuisance all right. But shoot them? Seems a bit drastic, and rather barbaric. What I do, whenever I go down to get into my car, is growl at them. There are usually two or three of them sitting on one of the air ducts, or perhaps lined up by the wall (oops, that's silly of them – well at least they're not blindfolded and smoking a last cigarette), and of course they always give me that stupid 'look' that pigeons give. Twitching their little necks and bobbing their silly heads backwards and forwards – sometimes tilting the said head to one side to cast me a quizzical glance.

I couldn't harm them, so I growl at them in an attempt to demonstrate to them that something nasty might happen to them should they dare to come any closer to my car. They seem to take notice, and begin shifting from one scaly foot to the other as if they're not quite sure whether to take me seriously, or to take flight. I give them several long, low, rumbling, bastard-dog type growls which they certainly do take notice of because they always start shuffling around rather uncomfortably at that point. Then I give them a bit of a talking to, telling them that if they come near my car, they could suffer the consequences (an idle threat, I know, but hopefully they aren't aware of that). They appear to take this all in, judging by the look of focus on their faces, but of course I'm probably wasting my time because I then get into my car and drive it away, leaving them to think: "Well, the stupid man – how could we go near his car when he's driven it away?" By the time I return home, hours later, they will presumably have forgotten the whole incident and strangely, they're never there when I do. Otherwise, of course, I would remind them.

I quite enjoy our little chats, and it seems a more humane way of dealing with the situation than shooting them. I also thought that for some odd reason pigeons are protected, or that it is against the law to kill them. I'm not sure if this is true, but I don't fancy tackling the gunmen to find out; city centre living carries enough trauma as it is. There are a lot of students living in this block too – they make the most dreadful mess in the lift; often leave the remains of kebabs in the hall (both pre-eaten and post-eaten, if you catch my drift); and often run riotously up and down the corridors at 3:00 a.m. shouting their crazy young heads off. Hmm, look out for a new sign appearing shortly: "WARNING: A student shoot is taking place today – please be aware."

Now, that would be something, eh?

La Tarantella

All right, all right – calm down. I know, I know, I haven't posted a blog for ages but I do have a living to earn you know, and I was out enjoying myself over the Bank Holiday. For yes it is true - I rushed home on Friday evening full of anticipation for a great weekend, and I wasn't disappointed. On Friday we went to Shaw's to watch 'The Shakes' perform which was most excellent fun. It always strikes me as odd that a room full of people can begin as a decorous crowd of civilized diners, and yet can end as a riotous assembly of drunken revellers. When a band such as 'The Shakes' is performing, most people begin by quietly applauding each number, nodding approval to each other in an appreciative way. But it never ends that way. The French dramatist Beaumarchais once wrote about how calumny can spread through a society like a pandemic – beginning with a ripple of rumour and suspicion, and ending with the rage of a forest fire, devouring all before it.

So it is in Shaw's. The vaguest ripple of a rhythm begins to buzz around the room, and soon afterwards a single couple might slough off their frail inhibitions and start dancing. Before long, the ripple becomes a wave of movement that gushes across the entire room, until there are people cramming the small area designated as a dance floor. Then soon there are people dancing in the spaces between the very tables at which some diners are finishing their meals; they're dancing on the windowsills; by the bar; in doorways; and even on those tables where the hapless diners have already finished eating. The room becomes an uprising of passion and tempo. It reminds me of those quite ordinary bars in Spain where at one moment people are chatting and drinking as normal and then the next, are overtaken by an overwhelming longing to shake their heads and their hips, as if gripped by the fever of la tarantella. It was quite an evening.

The remainder of the Bank Holiday was more of the same, really. I spent Sunday at the sailing club where it was blowing old boots (and yet with glorious sunshine) so that we were able to complete most races in half the time it often takes to get around the course. A great way to blow away the cobwebs of excess (not that I had any, of course).

And it's not as if it ended there either – last night, after a gruelling day back at the orifice, I went to another festival of performance produced by 'Hatch'. This time it was held in the slightly more salubrious surroundings of 'The Ropewalk', but again presented us with an eclectic mix of the weird and the wonderful (including, shock horror, male nudity). I won't say too much about it because I've been commissioned to write a review of the evening for Nottingham's latest arts magazine 'Nottingham Visual Arts'. You can look out for my review of this fascinating and provocative evening of light entertainment when it's published, sometime after this weekend. I'll post a link here.

This evening I've been to the launch party for the very same magazine which was a pleasant event indeed – lots of old faces (especially in my case, ha!) and some lively chat about what constitutes visual art today. There was also (of course) the usual free booze and food. I keep trying to increase the number of such events that I can get invited to, so that I never have to buy any food or drink again. The trouble is, there's only so much champagne and canapés that a person can take.

Anyway, tomorrow evening I shall be back on the river in my rubber sailing boots and clinging lycra. If today's wind is anything to go by, we'll be back across the finishing line before we've even started – which should give me enough time to nip out later for a quick snifter of the hard stuff before heading off to bed. I look forward to it.

So, dear reader, I will try not to neglect you in the future – but for now I must put on my face mask and get my curlers in. The cocoa is boiling and the nightlight is on. Tomorrow's early start beckons.

Sweet dreams.