An unexpected beer (or two)

Thought I’d visit the pub for a couple of jars. ‘Just two,’ I said to myself. This was the height of folly because I’ve had more ‘just two’ sessions than I care to remember. The trouble is people don’t want me to leave while we’re having fun. Or something like that…

Actually I was serious this time. In, out and home. That was the plan. Ha ha; how the Universe likes to mock our carefully laid machinations. Not that I’m complaining because last night the Cornucopia spilled its goodies all over me. And we all like goodies don’t we?

The beer board looked promising. Elland porter (6.5% ABV) and Everards Sunchaser were both onboard to tempt me. And Burton Bridge Mystery Mild… Too many to list in fact. So I started in on the Sunchaser mindful of the next morning, and not wishing to wake up in the night with a mouth like the bottom of a parrot’s cage.

Two pints in something strange happened. People started to leave. This is very unusual but it’s a seasonal effect. Easter is approaching and people are trying to save their wonga for the bank holiday. Those long weekends in Rhyl don’t pay for themselves you know.

I was about to leave when kind hearted Sandra the generously boobed barmaid said, ‘Here you go John,’ and plonked another pint in front of me. Free beer! I really wanted to go, but I mean… FREE BEER!

Someone had decided to vamoose and it would have gone down the drain otherwise to feed the rodents. I supped it gratefully and got talking to this bloke about Vikings. I tend to attract such beings because I look a bit Scandy. Hardly surprising as all my ancestors (bar a couple of Midlanders) are from Cumbria or thereabouts.

It was a crazy conversation. The man kept repeating himself over and over… I think it was the Ellands porter which he quaffed like it was cherryade. You don’t do that! It’s best drunk by the half-pint. Or – delicious as it is – not at all if you want to walk out of the building.

I was about to leave for the second time when history repeated itself and Sandra (bless her socks) handed me another beer. What! MORE FREE BEER!? Yes, it’s true. Was this kindness or an assassination attempt? It’s hard to tell. I’m your basic man when it comes to beer: I like it but I know my limits, and I already felt tired. My limits were approaching faster than butter off a hot iron.

Halfway through a glorious pint of Abbeydale bitter (3.9% ABV) a young chap wandered over to me and the Viking Fanclub fanatic clutching a massive pizza. ‘Fancy this lads? It’ll just go to waste otherwise.’ It was as though people couldn’t face food or beer. Why was this? Martian spores? I bought a couple of beers after that having reached the tipping point, beyond which you think, ‘Sod it, I might as well.’

I don’t know, but I remember leaving the pub full of free beer and gratis pizza, slightly the worse for wear. I think I caught a taxi home, and I think the driver didn’t bother to ask where I live. We’ve met before, him and I.

Time Team has been ruined

I’ve been an avid admirer of Channel 4′s popular archaeology series Time Team for several years now. It’s an unlikely form of escapism, watching academics trowel through centuries of muck to reveal ancient treasures.

But unlike most mainstream TV Time Team was intellectually engaging. I’ve long suspected that some people would find it unbearably dull, but the Time Team crew felt like a bunch of mates… The kind of people you wouldn’t mind inviting around for tea. Or, given the disproportionate number of beards and sandals on display, a few jars.

Imagine my chagrin then, after tuning into Series 19 (after a winter of heavy anticipation) and discovering that it’s utter crap. At first I thought it was just me, but three episodes in I knew something was badly wrong.

Where was Professor Mick Aston, that distinguished poncer-abouter in brightly coloured jumpers and mock Medieval head-gear? Oh dear… It turns out that Mick walked off in a strop after Channel 4 decided to reboot the series, axing many of the archaeologists and hiring Mary-Ann Ochota to co-host the show, alongside Tony ‘I’ve-moved-on-from-being-Baldrick’ Robinson.

Actually Mick does appear in Series 19 from time to time… But not much so far.

Now, I think Ms Ochota is very intelligent and obviously knows her onions; but she is also young, attractive and has been cynically deployed, ‘To replace some of those geeky older people who are turning the show into a drag.’ That’s the subtext to the whole thing, and I’m surprised at just how peeved it’s made me feel. I fear Time Team has been dumbed down.

Time Team is a long-running series and, while I know change is inevitable, this is the wrong kind of change. I enjoyed learning about how archaeologists forensically piece together the past from available evidence. I found the whole thing the perfect antidote to the endless dross which TV channels churn out for their apparently dopey viewers. Eastenders? Britain’s Got Talent? Shove off!

All that muck-sifting and revealing the many-layered past has given way to a theme park approach. During the last episode – a dig at Caerleon in Wales – a team member ended up dressed as a Roman soldier, running around waving a little wooden sword. I don’t mind a bit of that, but where was any real information about the actual dig? There was a little, but it was seriously marred by too much pratting around. I switched it off. I never do that…

I complained to Channel 4 and they said, ‘Not everyone is going to be happy with changes,’ making me sound like an antediluvian fogey. Change I can take – the denigration of what was once good and appealing, I can’t.

Much to Mary-Ann Ochota’s credit she’s quitting the show over Mickgate and won’t appear in Series 20. I shall miss Mick Aston; I don’t meet people like that here at home. Old he may be, but I found him somewhat interesting. And of course Phil Harding! We all love Phil…

>>This blog post<< says it better than I could.

5 days of sexy sun

This winter was mild compared to the terrible Artic weather which ripped across the UK last year, and at last winter has yielded to glorious spring-shine, and the forecast is for five days of rock solid sun.

I used to think our national obsession with the weather was strange, but it really does affect our collective mood. During the darker months people seem to drag themselves around; their demeanour is much like orcs in Lord of the Rings, heading for the Black Lands with the idea of torturing some cute furry mammal with a rusty razor.. I suspect those people work in banks.

But when spring unpacks her lovely bags and moves in for a few weeks, things improve dramatically. Shorts are worn, revealing pale British legs the colour of Wensleydale cheese – and the spotty traumatised masses emerge from countless urban habitats wearing not many clothes and clutching bottles of cheap booze.

People smile. Some of them speak. ‘Hello, lovely day!’ And all because of the weather.

The hordes are headed for parks and town centres where they will sit around and wait for things to happen. The Fit squeeze into tight-fitting Lycra and parade sexy flesh through the streets, displaying their genetic superiority to all and sundry. The trick is to look as if you’re not on display. Wear huge headphones and a neutral expression. Boobs and bums bounce to the rhythm of countless iPods. Hair swishes. Sweat falls like salty rain onto the parched ground.

Spring unleashes thoughts of courtship and perhaps even love. I think human sexuality can be quite discreet at times, and shady corners harbour dusty ghosts. Lovers, whose hands move quietly over each other like secret shadows. Clouds part above them and mouths crush together as if to say, ‘Let’s perpetuate’.

‘Let us not pray – let us perpetuate.’

This is a theme carried throughout the whole of Nature. Birds sing more vehemently, the grass rustles with unknown battalions of creatures marching on their bellies. And all this to fuel a movement towards the great unknown we call ‘the future’. What is this mysterious future? I do not know, but its seeds are in the present, planted by you and me. Have an excellent spring. And remember to sow those seeds while you still can.

In search of lost love

A mate asked me to link through to his new blog. He’s trying to win back his lost love and I feel my own words are rather inadequate at this point. All I can do is suggest you see for yourself.

As for me; I find love illusive and women – by and large – too difficult. I’m not the kind of man who doesn’t understand them… that would imply fear of commitment and perhaps a lack of emotional maturity. Maybe some of us are too different; or we don’t fit the spirit of the age (is there one? Or is this an age with no spirit?)

Either way I don’t believe men are better than women, or vice versa. We are simply flawed beings trying to make sense of it all. I fear that people abandon each other sometimes, believing that they are following some sort of pre-determined ‘path’.

From my own perspective there is no path, no destiny and no guarantee of finding such a thing as a soul-mate this side of the veil.

Anyway, this isn’t about me! Send out good thoughts and hope that a love lost can be regained. Or else, what are we doing here on this wicked old piece of rock?

The Budgie

Those of us living in the UK are looking forward to the annual Budgie on 21 March. If you’re unfamiliar with this colourful national ritual, it means our Prime Minister’s little helper will dress up in a bird costume, perch on a wooden bench and – when his time comes – he will stand up and sing to the nation.He will sing of import and export duties, tax increases and price hikes on alcohol, tobacco and anything else which people are likely to enjoy. These things help pay for the Budgie’s exotic plumage and his gilded cage.

During the song, people sitting on either side of him will twitter and nod approvingly; especially when he reaches the bit about how he has inherited a challenging fiscal landscape from the previous regime.

‘Indeed!’ they will chorus, their beaks opening and closing – snapping up cuttlefish crumbs of wisdom as they drop from the little helper’s perch like dandruff from a prostitute’s wig. ‘Yes, yes. We agree.’

Other less palatable things drop from birds’ perches – and I think we’re going to be eating a lot of that over the coming years. Still, it’s for our own good. The song is Truth and Truth is the law.

A magic word will be intoned over and over again throughout the ancient and well rehearsed ritual, designed to hypnotise us simple peasants into unquestioning compliance and absolute belief.

That word is ‘prudence’. Say it to yourself now… Its power is colossal. When he says it the little helper’s sensual yet cynical and twisted mouth will pucker up like a dog’s bottom. The nation will weep with joy at such wisdom, and the deep privilege of being allowed to bask in it.

When the little helper’s song is over he will signal the end of his courtship by flapping his wings and saying, ‘I commend this Budgie to the House’. The place will erupt. Mount Etna will erupt. My boils will erupt. Feathers will fly. It’s time for my pills – and a lie down in a darkened room. I’d lie down in a well-lit room instead, but… you know. It’s the cuts.

Clicktivism: Wave of the future or online fad?

Whether you believe that the idea is a vacuous piece of 21st Century buzz or a genuinely progressive development, it’s true that many people have turned to the Internet to put their ideals into action.

Sites like Avaaz allow the noble armchair activist to protest about a range of issues within minutes – and petitions against illegal whaling, human rights abuses and attempts to restrict our freedoms are a happy fact of online life.

These mass petitions eventually rock up on the desks of policy wonks or politicos, and the word on the street is that they pay serious attention to them. ‘We’ve Won!’ proclaims Avaaz about yet another campaign victory. I hope so, and it makes a change!

All the same – without naming names – ‘clicktivism’ has its detractors. I read a Guardian article last year (don’t ask me to find it, I can’t be bothered) suggested that armchair activists are apologists for all that’s wrong in the world, and a danger to the already weakened political left.

I disagree. I did my fair share of protest clicking in 2011, and I took to the streets when I could make it. I can’t hope to attend every single demo that comes my way, so clicking to glory seems like the next best thing. It’s better than doing nothing, assuming that this kind of protest ends up as a head count of detractors in support of genuine issues.

Avaaz aside, there are always online petitions to get involved with. These are a welcome contrast to the scores of junk emails (and junk snail mail) I receive bringing glad tidings of affordable penis enlargement, Viagra (same thing?) and get rich quick schemes. I decided a while ago to refocus my time on getting thing done; and while I wouldn’t advocate clicktivism as a total replacement for face-to-face action (assuming your life has room for this), I think it’s the next best thing.

Who knows. Perhaps in a few years I’ll change my mind; but I think it’s probably blinkered to suggest that online activists are ineffectual. Cynical as I sometimes feel about ‘virtual communities’ (what have we replaced?!), I still believe that the Internet can act as a conduit for social change if it’s used in a very focused way by people who are clear about their objectives.

Note to self: If energies are not directed properly they go astray, leading to confusion and time wasting. And life is finite, so this is well worth considering. I do tend to let time slip by…

In any case the sham that we call ‘democracy’ – votes cast for crypto-fascist tyrants who ignore their electorate from then on – lends itself to taking action in between elections. You will not be noticed otherwise, so please kick up a fuss.

The religious ethics of Eric Pickles

Eric’s a politician and he likes curry – a lot. He also likes religion. I’m not sure if he likes religion more than curry, but here’s a photo of the fat bastard this person of size to help you decide.

Anyway, dear Eric is a lovely, lovely, lovely man. He must be because when I Googled ‘Eric Pickles’ and ‘religion’ in the same search I got 228,000 results. Pretty damn Godly!

I tried the same method, but this time I substituted ‘religion’ with ‘curry’ – and I only got 109,000 results. Confused? Me too.

You see, whenever Eric publishes a government press release he always mentions curry and / or religion. But he never says what he believes himself; so I can’t tell if he’s sincere or if he has a fetish: like some people do with trainspotting and collecting Jabba the Hutt figurines.

Eric is a proud upstanding, erect (even comely) citizen, and sometimes I almost like him. He reminds me of the Victorian patriarchs of yesteryear who banged on endlessly about God and Jesus and The Deserving Poor (Gawd bless ‘em) and such-like – but who were inevitably caught flying their patriotic trousers around their ankles while doing the horizontal zig-a-bop with underage girls with names like Betsy Hardcastle and Clara Wiggins. Well, it was either that or the workhouse and an early grave.

Perhaps this is why Eric (who is lovely; did I mention that?) likes curry so much: to fortify him and make him vigorous enough to sustain multiple trysts with naughty-bad night women.

It’s certainly not because he’s a hypocrite: such a thing would be completely unthinkable for someone as holy and morally correct as our Eric. I feel comforted that Holy He is in charge of a whole government department. Imagine what would happen if God wasn’t involved in running the country! Socialists would probably wheedle their way into the corridors of power, and that might upset Jesus.

I wonder if Jesus likes curry too…

A begging we will go…

I lifted the title of this post from an old folk song (I love my music, no matter how obscure), but sadly begging seems to be more noticeable in our towns and cities at the moment.

I live in Birmingham UK, and like any major town (population around 1 million) it has its fair share of problems. After more than a decade here I’ve come face-to-face with a few of them… sometimes up-close and personal.

A darker turn
But things have taken a darker turn and I rarely walk far without being accosted. People are quick to condemn. ‘They make a mint out of it!’ said a friend. I’m told that begging is quite lucrative; but you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise.

Most of the beggars I see don’t look good. Old age sets in early when you walk those mean streets alone, and some beggars (the word seems wrong somehow; demeaning?) are drug addicts. A very few are probably tricksters; but not many. There are easier ways to blag a crust even in this recession-raddled decade.

No. This kind of begging involves people who were already hanging onto the fringes of society before the recession kicked in.

Some lost their jobs, partners and homes. Others are still teetering on the brink waiting to fall over. To harp on a theme, I saw it before during the 80s, and now it seems we’re back where we started. So much for social progress in an age where money seems to the the measure of everything. ‘And why not?’ asks the siren voice of capitalism.

To give or not to give?
I avoid giving money to street beggars because I know where that can lead. I thought rather differently at one time, reckoning that a slack handful of change could make a real difference.

Then I read this article on a site called 24dash and it changed my mind. The article’s focus is on London, but the same advice could apply almost anywhere.

Emotions take over
I admit that begging upsets me. It bothers me on an emotional level because I feel powerless to do much about it. I buy the Big Issue and sometimes donate a small amount to a homeless charity. This seems paltry, because it doesn’t seem to prevent homelessness or begging – it just mops up afterwards.

Who wants to live in a society which is prepared to turn a blind eye and pretend that street begging is an inevitable but necessary evil? Not me. To me, money is not the measure of everything: it’s just an everyday tool.

I feel as if we’ve wandered into a deep jungle of intolerance, and we’re rapidly back-pedalling towards oblivion. Let’s hope not! Surely we are better than that.

Boycott Workfare Meeting March 29th

Reblogged from Birmingham Against The Cuts:

We were planning to wait until we had confirmed speakers, but with the storm that has blown up around the Tesco permanent nightshift workfare position advertised, we thought it best to make the event announcement now.

Thursday 29th March 7pm-9pm Unite the Union Transport House 211 Broad Street Birmingham B15 1AY

Boycott Workfare public meeting, in association with Birmingham Trades Council, Birmingham Against the Cuts,IWW West Midlands, Right to Work, Occupy Birmingham, DPAC and Youth Fight for Jobs Speakers invited from Boycott Workfare, Public Interest Lawyers and USDAW.

Read more… 262 more words

Living in a dream

You hear that phrase sometimes, ‘You’re dreaming!’ Meaning that you’ve lost touch with reality. But suppose, however briefly, you end up lost in a dream and you’re not sure how to escape.

It happens to me. I decide to get up early over the weekend so I can ‘Get stuff done.’ Man! My intentions are good, but things don’t usually go that way.

What happens is that I’ll go to bed early on Friday night and wake up around 6 AM. Great! I’m up and about.

But no… I decide to go back to bed for ‘another 10 minutes. It can’t hurt.’ And that’s it: I’m dreaming. Intense, kaleidoscopic, serpentine dreams that drag me under the surface and refuse to release me. Such dreams are full of familiar and unfamiliar faces. They seem to have a narrative… a flow.

But when I wake up, I have no idea what the dream was really about. So I go back to sleep and continue where I left off. This can happen several times during the same morning. When I wake up it’s 11 AM and I feel so groggy I have to stagger to the kitchen and make a drink. ‘Get up!’ I berate myself. ‘Stay up.’

I do, and things are fine. But somehow, I never fully switch on after such engrossing nightly phantasms. Such fugues.

I dream recreationally. There is some part of me that wants to escape into sleep. Not forever… Just long enough to plumb the ocean of my subconscious and see what’s there. Perhaps I’m looking for answers. Perhaps I find them and don’t remember what I learned. Is this a waste of time?

I don’t think so. Much of everyday life is mundane. I could have gone shopping. I could have travelled from A to B and looked at the scenery. To dream is to travel without moving.

(A Debt of Gratitude) ...The World...according to Zola de Cwtchi 25Feb12

Reblogged from sevenfoottranny:

(A Debt of Gratitude) …The World…according to Zola de Cwtchi

November 2011 was the first time i had considered entering into any form of Protest, all the years before i had intensionally stayed away from the Socialist Workers Party, the various Communist organisations…they just turned me off with their tactics.

I have always had that Anarchic feeling, yet had never really let it be publicly known, except my close friends who ‘liked’ Politics.

Read more… 584 more words

Found this post and decided to reblog it. I hope the Occupy movement grows and grows...

Arise ye Starvelings!

Should I ever jump into the murky shark infested sea of political discussion, it often ends in tears. If you’re left-wing the same arguments are wheeled out over and over again with relentless tedium.

Here is a selection to help me exorcise my demons. People tend to be less than original with their criticisms.

‘Utopias don’t work! That’s why Socialism can never be put into practice.‘ – but I didn’t say I believed in them… I don’t in fact. This plea usually falls on deaf ears. After all it’s my job to adopt woolly ideas. But seriously, ‘Utopian Socialism’ is an imprecise term, and it can mean different things in different contexts.

‘Socialism has failed and no-one can deny the success of global Capitalism.’ – They’re right. Internationally, Socialism hasn’t done well and has failed to find a niche power base. But if you call our current setup successful I’d hate to imagine what failure looks like. I think of Greece, and worry.

If you measure success in terms of how many people on Planet Earth are self-serving and visionless, then modern Capitalism has indeed been a resounding success.

‘You would say that. That’s the badge you’ve chosen to wear!‘ – Who says I chose to be me? I would argue that it’s hard NOT to see the world from a given perspective based on personal experience and observation.

To counterbalance this, I’ve had some great conversations with like-minded people. And the thing about the political left is, we have a real sense of camaraderie… when we’re not arguing with each other.

The worst rebuttal I’ve had is, ‘So you’re a Socialist. Hitler was a Socialist!!‘ This came from a graduate, suggesting that at least some graduates are a bit dense. Or if not, how about blinkered?

I almost forgot the other regular put-down I’ve encountered. ‘You’re just being nasty, and you don’t have any alternative solutions. I think you’re jealous of other peoples’ success.‘ This betrays a depthless well of ignorance, as very often the political right creates more problems than it solves! It also reveals an unwillingness to think things through

There is plenty of literature out there for the interested – much of it packed with ideas for improving society. ‘But socialism has failed!’ On it goes…

I think any discussion about political values should be based on the truth about various systems. British Socialism is nothing like Russian Communism for example. One is democratic and the other totalitarian. This is obvious, but you’d be surprised how many people don’t want to see it!

And Anarchism (for example) is as much about Order as anything else. That’s why there’s a big letter O around the big letter A. I’m not an anarchist, but I certainly have tendencies that way.

It amused me when I heard a university professor say, during a radio interview, ‘If that happened here we would end up with complete anarchy!‘ Even among academics the word has become a proxy for ‘chaos’. If educated people don’t understand it (they don’t have to agree, just understand) this suggests there’s something fishy about academia.

I remember reading something by the poet, Robert Graves (disliked by many academics – how dare someone have original ideas). ‘An academic is someone who dare not question the dogma of their academy. If they did they would be ejected from it.’ Or words to that effect.

I don’t think there’s an authentic political dialogue here in the UK. Perhaps there never will be. If I tune into TV or radio programmes, such discussions are always about the status quo (Conservatives versus Labour). They never touch on possible alternatives without sneering at them. If they did I suggest those programmes would be taken off the air in a fire-storm of public outrage.

After all, we are a free society. We can discuss anything… Rubbish! We only seriously discuss what serves the interests of the state and the business community. Broadcasters are too terrified to do otherwise.

If you try to think outside of the box many people will try to bully you into adopting their own ideas. This isn’t something I encounter daily – but it is something I encounter all too often, and it can be hard to function under such circumstances.

12 ways to tell that the 80s are back

Roll up, roll up. We all knew that it would come around again in all its septic glory. It’s the 80s again. Time to dust off your Toyah albums and look back to the days when U2 were brand new, ‘really cool – you’ve got to listen to this man!’

The other week I was standing in a queue by an ATM machine, next to a punk with a massive spiky Mohican. I wanted to ask, ‘How can you afford all that hair gel? Don’t you know there’s a recession?!’ but he might have punked on me, so I didn’t.

In truth, I was pleased to see him: at least punks have a sound ideology to follow. The rest of it makes my 80s war wounds twinge.

How to tell it’s the 80s again
1. The Tories are in – all of them. Suddenly public life is awash with nasty little fascists.

2. Unemployment is rising (bear in mind this isn’t always a personal choice).

3. The Tories say, ‘there are plenty of jobs’. The real problem is that people don’t want to do them. Heard that one before in the 80s. Almost every week in fact.

4. There is renewed dialogue between the Government and trade unions about how many people are on the dole. The Government says it’s under 3m. But the TUC say it’s over 6m. Exactly the same debate raged throughout most of the 80s; no-one won.

5. A lot of people look bloody miserable, tired and scared. I don’t blame them.

6. I see more people begging, and other people pretending not to notice them. In fact, hardly a week goes by when I’m not approached on the street by someone in dire straits: and I don’t mean the band.

7. Hate crimes have gone through the roof (many of them racially motivated). People are beating up their pets too… and their partners. Riots are a fact of life again.

8. Pundits constantly talk about ‘growth’, but there isn’t any. Soon though… it’ll happen if ‘we stick to our strategy’. Heard it!

9. Children are going hungry while an impassive nation looks on impotently and hopes for a win on the lottery (George Orwell got that bit right).

10. Older people are being shuffled around a bemused care system which can no longer look after them because its funding has vanished.

11. The Government is trying to privatise the NHS while claiming, ‘we’re not trying to privatise the NHS’. Of course not; and I’m the Pope.

12. The airwaves are alive with doublespeak, doublethink – but mostly, double standards.

Still – not to worry. Britain is Great again and we have the Olympics and the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee to look forward to. Makes me proud to be Blitish. Sign me up for Cameron’s Big Society. It’s big with lies, panaceas and raging hypocrisy.

Health kick

I suppose it’s pretty normal to think about improving your health at this time of year. The yawning void which is January seems to hint at decline and the grim aftermath of festive excess.

Did you hit the booze a bit too hard? Too much nut roast? (turkey was never a hot favourite of mine) Then it’s time to dust off your dumbbells and pump your biceps… assuming you can remember where they are.

That’s what fit folks do isn’t it? Or – as I silently call them – ‘The Fit’. I see them jogging around my local reservoir, showing off their compact limbs and tight bums. By God! To run like that. To sprint effortlessly over the frosty horizon like a prize-winning greyhound on coffee and disco biscuits.

But hang on a minute. There are 1000s of people living in my neighbourhood and hardly any of them go jogging. I mean, at any one time all I see is perhaps 4-5 people doing breathless circuits of the local ‘rezzer’.

One man really caught my attention last time I was out there. He ran with a strange loping stride: neck extended, arms swaying for balance… arse sticking out like a low-hung shelf. He was listening to his iPod on the way around. Ah yes The Fit like to step to the beat as they run. Preferably somewhere they will be noticed.

As I finished my own slow sombre circuit of the rezzer, I spotted The Loper leaning against a tree, panting for dear life. He looked like he was going to lose his lunch as he spluttered through snortling gobbetts of mucous. I know it’s not pretty, but vigorous exercise always produces buckets of the stuff. Thanks. I aim to disgust.

‘Ah-ha!’ thought I. ‘You and me are like brothers.’ Yeah. That’s what I look like when I take unaccustomed exercise. No firm buttocks and purposeful arms for me; I look more like a dying swan with a balloon shoved up its chuff.

Red-faced and breathless I ramble, wishing for the quiet repose of a pub table and a pint of ale. And throw some female company into the mix, oh Lord. Amen.

I WILL get fitter. I MUST take to the streets… But on a bike and a bit at a time. It’s the least I can do.

Facebook zombie apocalypse

I had a minor spat with someone (two people actually, on the same day) about Facebook. I loathe the bloody thing… Not because I object to people communicating, or because I’m a killjoy. And it’s not because I hate computers (I don’t, otherwise why would I use a blog?)

No. What I despise is the way Facebucket has inveigled its way into popular culture. People talk about it in public as though it’s a cure for cancer, or a peak human achievement. I don’t think it connects people either: I actually see it as a profound form of social disconnection.

But oh and woe! If you dare to suggest it’s a popularist fad started by an over-hyped far right geekoid you will be verbally assaulted. Yelled at even. I don’t like that, but I find it hard to button my lip where this is concerned.

Saying, ‘Facebook is crap!’ attracts some serious snorts from its many apologists. Here’s a selection of snortoids:

‘It’s a very valuable tool.’ (A tool?! Like a spanner or a rock? I think not. Tools are used to make things, but Facebook will more than likely make you stay at home and develop a fatter arse, or encourage you to tap away on your Crackberry in public like a demented woodpecker.)

‘It’s quicker than writing a letter.’ (Eating a pot noodle is quicker than cooking dinner, but you wouldn’t want to live on it. Ah, there’s the rub. It’s about speed isn’t it? You can’t be bothered to communicate with people if it actually interrupts your important schedule. Sounds like a great recipe for friendship).

‘It keeps me in touch with my friends!’ (I suppose it does. And Just all these friends are on Facebook too aren’t they? If – like me – you won’t use it, then I can’t be your friend. I’m simply not worthy. Well hey! I’ll walk around with a sign on my back saying ‘Kick the Luddite’ from now on.

Such comments suggest that software must act as an intermediary between people, and that no other form of initial contact is possible. You have but one friendship group, and just one channel to connect you all. ‘One ring to rule them all, one ring to bind them…’ Does this remind you of anything, Gollum?

It’s as though someone has added something to the world’s water supply to switch off peoples’ critical faculties. I’m pretty sure that a fair wadge of academics use Farcebook, so do students, rocket scientists and prize turnip growers. All are individuals with different cultural beliefs and assumptions. And many of them are probably on Facebook…

…or are they? A high percentage of the world’s population (roughly 1.5 billion people) doesn’t even have electricity , let alone an Internet connection. Facebook is therefore an artifact of developed nations where people are more comfortable with anonymity.

Highly developed societies have some serious social problems to contend with. Overwork, exploitation, lack of ‘me time’ for individuals. Facebook is an apparent solution to all this, offering a quick fix. Like a pot noodle.

Instead of writing to people, visiting them or (here’s a revolutionary idea) getting to know them in person – we have a ‘software solution’, cooked up by someone who is (ironically) celebrated as a socially adept luminary. Well, my thesis is that he’s a pillock, but I bet his missus loves him.

Who would have thought it? Years ago I imagined that by 2011 we would have moved on a bit as a species. Instead we seem to be shifting towards a more dictatorial culture where it’s unusual to not do certain things. Like use Facebook. It’s a zombie apocalypse, and I wish everyone would get wise to it.

An unexpected party

I don’t know if you’ve ever had a similar experience, but you may have been there yourself. Suddenly you find yourself thinking about someone you haven’t seen for ages, and you’re not sure why but it kind of makes sense. After all, you used to know that person slightly, and you wonder if they’re okay, or what’s changed in their lives.

Then you forget about them again and go for a walk. In my case a walk through Birmingham’s unfeasibly crowded Christmas market, dedicated to the memory of Jesus and his love of commercial enterprise. Temples? Moneylenders? But I digress.

Anyhow, I was thinking about this young man who runs a local live music event. I haven’t been going as I don’t think it attracts a particularly friendly crowd. The music’s great though, which is the main draw, so I suppose I can’t complain.

Imagine my surprise when D. popped up from amongst the throng of sheeply shoppers, clutching a leaflet in his pale fist. ‘Haven’t seen you for ages!’ he cooed, while thrusting said leaflet into my mitts.

Apparently his event has been supplanted after a bit of political backstabbing on the local scene, and he’s been forced to move it somewhere else. He invited me to try it out, thereby derailing a shopping trip (which I didn’t want to bother with anyway), and really making my evening.

It really was a very nice evening. A bit of indie orientated folk(ish) stuff, followed by some very infectious jazz singing / playing. A far cry from a rock club (for example) but fun to enage with. I’ll be back!

Guitar fun

This blog has been quiet for an age so I’ve decided to refresh it a bit. Whatever I mean by ‘refresh’ remains to be seen, but amazingly it still gets a few visitors!

I’ve been playing a lot more guitar these days; partly prompted by a performance I’m giving soon. Fortunately, I’m only doing one song for some people (who shall remain nameless), as the prospect of standing up in front of 20+ people and giving them an hour of my time bothers me a bit. Odd really, as I could probably keep going for ages in a less formal setting.

Someone I know slightly said, ‘You remind me of Nick Drake.’ I’m nothing like him, apart from a bit of performance anxiety. I also use fewer exotic tunings than he did. Mind you, he was hugely talented and deserves to be more widely heard.

Guitars are really beautiful and satisfying to play… assuming you have a good one. I’ve spent years thumping away on poorly made mass produced models, but now I have a decent instrument which is a constant source of pleasure.

There is something almost sensual about shutting out the world and sitting down for a long practise session. It’s quite a meditative experience… and anyway, it’s fun!

There’s a downside to all this though: playing guitar hurts your fingers. Eventually the tyro guitarist develops hard pads on his fingertips, but before this you experience a lot of discomfort. A mate of mine recently called this, ‘the bleeding stage.’

I think it was Shakespeare who said, ‘All the world’s a bleedin’ stage.’ This isn’t well known, so keep it to yourself.

Good (guitar) wood brings responsibility though. It’s not enough to pick one up and play it every day. You have to nurture it like a big expensive baby. Guitars pick up dirt and grease from your fingers, which has to be cleaned off. Strings need replacing about once a month (assuming you play regularly), and your guitar sometimes needs a good rub-down with a soft cloth… and maybe a dollop of specialised cleaner.

As if that’s not enough, your big (expensive: about the price of a second-hand car) baby guitar needs to live in a case, or else it’s liable to loose a lot of moisture. It’s wood, after all. I won’t go into the finer details of all this because I’m still learning about them myself, but it’s a far cry from the way I treated my first steel strung instrument: chucking it in the back of the car and dropping it at regular intervals!

Anyway, there’s a point to this ramble. If you don’t play an instrument, have you thought of taking one up? It’s worth the effort, and it’s better than watching the telly or sitting in a traffic jam.

The Rise of the Brylcreem Warrior

Tory boy and notable dick-head (hence the picture above) Wavey Dave Cameron carries on apace with his big society delusion, dragging us siren-like to a mass watery doom.

I’ll give him his due. The Brylcreem Warrior always has a smile glued to his fatuous face during his very public vapourings about localism and the rising tide of ‘entrepreneurs’ who are supposed to sail the Good Ship Britannia towards a safe harbour. There’s nothing safe about his shenanigans though.

‘Why?’ you may ask with an ugly sneer smeared across your lips, as you advance towards me, coalition manifesto in hand as though to batter me to death with that tome of the party faithful.

‘Simple’, say I, retreating slightly before your withering gaze. ‘There’s no-one left to deliver Deluded Dave’s perfectly potty vision’. Even a swift straw poll will reveal that local services are dying out faster than fleas on a dead feline. Virtually nothing has been left untouched, as the voluntary organisations, who will supposedly step in – like the hero in a cheezoid Hollywood movie – lose their grant funding and lay off their staff in droves.

Oh, go ahead and volunteer then, but don’t expect to actually get paid for your trouble. Not a bean will you get, because this year heralds a tsunami of public sector job cuts. ‘So what, I don’t work for the public sector. And anyway, they’re a bunch of greedy bastards chugging along on the gravy train.’

Wrong fool. They deliver the local services (‘localism’ in action!) which we all depend on. Are you old, and did you depend on Supporting People grant funding to pay for your meals on wheels? Bad news I’m afraid; that particular pot of money is no longer protected. To use the parlance of the public sector it’s been ‘un-ringfenced’. It will now be used to deliver essential LOCAL services – or should I say, ‘More essential than looking after all those inconvenient oldies who clutter up our country. Hell – they haven’t got long left, so why even think about them?’

All right then. Are you a young person trying to get a start in life. Too bad! Your LOCAL (there’s a clue there isn’t there) Connexions service has already been axed by Dave the Tory Tyrant and his band of thieving brigands. You’ll be okay though, because these days you should apparently ‘take responsibility for yourself’ and do your own donkey work. No-one could accuse this lot of shirking when it comes to unfeeling idiocy. Whatever happened to cooperation as a way of getting things done?

Are you a small organisation trying to deliver local services to your members, thereby generating the ‘green shoots’ of economic recovery we sometimes hear about? Too bad. Who do you think will supply your grant funding now? The public sector. Sorry! Its pockets are empty. The private sector? Nope – they are laying people off and pulling up their proverbial drawbridges. Localism is a canard – where else can services be delivered if not locally? In dream land obviously.

Some people view the public, private and charitable (third-sector) as completely separate, and the coalition often implies that local authorities should look to the private sector for greater efficiencies. This overlooks one simple fact: these sectors are not independent, they are completely interdependent. Local government is quite complex, but historically, it has been very good at working in partnership with both private and voluntary organisations. The coalition’s massive round of public sector cuts is tearing apart private contractors, and forcing charities to withdraw funding from people who really need it.

Localism and the ‘big society’ is akin to chopping your friend’s legs off and saying, ‘Go for a walk pal’. It’s an  irrational idea used to mask the real agenda: the removal of the Welfare State. I support the idea of distinctive local services, and I even agree that the third sector should play a much stronger role in society. Third sector organisations must be supported and enabled, but instead they are being quietly pruned to death through an act of ideological vandalism.

Don’t believe me? I can prove it. This site contains data showing that so far cuts to the voluntary sector total almost £49,000,000 – and that’s just the start. In case you are thinking, ‘What’s this got to do with a blog about bohemian life?’ I would say, ‘Loads’. Those small distinctive organisations help to prop up creative projects around the country. Without them we might as well sell out and get jobs in call centres, because at this rate there won’t be much left of our local services.

Fight the coalition’s cuts!

Here in the UK our Coalition Government has published their controversial Comprehensive Spending Review (CSR), which I’ve had the dubious pleasure of reading.

Never in the history of UK democracy have so few written so much blinkered bollocks for the benefit of so many. David Cameron and his condom-headed cohorts are trying to brainwash us into thinking that the round of cuts announced in the review is ‘fair’. Apparently, ‘We’re all in this together.’ His ideas are ‘radical’. I beg to differ!

Thinking people everywhere will resist the coalition’s cuts every step of the way. There are few liberals in government at the moment – but plenty of crypto fascists and power grubbing careerists with their faces deep in the trough of iniquity.

You might wonder what place an entry like this has on Boho Musings, but conservatism is largely the enemy of creativity. For example, the Spending Review is intent on cutting arts projects all over the country.

To add some figures to this vituperative rant, the Arts Council of England will make cuts of about £350 million over the next four years. This is an outline figure, but it will cripple creativity, while stifling  intellectual and cultural growth for decades to come.

These days everything is run by accountants, and while I think it’s sensible to factor money into important projects, I see these cuts as retrograde. They are designed to hurt the very people whom we should be encouraging during the global recession.

This short piece can’t begin to discuss on the sheer scale of the CSR without losing its focus. In any case, few people would want to read about it here, but unlike Nick (not-really-a-Liberal) Clegg, I have examined my conscience and found a sickening void at the heart of Government. It’s between his ears.

Folk me up

I’ve wanted to write something about folk music for some time, and there have been many brave attempts, followed by a lot of spectacular deletions. You see, it’s my passion and I want to do it justice.

Well scrub that! I can’t write objectively about something I love so much, so this is the blog equivalent of bungee jumping in the dark: I have no idea what I’m about to write. Folk music as a subject attracts academic discussions, cosy chats in the back rooms of pubs and heated debates about ‘what folk music really is.’ All I can hope to do is touch the surface in a piece like this; no conclusions will be drawn… as far as I can tell.

I first heard folk songs from my dad, without knowing what they were. He used to be a jazz musician, and somewhere in the flock-lined depths of his musty old banjo case he kept a yellowing loose sheaf of songs, complete with chords. In between expertly vamping out tunes like ‘California Here I Come’, he would sing ‘The Raggle Taggle Gypsies’ and ‘The Fox’. Simple but wonderful songs; just right for a child with a fertile imagination.

I had no idea that these were part of a folk tradition: my five-year-old self couldn’t even spell ‘tradition’! I quickly recognised that songs can tell a story and whisk you away to a parallel universe peopled with talking animals, strange gods and beastly angels.

I could walk through the enchanted forest and gaze at the bright wonders locked within – as long as I didn’t stray too far from the path. There be dragons! When I grew up I forgot about the magical kingdom and mutated into a bored, pizza-faced teen.

Once again, my wonderful father intervened and came back from town clutching a handful of (very worn) Joan Baez singles. ‘I think you might enjoy these,’ he said. So I played them and I did! Joan’s singing and guitar playing lit up my world with songs of the sea, loves lost and found – strange buried treasures of the luminous spirit.

There is a folk song for every human emotion and situation because it represents our collective experience. A song can start out as a personal statement, but once other people hear and sing it, that experience becomes a shared one: something we can all relate to and use in our everyday lives. I have found that folk music contains a great deal of distilled wisdom. Perhaps some of it will rub off one day.

Early collectors believed they were gathering songs for posterity, and treated them like museum pieces. ‘If I don’t record these soon they will vanish forever’. They were wrong, because while they were busy collecting, the next generation of singers and performers were already emerging, reworking old themes into new songs and singing old ones in different ways.

The tradition is dynamic and manages to reinvent itself across different generations. This is sometimes called the ‘folk process’ – songs can and should be changed to suit the singer.

Samuel Pepys collected traditional songs, and so did the rural English poet, John Clare. William Blake sang them to his friends, and indeed most people know one or two, even if they think otherwise.

The truth is, there isn’t one musical form which can be described as ‘folk’. Songs can be rooted in an industrial or rural tradition. There are work songs, sea songs, songs about unemployment. Some songs belong to the Romantic movement, while others are brand new and completely focused on current events. Folk music is both old and new, and therein lies my fascination.

Let’s not forget that the tradition is crammed full of tunes too; there are 1000s of them! One blog entry isn’t enough, so I’ll revisit this subject later…