My Family Without The Animal (please)

I have an awful lot of projects on the go at the moment – so many in fact, that I wouldn't have time to work, even if I had a job. The little squares on my two-week timetable are almost filled up. This lends my life a somewhat regulated slant – I'm not entirely happy about this in some ways because it means that everything is prescribed, and there isn't much room for surprises. In other ways though, it's a great boon to my plans because without it, I might become so unstructured that I wouldn't achieve anything at all and everything would fall apart.

However, there are some surprises that aren't really welcome anyway. Take last night for instance – the square on my timetable showed 'Ironing', so I heaved the ironing board into place, and the iron, and was just about to fetch a load of clothes from the airing cupboard when there was a tap on my apartment door. I live in a fortress with (supposedly) no unauthorized access from the street, so a knock on the door is always a surprise. Thinking that it must be someone from one of the other apartments – someone calling to borrow a cup of sugar perhaps – I opened the door. It wasn't a neighbour at all - no, it was that damned stray cat which had somehow slipped through someone's legs and gained a surreptitious entry to the street door.

The wretched creature was demanding a saucer of milk (several in fact) and of course, some attention. So, I had to put away the ironing board and spend several hours throwing balls of wool for it to chase. A fruitless pastime, if ever there was one. I thought I had rid myself of this pest some time ago, but just when I am relaxing in the assumption that I am finally cat-free, it turns up again. I read Gerald Durrell's 'My Family And Other Animals' many many years ago, but one of the memorable scenes in that book is when Gerry's mother receives a letter from some disliked relative announcing an impending visit. At this point, the family was living in the sprawling Daffodil-Yellow Villa and so the poor beleaguered mother's only solution was to move to the smaller Snow-White Villa, thereby fending off the unwelcome visit by declaring that there was simply no room for additional guests. A cunning plan, if somewhat inconvenient.

I feel a bit like doing something similar. I don't want to move from this apartment, but if that is the only way that I am going to be able to shake off this wretched stray cat, then I may have no choice. Or maybe I should just leave the country, with no forwarding address? Hmm, that's an idea....

Battling On

I am relentless in my pursuit of goodness. Every day I resolve to be good, yet every day I always - in some small way - fail. Each morning, as I leap from my bed, I make a promise to myself to do only good things today; to spread only love and happiness around me; to banish all negative thoughts; to smoke less; drink less, exercise more.

What happens? I forget all about it, that's what. Having first convinced myself that only good things will come to me if I'm good myself, I waiver and buckle at the slightest setback and this subsequently causes me to start behaving badly. Sometimes I only do a small thing that's bad – maybe two or three cigarettes over my daily quota, or perhaps an extra three fingers of whisky, late into the night. Other times, I conduct myself with such alarming depravity and malice aforethought, that this causes my heart to sink when I realize that once again, I have lost the principles by which I should live. Why am I so weak?

I can remember a single occasion when I was about four years old and my mother was chiding me for doing something naughty. "You have turned from a nice little boy, into a bad little boy," she told me. A casual, throwaway comment for an harassed young mother to make, perhaps, but it cut me to the quick. I remember retreating behind the sofa to contemplate this new revelation. What shocked me at the time about that particular remark was that it was complete news to me that a person could change from being good to being bad. I distinctly recall being dismayed that I was no longer 'good' because I had – until then – assumed that my 'goodness' was unassailable. I had, somewhat naively perhaps, been under the misapprehension that the world was divided into two types: The bad, and the good. My brother was undoubtedly bad and I, on the other hand, was undoubtedly good.

This news that I had somehow strayed across the Rubicon was devastating. What perplexed me most about this was that I made the assumption that once the crossing had been made, there was no going back. I was now a bad person, and therefore doomed to a life of evil; a life of weakness, iniquity and shame. Ever since then, I've been struggling to smash the curse. Yet failing.

Is this is what is meant by "Life's rich battle"? If so, I need a stronger army. Perhaps that's what the Salvation Army was created for? Oh, to be a Pilgrim!

Accidental Animator

Hello, gentle reader. I've been 'through the mill' (as they say) in recent times. Since the excesses of the previous weekend/week, I decided to have a few quiet days and to give myself some time to re-group the senses. So, I've been spending some time with my poor old lonely father, and doing plenty of housework too. I've also been catching up on paperwork, and trying to cut down on the drinking. I also went to see an art installation created by a friend of mine called 'Accidental Animator'. It was such a cool concept that maybe the new Nottingham Contemporary gallery should commission Anne-Marie to repeat this exercise in its lofty halls there. It might improve matters, in my opinion.

The idea this time was to create a collage of a scene using recycled material (largely, discarded flyers from the many and various venues around Nottingham), and getting the visitors (i.e. the audience) to participate in its creation by ripping or cutting their own shapes and sticking them on to the canvas. Anne-Marie had sketched out in pencil a Nottingham montage featuring such iconic landmarks as the Sneinton Windmill, the Council House, Vicky Centre flats, the Right Lion (as opposed to the Left), and even the Loft Bar building itself. All that was required then, was to cut and paste the detail – the 'colouring-in' bit. Great for occupational therapy!

The really nice thing is that the piece was actually built by people who perhaps wouldn't normally interact with art form at all; people who live in Nottingham too.

But there's a clever twist to this. The finished collage is not the main player in this installation. No, the picture itself is just the 'cause' to the real 'effect' and is not even required after the event. In fact, the picture could be jettisoned almost as a by-product (bit cruel though). For while people were helping to create this trompe l'oeil before our very eyes, our clever Accidental Animator was filming the progress and creating stills of the developing scene. These stills will then be used as an animated film showing the build up of the picture, projected onto the walls of the Loft Bar. It will be a bit like a massive flip-book created not by just one artist, but by many. A real, live, living flip-book, if you like.

On a dreary, weather-pounded winter's afternoon, this colourful and cheeky window of art-in-the-making is just what you need to cheer you up. So, my rehabilitation is going well. Watch this space. You might see a new 'me' emerging.

Sing As We Go!

I just wonder what the world is coming to. Corruption, corruption, corruption everywhere. I now see that (according to the headlines) 'Sleaze chief David Curry quits over £30,000 love-nest expenses swindle'. It is alleged that this man, a Tory MP, has quit as chairman of the Parliamentary Standards & Privileges Committee over claims that his taxpayer-funded home had been used as a love nest for his mistress. He reportedly claimed almost £30,000 for a second home that his wife had banned him from visiting. It is said he had used the house, in his Yorkshire constituency, to meet a local headmistress who was his lover.

This man was meant to be the guardian of standards; a watchdog to protect us from the abuse of power by those people whom we have elected to govern us. What a bloody cheek these people have. It's nothing short of rampant hypocrisy, that's what it is (well, that's if David Curry's duplicity turns out to be proven). I've not experienced such hypocrisy since I witnessed my Great Aunt Dolores selling the 'Socialist Worker' at the gates of a power station during the 1984-5 miners' strike. I wasn't at all happy about driving her to the picket line in her Bentley. We had to park around the corner while she changed from her mink coat and cashmere dress into a boiler-suit and donkey-jacket (which she'd ordered her maid to deliberately 'distress'). When I complained about this seemingly duplicitous charade, she told me not to be so stupid.

"You're just a lily-livered liberal, boy," she said, "whereas I am a real red-bloodied socialist. Don't forget, I fought with Hemingway in the Spanish Civil War." At this, I reminded her that Hemingway didn't actually fight in the Spanish Civil War, he just reported it. "That's what you think," she retorted. "You weren't there. He was the most courageous of men. We were lovers, you know – until that bitch Martha Gellhorn came along and usurped me. She didn't want him; she was just jealous of me".

My Great Aunt often talked nonsense of this kind. Her memory of events, and her political credentials, were always blushed red with a more than flamboyant imagination. But back to the picket line and the Socialist Worker. I was humiliated with embarrassment when she forced me to dress in what was her idea of the outfit of a fish-wife: A hideously tatty paisley-patterned frock, headscarf, and wrinkled stockings. I don't think anyone was convinced by this, but the guys on the picket line were far too busy shouting 'Scab' to notice.

When Dolores had finally sold all of the copies of the newspaper, she led the boys in a chorus of the 'Red Flag' and passed around a bucket for the donation of coins. "For the little kiddies' Christmas presents," she yelled, flashing her gorgeous white teeth.

Back in the Bentley, she wriggled out of her boiler-suit and donkey jacket and flung them out of the dark-tinted window. I didn't get an opportunity to change out of my outfit because I was driving, so when we pulled up outside 'Euphoria', possibly the smartest restaurant in the area adjacent to the power station, I was still dressed as Gracie Fields – and not in her smarter years, either. By this time, Dolores had finished counting the contents of the bucket.

"Hmm, not bad. A hundred and forty-two pounds and seventy-three pence," she announced, pleased with herself. "Should buy us a decent lunch in here." I was staggered and aghast by this. I pointed out to her that this was money that she had collected from poor starving, striking miners. Half of it was meant to be handed over to the publishers of the 'Socialist Worker', and the rest should have been earmarked for the little kiddies. To squander it on a lunch of lobster Thermidor and rump of Dovedale beef with braised asparagus, was both immoral and illegal.

"Rubbish," she snorted. "It's called re-distribution of wealth, if you didn't know. Now come along – no time for you to change. You'll do, dressed as you are."

Sighing, I followed her into the restaurant. Sing as we go, and let the world go by....

Nottingham Contemporary Can Lift Spirits (Just)

I went to Nottingham's newest art gallery today. Nottingham Contemporary opened at the weekend but, despite it being only around the corner from where I live, I've been too busy to pop down there for a visit. It's a good job that I wasn't quivering with anticipation about it, because I'd have been sadly disappointed if so. Two years behind schedule, and £3 million over budget, the end result hardly seems worth the wait. The building itself is uninspiring and bland – from the bottom of Middle Hill it resembles a corrugated-iron grain house, and is far outclassed by the elegant deconsecrated church next door that is now a cocktail bar (have a look at the picture - the strangely glowing building on the left is the new gallery).

Internally, one wonders what all the time and money was spent on. This great vast box contains only four rooms for the actual art which is, after all, its raison-d'être. The gift shop almost gets more space than the pictures. The stairs that lead two floors down to the café-bar (and away from the art), resemble the entrance to Hitler's bunker – stark, bare concrete walls looking almost as if they're already stained with damp. Yes, yes, I'm sure that polished concrete is very fashionable these days, but it does nothing for me. The café-bar itself, with its uniformed waitresses moving genteely amongst the tables with pots of tea, is far too posh. I was hoping for something more bohemian; something with an artistic, intimate feel. This is no 'Au Lapin Agile', I can tell you.

Maybe it's early days only, and perhaps the building will develop an identity as time goes by. I hope so, because it has been much heralded as the new artistic hub of Nottingham. It has certainly pulled off a coup with one of its opening exhibitions – a collection of David Hockney's early works including the iconic 'A Bigger Splash'. I always find it fascinating when I see the original version of an image that has played a part in the artistic representation of a generation. It makes me quite shiver.

Even though I was less than impressed by Nottingham Contemporary today, my visit nevertheless lifted my spirits. Today I have been unusually disheartened by a series of personal problems that even my normal effervescence couldn't solve. My timetable had collapsed amidst the chaos of debauchery and entertainment, my self respect was at an all-time low and - to quote a line from the theme from TV's 'Friends' - my love-life was D.O.A. So wandering amongst Hockney's collage-paintings and sketches of nude boys lifted my somewhat dull spirits and put a new spring in my step. In fact, it gave me the energy to write this blog. So there, you've all benefited.

Another Lost Weekend

The new timetable was a great idea. It was really beginning to work and was shaping my days into something constructive so that I was actually achieving results. A most productive week was drawing to a close, and targets were being met. I was feeling pleased with myself. I'd held the meeting with the film producer who is anxious to get my film about the non-transvestite made, I'd done my shopping and made my arrangements for all other domestic chores to be ticked off – tick, tick, tick. All good.

And then, on Friday afternoon, a chance encounter with someone I'd only met twice before, caused a sudden and dramatic nuclear fusion that the time since then has been spent in an ever-spiralling whirlwind of drinking and debauchery, such that I have now lost the plot completely and the timetable lies in tattered shreds on the stained floor of despair. Oh dear. Not good.

Mind you, I have engaged in some worthwhile pursuits too. I went to the cinema on Friday evening to see the much lauded 'Bright Star', Jane Campion's latest film offering about the love affair between poet John Keats and Fanny Brawne. It had been described by critics as 'exquisite', and in some ways, it was. Well, the photography was exquisite, but little else. The script was diabolical and unbelievable; the acting not much better. A big disappointment.

On Saturday I went to a fabulous private art viewing and bought a beautiful piece of artwork. I just wish I could remember what it is called – I'll have to ring the artist and ask him, and also how he did it (it's some kind of digitized print). If the artist ever makes it big, it might be worth a fortune in the future, and then I won't need a pension!

Sunday night (after a relaxing and healthy walk around the University Lake) saw us at the Malt Cross for a musical extravaganza – a tribute to the great Tom Waits. There was some fabulous singing and playing from people like Mink (slightly reduced in numbers, but Ian Oxlade's voice seems to have matured into something even more extraordinary and totally spell-binding). Also reduced in numbers was the group Shakes, who are a regular turn at Shaw's Restaurant – keyboard player David surprised us all with his completely authentic rendition of a couple of Waits numbers. Terrific stuff – although the show was nearly stolen by Ali Hazeldene's unbelievably charismatic singing; more mesmerising even than Odysseus's Sirens. See picture below.

Unfortunately, all of these excellent pursuits were accompanied by the consumption of very large quantities of alcohol. In fact, more alcohol in one weekend than any sane person should consume. Which is why we are not sane, perhaps. And who is "we", you might ask? The chance encounter I had on Friday afternoon with someone I hardly knew, turned into a full-on bonding for the next three days. We've hardly been out of each other's company for all of that time, which is quite a strange thing. We even watched a film on TV last night – we'd both seen it before and both remembered enjoying it. What a shock – it was rubbish. Bad script, bad acting, terribly mis-cast all round – what a shambles. The film? It was 'Little Voice'. To be avoided at all costs.

Hopefully, better news tomorrow.

L'Acrostiche

Today's Thought For The Day is highly appropriate to the situation in which I find myself. It says that when faced with a challenge that feels as if it is bringing a negative change in our lives, it is worth remembering that every single thing that happens to us is ultimately for our own good. How true that is!

Here is the reasoning behind this: Change is necessary because without it, nothing happens. We have to move old things out of the way to allow newer, better and more amazing things to come to us. When I was told that I was being unceremoniously booted out of my last job before my contract had ended, I was tempted to curse and swear. But it didn't take me long to remember that all change should be welcomed and that, as black as this news might have appeared to some people, it appeared to me as an opportunity.

Every time I get too comfortable, it is necessary to shake myself up and look for new openings. Getting too comfortable causes me to take my eye off the ball; to lose sight of the goals I really want to achieve. I mean, I was never going to get my novel about rent boys finished while I was slaving away at Northampton and driving for three-and-a-half hours every day

So, whilst it is still necessary to earn money, my somewhat rude ejection from my last contract has forced me to look around for something more suitable. But more importantly, it has given me the opportunity to get back into circulation with my favourite people – the writers and film-makers of Nottingham. And here comes the good bit – a film producer has shown some interest in making my film - the one about the man whose wife thinks he's a transvestite, but isn't.

Even though nothing may come from this (there are many false starts in the film industry), it's really great that a serious film producer has shown serious interest in my script. It's only a ten-minute short, but it's a start. If nothing else, it has boosted my confidence at a time when I really could use it. And the nice thing is that it only came about from a chance remark made during a chat over a beer, where said producer was present. That conversation wouldn't have taken place if I'd been at Northampton, no sir!

Chance is not something that happens to other people – it happens to us all, but some people don't actually see it. The difference is to keep one's eyes open and never, ever, see anything as negative. Sure, bad things will happen – but the answer is not to let those bad things knock us off course.

Rare is the change in anyone's circumstances that can't be exploited to find something better, but it's all a case of application; it's all a question of attitude.

Each and every one of us has a responsibility to ourselves to search for the best we can do, and to do it. Maybe my film script about the man who isn't a transvestite will never appear on the screen, but at least I'll have given it a go; at least another door can be creaked open a notch.

The momentum of this new spirit of optimism might even see the completion of the novel about rent boys, or even, the novel about the woman who died but didn't. There's so much to do, but the satisfying truth about this is that there is only one person who can do it. And that person, is me.

Never Do Today....

I have sorted out my timetable now. I made lots of little squares in columns under a heading for each day, and began to fill in the squares with all the things I need to do (this was after drawing up a 'To Do' list yesterday). The problem was, there weren't enough squares to fit everything into one week, so I had to convert it into a two-week timetable. We used to have one of these at school – where the timetable was issued to us in two halves: 'Week One' and 'Week Two'. It was quite strange how frequently I used to forget which week were in and would turn up at the wrong classroom to attend a lesson that would be a full week away. Occasionally it would be quite useful to pretend that one had the wrong week, because that would be a suitable excuse for 'forgetting' to hand in some homework that one had somehow failed to complete. We used to think the teachers were stupid in those days.

So, my new two-week timetable is finished and ready. It took me most of Monday on Week One to complete it, so the task and chores listed therein for that day didn't receive any attention. Today is Tuesday of Week One, so let me just check what I should be doing [PAUSE]. Oh, I see that I should be writing my blog at this very moment – what a coincidence! Well, my timetable appears to be working, despite experiencing a slight hiccough this morning by oversleeping. The universe temporarily deserted me by causing me to forget to set my alarm last night and that, coupled with a rather drunken late night throwing balls of wool for the stray cat to retrieve, meant that the activity I had set for Session One of the day ('Looking for a Job') was missed. Doh! However, I have allowed myself some free periods during the day – this is for contingencies – so maybe I can catch up on the missed session later. Or maybe not.

This is all a bit anal I suppose; I feel a bit of a nerd, doing this. But it's all part of the plan to create a New Life and is really quite necessary – if I didn't try to organize myself, I'd probably just lay on my back all day waving my legs in the air. As an occupation, waving one's legs in the air is not conducive to making good progress, and so should be avoided. I might even take this nerdiness one step further and print off my timetable, laminate it, and stick it on the wall. How about that? The trouble is, that would eat into the time already allocated for the next activity, so I'll have to shift that task down a bit. Oh dear, I can already see this whole plan failing, especially as I don't really like doing the next activity. Procrastination is the order of the day, perhaps? Did I schedule any time for that, I wonder?

Or maybe I should make a Christmas cake? I've never done that before so I fancy giving it a go – and of course, this means that I can waste even more time by cycling to the shops to buy the ingredients. Okay, so there's no square in the plan that says 'Make Christmas Cake', but I see that there is a 'free period' coming up next on the Week Two bit of the timetable. Is it permissible to switch weeks willy-nilly, do you think? It has to be done.

C'mon: Stick 'Em Up!

I've had one crazy week since I returned from Switzerland. The plan was to get home, stop drinking, and spend time re-organizing my wretched life into something that would (for once) actually work; something that would deliver the results I've been trying to achieve for the last one hundred and fifty years; something that would provide me with the fulfilment that I always crave. Not so.

I have been drunk every evening since then – in fact, on one occasion I was actually drunk in the daytime (shock horror). I have to point out that there have been excuses – friends keep calling round and forcing me (at gunpoint) to open the vessels of alcohol. At one point, a friend of mine became so drunk that he fell over onto a table and split his head open. There was blood everywhere, I can tell you. Ever the opportunist, my friend decided that his injuries should provide a few days off work and asserted that he could easily claim that he'd been mugged. To corroborate his claim, he thought it might be a good idea for me to punch him in the face, thus augmenting the bruising and scarring he had already suffered.

Can you imagine that? Me, the perfect softie, punching anyone in the face? I refused, of course - only to incur the wrath of my friend, whose conclusion that my failure to secure him a few days blagged off sick rendered me liable for a punching myself. Luckily, my lovely face was spared a beating, as he forgot all about it when he passed out. Passed out, yes - but not before upsetting a full pint glass of Coca-Cola all over my coffee table and thereby destroying all books and magazines in his path. This sounds like a rock-and-roll life, but I assure you that it is not. This is small-town life; this is Hockley life; this is not life.

So, I have decided to have a quiet night in this evening, alone. My plan is to formulate a plan. What I feel I could do with is a timetable. You know, the sort of timetable we used to have at school. I could divide up each day into period-size chunks and allocated an activity to each period – something like this:

Week 1
Period One: Finish unfinished novel about rent boys
Period Two: Do something about getting a job
Period Three: Stare meaninglessly into space
Period Four: Attend to paperwork and sort out my mother's estate
Period Five: Italian Lesson

You get the kind of thing. I feel that a more structured approach to the day might reap some benefits. It would certainly be better than my current agenda, which appears to be:

Week 1
Period One: Get up and check email and Facebook
Period Two: Stare meaninglessly into space
Period Three: Continue to check email and Facebook
Period Four: Stare meaninglessly into space
Period Five: Pour drink

Well, at least I'm listening to the radio right now, instead of watching the X-Factor. That has to be a good start, don't you think? Watch this space.

La Belle Suisse!

I had an absolutely fabulous time in Switzerland. At one point, when we were down at the lake (which only the English call 'Lake Geneva' by the way), I decided to feed the ducks with an old sandwich I just happened to have in my bag. More fool me – the poor ducks didn't get a look in as I was immediately surrounded by a thousand seagulls, all shrieking for a bit of the action. I felt just like Tippi Hedren as they circled my head, some hovering just in front of my face, looking plaintively at me as if to say: "Me! Me!" One actually hit me in the eye with a beat of its wing – they were that close.

As I threw the bits of sandwich into the air, followed by bits of a sausage and some pieces of chicken (my bag is indeed resourceful), the lucky ones grabbed at a piece as it flew past them, and then wheeled quickly away as if they were terrified that another gull might snatch the morsel from their very throats. It was surreal and delightful experience. Not only did I feel like dear old Tippi (would that I had her fur coat and leather gloves), but I also felt like the Bird Man of Alcatraz; the old women in Mary Poppins on the steps of St Paul's; or maybe just Worzel Gummidge.

Anyway, the remainder of the weekend went really well too. We took the train on Sunday to Montreux where I tried to find any trace of the fire that inspired Deep Purple's 'Smoke On The Water', but I suppose it isn't something that would even be remembered, forty years on. I did stand next to the bronze statue of Freddie Mercury which stands, for some bizarre reason, on the palm-tree lined promenade in front of a rather tacky children's playground. The whole promenade is a bit tacky, to be honest – it clearly has delusions of grandeur as it attempts to ape the rather more cosmopolitan seafront at Monte Carlo. These flâneurs were not of the same calibre as can be found on the Côte d'Azur, let me tell you.

However, it was lovely to be beside the massive brooding waters of the lake, and it reminded me of a time when my Great Aunt Dolores (she who was knocked down by a lorry and yet survived, and later took up playing the xylophone) hijacked a steamer on its way from Geneva to Lausanne. She didn't use violence of course, but she used her formidably persuasive powers (otherwise known as aggressive bullying) to convince the captain to divert to Thonon-les-Bains where she had arranged a secret rendez-vous with the Aga Khan - or so she claimed, for unfortunately we were arrested immediately upon disembarkation and were forced to spend the next two days in the confines of the splendid Town Hall. I'll tell you more about that next time.

   

1066 And All That!

We're a funny breed, the British. We hate to see the underdog losing at anything (which is why we are such ardent supporters of football, I suppose) and so I always cringe whenever I watch University Challenge because it always seems that one team absolutely bashes the other. I don't understand this – especially when we get to the later rounds when the teams are meant to be the cleverer lot of the bunch. It's quite extraordinary that a team which bashed another in an earlier round (and therefore became viewed as smug at that juncture), suddenly becomes bashed by a different team in the next round. So what happens then? Well, those oh-so-smug young men and women of an earlier round suddenly emerge as our pitied and hapless heroes. Especially if they're good-looking.

So there you have it – we don't actually like winners in this country. So, herein lies the rub: For a nation that so clearly despises success, how come we managed to build the most expansive and most successful empire in the history of the world? It doesn't seem altogether congruous that a breed of people which so often routs for the underprivileged and the downtrodden, should at some point in its long history become one of the most aggressive and belligerent people on earth.

I have the answer. It was those bloody Normans wot did it. The Normans came to this island and performed a magic trick – they bullied us into submission, yet made us into a proud and arrogant people at the same time. Some trick, eh? How strange though, that the French (for it was they) should have exported some trait of character that as a nation, they then instantly lost for themselves. And what do we learn from this? That there is such a thing as a national trait? Sounds a bit jingoistic to me. A bit xenophobic, almost.

So what is a nation anyway? Is it just a team on University Challenge to be cajoled and bullied by the likes of Jeremy Paxman? Your starter for ten: Bzzz! "Harrison of Somerville". Oh, you got it wrong, Harrison of Somerville. Again. Do we feel sorry for you, or were you too smug anyway?

We should all treat our own lives as if we were a nation. We should ensure that we are proud of our achievements, yet we should be humble in our privileges. In the words of Winston Churchill: In war - resolution; in defeat - defiance; in victory – magnanimity. There's a lot of truth in that.