BLOG 152: With F.R.I.E.N.D.S like these?

Posted: April 16, 2011 in Uncategorized
0

Friday, 15 April 2011

BLOG 152: With Friends Like These?

Watch
me and you will overcome the anxieties I have just reminded you of.
Michael Schudson

A constant source of trauma for my
thirty something friends are the constant re-runs of Friends on TV. It’s like
the TV equivalent of the picture in the attic in reverse… like my friends
become the picture and Dorian Gray is the TV show. Now I know that sounds
strange, but a thirty something girl with a mouthful of Doritos waving a glass
of wine at the TV while shouting abuse at an old sit-com is stranger…. believe
me!

Oh where do I start?…
Oh yeah…the beginning….
Elisha was a fresh faced 18 year old who was ‘helping’ my next door
neighbour, Mike, through his text-book midlife crisis. The neighbourhood I lived
in at the time was certainly upwardly mobile…some would even say posh… but
we certainly not in the bracket whereby a man could deal with the his
diminishing youth by purchasing a Porsche or a speedboat (thus Mike worked out
his issues by enjoying Elisha’s youth). I’d sometimes bump into her as I
disembarked my Thursday night train home from town. It seemed silly to shadow
each other on the 10 minute walk from the station so over time, we’d walk up
together and chat.
Elisha out grew Mike’s mid-life crisis, and I moved from that address
years ago… but Elisha and I have remained friends. The thing we both always
remember is that our friendship formed over a series of 10 minute walks from the
station on Thursday nights. And yes… It is rather precise to remember the
evening our paths use to cross.
But we both remember it so well as Thursday nights back in 1994 were
the nights when everyone used to hurry home from town. As on Thursday nights in
1994, Channel Four were broadcasting a little American Sit-Com called Friends.
It was the one night in the week when the fashionable place to be was at home.
Mid Nineties – we all watched Friends.
Of course Friends stopped being made some years ago. When it stopped
fresh faced Elisha was 28… which means that at time going to press she’s now a
resolutely a thirty-something (and still younger than Mike was in 1994!) [Sorry
Leish! Couldn’t resist].
However, the other night Elisha was round at my place, and I had E4 on
in the back ground as we lay waste to a couple of bottles of red. And suddenly
we became aware of The Rembrandts singing “I’ll Be There for You”. We looked up
and there was a very young looking Monica trying to convince her older boyfriend
Richard that their future couldn’t support his plan to have no further
children.
“Jeez!” said Elisha “How long ago was this?… ninety five, ninety
six?”
I shrugged. I kind of lost track of TV during the late 90’s due to
juggling having a relationship, child, home and career to run. I stuffed more
Doritos in my mouth in lieu of answering and hoped the question proved to be
rhetorical.
“You know what I hate about this programme having never gone away even
though they stopped making it eons ago?” Elisha (or more probably the wine)
asked tetchily.
I realised she wasn’t being rhetorical after all and made some
crunching noises that could be mistaken for me participating in the
conversation.
“The fact they look sooooo YOUNG! I mean… look that’s Courtney Cox
right?… and there she is playing a young girl dating an older man… Hell when
this episode was out I was thinking it was kind of cool she was doing with
Richard what I was doing with Mike… Now she’s playing that bird in Cougar
Town…suddenly now she’s the old person sniffing after young meat… when did
THAT happen! Honestly… I hate these re-runs… they remind me I’m getting
old.”
The wine was making her quite passionate about her little rant, so I
flicked over to a music channel and refilled our glasses. Evening back on track,
despite the rather unattractive vision of Elisha shouting at Courtney Cox for
reminding her that the 90’s (and therefore her youth) was a substantial chunk of
time ago!
Being older than Elisha I had to snort a little giggle… it’s a time
worn passage that for each and every one of us some icon from your youth will
pop up and remind you of one of two things. One… time passes seamlessly. Or.
Two… time ravages ruthlessly. And the sight of someone from your youth will
make you stop and take stock of where you are at now. Sometimes you do a little
pointless comparison (which is always daft when it’s you the ordinary bod versus
some ex-idol from the entertainment world!) Happens to us all.
However, something happened today that made me realise what Elisha was
saying was actually a different point all together.
And it happened because I stumbled upon a really ancient piece of
TV.
Before Friends there was a drama series called ‘Thirtysomething’. It
was pretty much ground breaking stuff, introducing intelligent scripts to US TV
series and picked up a whole heap of awards during its half decade run. However,
when it stopped being made it kind of vanished (along with all of its alumni)
and then the sit-com Friends started and we entered a different chapter of
imported TV.
I’d forgotten completely about Thirtysomething. Of course keeping it on
our screens hasn’t been greatly helped by the ‘ground-breaking’ way it was shot
looks dated today as technology has moved. Another problem is that the late 80’s
and early 90’s really were the years that fashion forgot so adding that to the
jerky camera angles guarantees that it doesn’t screen well on today’s high
definition television. The fact that none of the ensemble cast went on to
achieve anything of note after the series ended certainly meant that it was not
a priority for an TV schedule here in the UK.
But… totally by accident while channel surfing at the wrong end of
the dial… on flickered Thirtysomething. I wasn’t really paying much attention
to what I was doing and probably would have surfed on by but a piece of dialogue
made me stop. What made me look up was a conversation the three female
characters were having in a kitchen about a character that was off screen. It
was as intelligent and as beautifully written piece of dialogue that you would
find anywhere… and it was as relevant to today’s women was it was for the ones
it was written about/for. So I looked up at the screen. And there they were…
Hope, Melissa and Nancy discussing Suzanna. And what got me was not the
stonewashed high waisted denim, the satellite dish earrings or the fact the
state of the art kitchen they were talking in seemed to be constructed entirely
from pine with little barley twists (though it was a bit of a distraction)…
but the fact they all looked … SO YOUNG! (Bizzare because when it was
originally broadcast here, I recall thinking that they were all so OLD).
It was exactly what Elisha was trying to say about the re-runs of
Friends. In real life she is way (and I mean WAY) younger than the actress
playing Monica. However the episode she was almost watching at my house was
probably 15 years old, making the older actress YOUNGER than her eternally. It
kind of shifts your perspective watching something you originally watched
thinking ‘this is what older people do’ when you are now older than you were
first viewing round – especially if you are now older than character you see on
screen.
I rang Elisha with my light bulb moment and she laughed. (To be honest
she has little recollection of the entire evening as there really were far too
many bottle of wine and I did stick on a music channel in the end). However she
did make me laugh when she said:
“At least the Thirtysomething cast had the decency to retire from
public life and spare you the spectacle of watching them publically prune up,
bulk up, wrinkle up, gray up – or in the case of the Friends-girls get
ridiculously younger than when it all started – I tell you I can’t wait for
Autumn this year when Friends finally stops being re-run over here”
I really didn’t have the heart to tell her that actually it’s just the
end of the terrestrial contract. It seems come autumn Friends are just switching
over to cable and that there is every chance that Elisha is just gonna keep
getting older than Monica for a LONG while yet!
Makes it all just a tad sinister when you think of the portrait of
Dorian Gray and suddenly hear the Rembrandts chirpy lyric:
“I’ll be there for
you
Like I’ve been there before”

The JaxWorld Blog can be followed
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BLOG 151:The right side of the bed!

Posted: April 11, 2011 in Uncategorized
0

Thursday, 7 April 2011

 

BLOG
151: RIGHT SIDE OF THE BED!

“People who say life is a bed of roses usually complain about
sleeping in thorns” Anon Swedish Saying

There is just one thing that is a
problem about being single.

“Just one?” I hear you cry… “Just how far
in denial are you Jax?”. But hear me out. Most problems are just challenges in
disguise and once you have that head on, it’s a case of problem what problem?
Being released from coupledom is an opportunity to be self supporting, self
aware… and a marvellous opportunity to be selfish for a while! After years of
putting someone else first it is life enhancing to be selfish and self
indulgent: You can eat what you want (no more offal based meals just cause he
likes liver and bacon!), take liberties with beauty regimes (who needs to wax
everything..all the time eh?), money doesn’t get directed onto to things you
don’t care for (no more supporting a petrol-heads fixation on Lamborghinis),
watch the movies you like (Oh no… how will Bruce Willis et al survive now you
aren’t welded in a cinema seat every time an explosion fest is released). It’s
pretty rewarding to be realise that you can stand on your own two feet… and it
is great fun to indulge yourself. Problem what problem?

But there is just
one problem.
A huge problem.
Actual measurements…. 108 x 102
inches.
Yep… the bed.

When I bought my bed, I had a whole different
set of priorities. I was buying a place to in which I could gain cuddles,
comfort, closeness, intimacy and human warmth. Oh yeah and somewhere big enough
to spin like a top should the tantric moments allow. Once purchased my use of it
was also dominated by my relationship. I had a side. I took the side farthest
from the bedroom door. The occupant of the other side was almost a barrier
between me and anything dangerous that may lurk the other side of the door
whilst we snoozed. (Funny really as the only dangerous thing would be one of our
angry cats and even wimpy old moi could have handled that!) I knew what side of
the bed I was getting out in the morning.

It’s very important to get out
of the right side of the bed in the morning.

Starting your days knowing
that you are not compounding years of an unsatisfactory relationship with yet
another 24hrs is a VERY positive thing. The slate is clean and the possibilities
are endless. Until you try to fall asleep after another self supporting, self
aware, self indulgent and slightly selfish day… and the big empty space on the
other side of the bed reminds you that you are so alone. However there is an
easy remedy… sleep in the middle.

Which is fine until you wake up the
next morning with a graphic reminder that you are starting another day… alone.
. Because the thing about sleeping in the middle is that you are always 51
inches from getting out of the right side of the bed. Now this isn’t a
challenge… it’s a bonefide problem. The problem being that that waking up
marooned in the middle means you ALWAYS seem to be getting out of the wrong side
of the bed.

They don’t call being in a bad mood before noon getting out
of the wrong side of the bed for nothing. Starting the day with the reminder of
your unchosen status in the centre of a berth made for two is not a great place
to begin the day. Having to double bounce before you can swing your legs over
the side is guaranteed to make even the mildest person grouchy, irritable and
wistful.

And before you say, well… get a single bed… stop. It’s a
bizarre thing that as adults we just can’t revert back to single beds with ease.
Its one thing admitting you are alone, it’s another to hang up your hard won
adult trophy of a grown up bed and purchase the size of bed you once had a
child.

It wasn’t so bad back in the far distant days of my childhood
(when hardly anyone I knew was divorced). Married couples slept in double beds.
These strange items were barely 15 inches wider than a single bed, giving
couples of my parents’ generation just 27 inches each of personal space. The
beds were also quite short by modern standards being a mere 75” in length. I
should imagine one of the highlights of being divorced was being able to sleep
diagonally and keep your toes warm!

Somewhere along the line (I’m
guessing Sweden with their obsession with having a good nights sleep and a
decent snuggle) the idea of a bed 6″ wider and 5″ longer than a double bed
caught on. By the 70’s the smallest bed you could find in most homes across the
continent of Europe was this size… it became known as the Queen.
With lower
airfares (thank you Freddy Laker) we Brits began to realise that our cousins
over the pond didn’t leave supersizing to just their food portions and
gas-guzzling cars. The Americans introduced us to the super-size bed. With a set
of logic that deserves a standing ovation for is transparent simplicity the
yanks couldn’t understand why it was that a European double bed was not double
the size of a European single. An American double bed was 80 inches in length
and 76 inches in width – it was a proper double bed. However they loved the fact
that Europeans called their new slightly bigger double bed a Queen… so decided
to rebrand their version of the double bed as a King. After all what in an
American’s mind is bigger than a Queen?

Well as we all know after the
western world embraced the American Double… sorry… King Size Bed… it was
game over for single beds. Single beds became the preserve of children and
elderly people who don’t get on (though to be fair most of them were happily
snoozing solo in a Queen.) In fact beds just kept on getting bigger and
bigger… the recently bought flat sheet for my sleep pit says it measures 274 x
259 cms (DAMN YOU IKEA …what the hell is that in inches???)… but even I can
figure that’s a little bigger than a King. (For my American readers… what is
bigger than a King?… an Emperor?!)

When couples set up home, the master
bedroom is commonly arranged to accommodate a king size bed. When couples split
up, out goes the personal effects of the recently departed, in comes a whole
variety of personal taste in the boudoir. It becomes a room of wild self
expression. (Especially for someone like me who went from sharing with siblings
straight to sharing with partners, [Go directly to jail. Do not pass Go. Do not
collect £200 …], who had never had her own bedroom decorating was a blast!).
And yet there is still some restraint(unless one is really reckless) you stick
with the old bed – you’ve just lost 50% of the income into the household so
throwing out the 2nd most expensive piece of furniture is a no go. So there you
are with a huge bit of furniture and the challenge is to make it your
own.

So you shop till you drop and now the pillows match and co-ordinate
with your new 180 – 500 thread count sheets and duvet. You even do what no
couple (apart from the whipped variety) would ever do… go crazy with cushions
and a pointless foot throw. Challenge won! You have made the bed your
own.

But the problem remains….

Just how the hell does a
singleton get out of the right side of Emperor sized bed?

The
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BLOG 150: No-Phobes and Pooh-poohing

Posted: April 11, 2011 in Uncategorized
0

Tuesday, 5 April 2011

 

Blog
150: No-Phobes and Pooh Poohing

“Edmund: I can assure you, sir, that the pooh-poohing was purely
circumstantial” From Blackadder Part IV Episode V
My mum is a great reader of people. She worked in social care for most of
her working life and developed the ability to be able to read what is not being
said possibly faster than any one on earth. I used to ask her… “But HOW
did you know they were lying?” she answered simply… “Because they
could never explain why not quickly… it was always a multitude of excuses when
simply one sound reason would do”.
I’ve never forgotten those words of wisdom. They have stood me in good
stead through many of lifes adversities. When people really have a reason not to
do something this is always communicated clearly and succinctly – anything else
is just bluff and bluster.
My friend John was looking for a position in pediatric neurosurgery and
showed me a sheaf of letters turning down his applications. They were all one
page and to the point. They thanked him for his application and advised him that
due to budget restrictions they were not looking at recruiting at this time. He
never once received one that read: “Dear John, Thank you for your
application for the position of Brain Surgeon, we really really really wanted to
take you on but unfortunately we couldn’t because a) the is no room in the car
park for your vehicle, b) you did mention you are vegetarian and the canteen
can’t cope with that and c) we’re all Virgo’s here and I noticed on your
application your date of birth indicates you are a Pisces and we’re sure you are
equally as wary of astrological hell. But if you are ever passing this way
please do pop in for a coffee as we think you are a really really nice
bloke” No. When a letter is sent declining an offer it usually offers just
one clear reason – Just like the letters in Johns sheaf of No’s. When people
have a real reason not to do something they let you know directly and seldom fob
you off.
Everyone accepts on some level that sometimes people (even people you love)
will have to decline when you offer them something. It’s the way of things. We
hear no all through our lives, in fact the no’s of our formative years is what
gives us the moral compass of our latter ones. Actually when you think about it,
it is so deep in our culture that we have gone so far as to enshrine the word NO
in Law. It is our law that NO is a word we all have the right to use and a duty
to communicate it clearly. It is incumbant upon the hearer of the word NO to
graciously accept its finality. So of all peoples we chould be the most
confident that when we punt an idea out there… one of the possible outcomes is
a no. It is a right of someone to be able to decline an activity (providing
doing so does not put another at risk). And to prevent a refusal for being long
winded (and therefore protracted and open to confusion), NO is a very short
word. Of course we dress it up with a thank you but (and even a sorry thrown in
after) but as a nation we are pretty good with dealing with declining offers.
It’s a calculated risk on the part of the offeree and we all know how to handle
it.
However there are people who just can’t manage one of the shortest words in
the English language. If you have a bright idea and punt it out to the
group…instead of saying no, they say YES!, then they fudge about commitment,
then come the excuses. Not one. Not two. Always three (and upwards for the more
inexperienced No-phobe). It’s curious how people who have no good reason to say
no will instead pour a multitude of thin excuses over your bright idea.
It is when this occurs that one usually concludes that these people get
some sort of pleasure from to pooh-pooh your bright ideas. However we are not
correct according to the men in white coats. Scientists claim that these
transparent multitudinous excuses are actually caused by a chemical imbalance in
the brains of No-Phobes.
Current thinking is that these people suffer from a desperate desire to
gain momentary approval from those they know. The easiest way to do this is to
make firm future commitments with people whose approval they lust for. They
never actually schedule time for these future commitments as the chemical
imbalance in their brain makes them mistakenly think that the activities that
compete for time today are irrelevant to those that will compete for time in the
future. So when it comes to actually fulfilling the commitment, they discover
they are too busy to do everything they’ve committed to. Rather than admit that
they have neither the commitment nor desire to fulfil the obligation, they find
reasons why the pledge could not have ever worked out for them, thus giving
themselves the illusion of control. (Source: Journal of Experimental Psychology)
It’s a lot of words to say EXCUSES. (sorry J.E.P, I know you are a very
learned journal but it is!) I’ll stick with what my Mum told me- excuses are not
reasons. Reasons never put down the commitment because a reason is what
you give not to take on a commitment in the first place!
I used to live on the route of the London Marathon. I used to stand on my
balcony and watch the competitors go by. I have never had the slightest
inclination to do a marathon on the grounds I just don’t want
to. I’ve never given an excuse. My reason is simply “No, it’s not
for me”. I have never given a list of faux medical conditions or lifestyle
choices… I’m just not a compete in the London Marathon kind of gal.
But I’ve never minded watching those who do. One of the best bits of
standing on my balcony watching the competitors was watching the elite race for
disabled people whizz by. Now those were athletes. “I could have been a
marathon runner, but I lost my leg in a car accident.” is not something you
hear those guys and gals saying. It could be thought of as a supporting reason
NOT to do it, but they hear it as it sounds…It is just an excuse. The only
acceptable reason for not doing it is “No, London Marathon Elite Race for
Disabled people?…it’s not for me”. As much as I applaud those who do take
on something a amazing as a marathon (even with a disablement), I applaud those
who decline without excuses. It may be our right to say NO, but still … takes
a lot of strength of character to be able to say “NO, it’s not for me”
straight out of the gate.
No-Phobes say an emphatic YES every time they are asked to commit to
anything because they fear the unpopularity associated with saying no. They are
always the ones who are most looking forward to what ever it is and requesting
the most updates. Then the time comes for them to deliver and they can’t. The
fear of unpopularity is now a source of huge pressure on them so they scrape
together a few supporting reasons that could help them feel that it is not their
fault.
And that is the thing. What sounds in the head of a No-Phobe as a
supporting reason (or three) – is nothing more than an excuse (or three)… and
the recipient can tell (as my Mum’s careers of dealing with the liars of three
boroughs is testament to). And the tell tale sign is they often blame the thing
they have committed to. It’s never the No-Phobes fault.
My friend Richielle works for a local charity. In September they advertised
for a gratis venue to hold the old folks Xmas party and were kindly given the
use of some elegant tearooms by a local lady-who- lunches. Four days before the
event my friend received this message “I would have loved to lend the
charity the venue … but it is, my son’s birthday, a few days away from Christmas
and I have another party booked for the same date”. (Ahem… when you agreed
to give the charity the venue did you not know the date your son was born, or
that Christmas was coming or that the venue was already booked?) It was classic
No-Phobe behaviour, the woman felt compelled to offer support (to win approval)
but when it came down to it was unable to fulfill the obligation and came up
with what she thought were three sound reasons why she was compelled to withdraw
her support. And with three sound reasons given she felt she was in control by
demonstrating it was the timing of the event that was at fault.
However all any No-Phobe does is show how NOT in control of the situation
they are when they stage their retreat from commitment. People in control are
truly committed to fulfill obligations, they never give up and they never give
excuses. They never blame the obligation for they fact they can’t see it through
because they never take on stuff they are not going to see through.
“You can make all the excuses you want, but don’t forget that when you
make excuses, you’re not in control of the situation.”
Letting people down isn’t the route to being thought of as anything other
than someone who deals in the opposite to honesty, integrity and confidence. How
you react to external events is one of the things that will form people’s
impressions. If you are the person who always YES… then fails to deliver… it’s
pretty clear what impression you are giving. You really don’t improve things
much by offering a bunch of excuses made to make it seem that the commitment YOU
took on is somehow out of line with you.
Coming to the situation with only a withdrawal to offer shows clearly that
the commitment was never there. People who are committed come to a situation
with solutions… not excuses.
Anyway, enuff said on No-Phobes – I think you get the point… they annoy
me. SEE…. 1 good reason!!!!
As for those who who are mentioned in this blog…
  • My Mum is still a great reader of people. She still has no truck with
    No-Phobes!
  • John did gain a position in pediatric neurosurgery. He is working in
    Paris.
  • Richielle is still at the local charity. She hosted the Old Folks Xmas Party
    in a Grade III listed building donated free of charge.
  • I am still very much my mother’s daughter. (On this matter at least).
The JaxWorld Blog can be followed on
Twitter-http://twitter.com/#!/JaxWorldBlog
If you enjoyed this blog and you want to
contact Jax or find out more about the JaxWorld blog, pls log onto
:http://thejaxworldblog.vpweb.co.uk/
Thanks for continuing to vote for JaxWorld as
the Best Blog about Stuff and for ALL your support that has made this blog such
a huge success.

BLOG 149: A-Team???

Posted: April 11, 2011 in Uncategorized
0

Saturday, 19 March 2011

 

BLOG
149: A-Team?

“I
love it when a plan comes together”
Colonel John “Hannibal”
Smith

“In 2008, a crack writing unit was continually
frustrated by a series of crap they didn’t commit. One of these writers promptly
threw regular wobbles in written format on the World Wide Web Aka the writer’s
underground. Today, still frustrated by the crap throwers, she survives as a
soldier of blog. If you see a problem…if no one else seems to notice the
crapfest…and if you can find this webpage…maybe you can find your thoughts
reflected at…JaxWorld.”

You know, life… the living of it should be the
easiest thing in the world once we have taken care of a few little details like
food, water, and shelter.
So can SOMEONE please explain to me why it is that
at every turn… seemingly the crap fest awaits? It always starts small… but
like watching a dung beetle at work, that small little splatter of crap rolls on
increasing in size by the minute…
Like this seemingly ordinary mid-week
day…
You know how it is… you are about to go out. Your
schedule is precision timed and if you leave right now you will comfortably meet
your transport connections. You put your hand on the front door and….. The
landline rings. Pick up or leave it? What if it is important? …What if it is
pertinent to where you are about to go? After a 6 second internal battle you
pick up… and it’s a rubbish sales call/ over emotional friend/ family member
wondering if you could run a trivial errand. It only takes a few moments to dispatch the
caller… but you are now flustered and behind schedule. I don’t know about you
but the invention of the mobile phone to me means that the landline is for
IMPORTANT stuff like the dreaded I have you down as the next of kin
calls… NOT for someone to talk to me about double glazing. And if it is
errand request or an over emotional friend… can we not TEXT? (POI: Has anyone EVER bought
double glazing because a salesman called them at home?)
Muttering to yourself, you scoot on. You pick up the pace and are striding purposely
towards your transport links when… suddenly the pavement doesn’t quite feel as solid as it did
a moment ago. Which of course means that your shoe is now wearing the gift so
thoughtfully left by a dog lovers objet d’amour. Maybe it’s me
(I’m a cat person so I’m not wired to understand the need to build a
relationship with an animal with such high levels of dependency and
incontinence)… but I REALLY don’t get why it is considered okay by some dog
lovers to allow their objet
d’amour leave faeces on the public thoroughfare for my shoes to find!!!
(Look I have nothing against mans most
dependant friend, if your best friend has to be a critter that retrieves sticks
that is fine by me… but when it wants to poo on the street will you please
PICK UP AFTER YOUR DOG!)
So now you are late, flustered, smelling vaguely of
poo even though you have spent a good few moments trying to surreptitiously
transfer the poo onto the curb and any clump of grass… admit it you’ve even
deliberately walked in a puddle to see if you can dislodge it and dissolve its
pungency.
Slightly damp of foot you arrive at your
transportation links. Yay public transport! Unlike driving where one can only
guestimate the time of arrival, public transport be it train, plane or automobus
have schedules that show time of departure and time of arrival. Take the trains
for example. If you are on the direct 08.49 it will arrive at 10.42. Which is
good …as you have an appointment at 11.25 in a location that is quarter of an
hour walk or five minutes cab ride away from the station, so that gives you a
comfort cushion of time. The delay and dog-poo have meant you have already eaten
into this. You are now aiming for the 08.59 which is an indirect service but the
connections look slick so you should still arrive for about 11.05 which means
you’ll probably get a cab at the other end to be on the safe side. You take the
luxury of exhaling. All’s well. Rejigged… but all’s well. Then something takes
your breath away. The squawk box on the station kicks in “National Rail is sorry to
announce a delay to the 08.59 service”.
Delay? How long a delay? Well one thing is for sure… the squawk box is
hedging it’s bets on not committing to an actual time that can be measured in
minutes, National Rail has filled it’s contractual obligations… it’s let you
know that train will be late. How late? Well that’s for you to find out as they
ain’t telling. Your plans are dissolving before your eyes. But no worries, you
have a mobile phone. Best ring ahead and advise them that there are issues with
your transportation and there is a slim possibility that you may be a few
minutes late. So you turn your back to
afford some privacy from your fellow would be passengers and relay the message.
During which the train (which was NOT delayed at all) rolls into the station in
stealth mode and leaves without you.
So have dealt with the transportation issues by
expensively chasing the train to the intersection in a cab, and arrived at your
destination, the crap fest seems to ease for a while. You do what you have to
do. You are back in control. Poorer yes…the nice lunch you were going to treat
yourself to is not going to happen as that budget was eaten by the cab fare at
both ends. Less confident in your footwear yes… one foot is still decidedly
damp and there is a slight eau de dog poo wafting in the air (though this may
well be psychological). And you are still a tad resentful about being personally
selected for a unique offer for cut price double glazing at 08.30 in the
morning. But hey ho. Things are looking up. You have a seat on the direct
service and you are heading back to base.
And look who gets on the train! An old friend you
have not seen for years…. how nice. Until they say a series of those well
meaning things people say about your life that serve only to leave you quietly
seething for the rest of the day.What you want to retort with
is “Thank you so much for your
unsolicited commentary” and freeze them with an icy glare …. but you are
far too well brought up to make THEM feel uncomfortable… so you just suck it
up, smile nicely and pray the train has no delays between there and the terminus
so you can get rid. On the bright side after the double glazing call, you know
you’ll be changing your landline number… so you’ll gladly give them the
current one when the friends say you both simply MUST stay in
touch!
So…the day rolls on and so far you have been made
late by a random unimportant call to your land line, you rushed off flustered
and stepped in dog poo, the attempts to remove have left you with one grass
stained, curb scratched and puddle soaked shoe, you missed your train once
because of the former delays and a second time by making a courtesy call when
you thought that one was delayed. You have spent a good deal of money chasing
the second train across the county and donated yet more money to the cab society
at the other end in order to get to your meeting on time. Your return journey is
marred by an old friend who at first appeared as if they would be a welcome
diversion but instead managed to insult all of your life choices to date and do
little else but brag about their own.
But hey ho.
The day rolls on.
It’s evening and you think a nice glass of wine is
called for. You decide to make it a event
. You run the bath, you light the candles… you soak the day away. Wrapped in
your fluffy dressing gown you sidle down and take a large glass out of the
cupboard. You put the nachos in a bowl and pull the dip out the fridge. Which is when you notice. There IS no wine. Not in the fridge, not in the cupboards, not in the house… you are as alcohol
free as a bar in Jordan during Ramadan. GAH! There is only
one solution…. corner shop.
For my readers who do not live in the UK, the corner
shop is a British institution. This is the shop you would never consider
shopping in unless you are desperate. The reason for this being that sleek
modern retail practices are unheard of in a corner shop. Every conceivable item
is crammed onto their shelves: some bizarre, some essential and many are just
simply chronically out of date. Corner shops
survive purely out of the British nostalgia for the old ways PLUS the fact that as they are open all hours
they bail you out when you have forgotten to pick something up at the
supermarket. And as the name suggests
they are located quite literally on the corner of your road (or one very
nearby).
Okay.. you have decided (in your fluffy dressing
gown) that a dash to pick up some wine at the corner shop is the only way to
resolve the problem. (Nachos and a cup of tea is a non starter). But you’ve just
had a bath. Your hair is wet, you have no make-up on and you are in your
nuddy-suit under your robe. It’s only on the corner… less than five minutes
away… BING! The solution is obvious…
pop a coat over your dressing gown, push your purse in your pocket, sprint down
the road, get a nice bottle of Rioja, sprint back… job done. In fact you don’t
even need to change out of your slippers.
The Corner Shop does exactly what it says on the
tin. It’s on the corner… and it sells everything from models of the Bismark to
packets of Spacedust. It also sells wine (located next to the rather solid
looking cheese and pet food from brands that ceased trading in the late 1990’s).
You realise that this is a massive bonus as the only Rioja they have is Vega
Sicilia which they are retailing at £3.99 or £5 for two. (Yes wine buffs I said
Vega Sicilia and we all know that the 1998 vintage goes at £200+ a bottle
these days. But as I said Corner shops have notoriously out of date stock…
however wine unlike cheese gets more valuable (and less blue) with age). So the
day IS looking up… well at least the night will be as having parted company
with £5 you are walking back to your house with over £400’s worth of
vino!
You put the bottles down carefully and root in your
pocket for the keys. You just can’t wait to get this party for one
started.
Remember our friend the dungbeetle? Yep the ball of
crap has now achieved critical mass.
You came out with a coat thrown over a dressing gown
and slippers. You pushed your purse into your pocket. You closed the door . You
went to cornershop. You got 2 bottles of wine. You came home.
Nowhere in that did I say you picked up your
keys.
YOU.
ARE.
LOCKED.
OUT.
Neighbours are a wonderful thing when you are half
naked with wet hair two bottle of wine and are locked out of your house. They’ll
let you in theirs . They’ll call an emergency locksmith for you. And they’ll
happily not notice that you are in your slippers and a coat if you let them
share your wine while you wait for the locksmith.
But hey ho these thing happen. Could happen to
anybody all in one day. I mean so far you have been made late by a random
unimportant call to your land line, you rushed off flustered and stepped in dog
poo, the attempts to remove left you with one grass stained, curb scratched and
puddle soaked shoe, you missed two trains and spent a whole heap of money in
cabs. You were insulted about all of your life choices to date by an old friend
who did little else but brag about their own. You ran out of wine and only found
out after you’d had a long soak in the tub, which left you half naked in the
neighbours house because you slipped out to replenish the wine but forgot your
keys. Your unexpected bonus of quality wine is being quaffed by the neighbours
as if it were ribena. And the emergency locksmith from the yellow pages came
around and drilled the lock out (opening the door) for £160, then you had to
purchase a new lock, and get him to fit it and make spare keys, which came to
nearly £300.
Just a seemingly ordinary mid week day, frustrated
by things which may or may not be within your circle of control… but
frustrated none the less. It makes me wonder…Do we need an A-team to jump in
and save us from just trying to live our daily lives? A crack commando unit
who’ll stop your whole day going of track by a series on unfortunate
minutiae.
You know, life… the living of it should be the
easiest thing in the world once we have taken care of a few little details like
food, water, and shelter. And yet at every turn… seemingly the crap fest awaits
ready to pounce and turn life into a musical hall farce!
I just try to
grin and bear it but you know… to quote Lieutenant Templeton “Faceman” Peck:
“That’s not even a smile, it’s
just a bunch of teeth playing with my mind!” ? It always starts small… but
like watching a dung beetle at work, that small little splatter of crap rolls on
increasing in size as the minutes pass .
Enough already of reporting the crapfest to the
writers underground… It’s time stop that dung beetle … please… we have a
problem… no one else can help… so if you can find them… maybe we should
hire….the A-team !
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BLOG 148: Who’s on the bus?

Posted: April 11, 2011 in Uncategorized
0

Friday, 11 March 2011

BLOG
148: Who’s on the bus?

“Being in a foreign country means walking a tightrope
high above the ground without the net afforded a person by the country where he
has his family, colleagues, and friends, and where he can easily say what he has
to say in a language he has known from childhood.” —
Milan Kundera (The Unbearable Lightness of Being)
Guess what came through
my letter box… my census form. Bloody hell! It’s a biggie…pages and pages of
intrusive questions about who I am, what I do, and where on earth I came from.
For my overseas readers this is something we in the UK have to do once every ten
years. We the public are asked questions about our jobs, our health, our
education and ethnic background.
The form is compulsory, and carries a
fine of up to £1,000 for failing to do it. Oh and if you wanna rebel you
can’t…someone will come and knock on your door and do it with you there and
then. So we gotta do it.
Actually I don’t mind … it’s a snap
shot of England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland taken on March 2011. We –
everyone who lives here – will be in the picture. It’s like seeing exactly who
is on the bus. Remember when you were at school and the teacher stands at the
front and makes you all put your hands up before the bus leaves? It’s like that
I guess… the government just is counting who is on the bus.
However there are a lot a people who
are REALLY anti doing the form. They feel it is intrusive and not particularly
accurate. They are busy doing a report which could recommend scrapping the
exercise – they really cannot accept that getting everyone to stop and say where
they are from why they are here and what are they doing can possibly be of any
use in the modern world.
I have a feeling what rattles them the
most. It’s the fact that numbers don’t really lie. You can’t really spin
numbers, if there are 20 people on the bus… then there are 20 people on the
bus. Not much you can do about that fact.
Of course the data collected will not
be 100% accurate. There may well be someone hiding on the bus who doesn’t put
their hand up. There may be someone on the bus who puts up two hands. But at the
end of the day most people will give accurate information. Most of us when asked
will raise one hand…and own up to what ever teacher asks.
Thus the census remains the most
detailed survey to be carried out and, in my humble opinion, completing it is a
civic duty to help keep accurate population records.
I don’t believe for a moment that
these records are useless to the average citizen. The fact that it is a public
record means we can access our nations census’s when ever we like. The 1991
census has proved it’s worth over and over again to me… Especially when
harassing my local council to provide services… but also socially. Even very
old census’s came in useful… for example, when I interviewed Amy the Racist
(who has a distorted idea of the ethnic mix of this little island of ours). So
YES I’m rather pro filling my census in (and rather delight in contributing to
supporting facts of an argument between my countrymen of the
future.)
Finding out who actually lived here
can be done without census’s of course. Early records (esp pre-ice age ones)
could be ascertained from spear heads and broken pots of course BUT the argument
was on much sounder ground when we had proper data (ie census’s) to look
at.
Any one who lives in the
UK will know loads about the effects of migration… we are after all a “French
colony that didn’t work out”. (A humorous reference to
the Norman conquest of the 11th
Century). We may not speak
French as a result of that but we owe a lot of modern government, culture, and
language to the ideas the Normans brought. (And we do say a few French
words…like…. ummm…. Garage. … there!)
This island of ours has benefited
muchly from those who rightly or wrongly have arrived on its shores and
neglected to go home.
Despite having been populated by folk
who were very casual with their spears (loads of them turned up in Suffolk and
date back to 700,000 BC), the ice age kind of wiped out any human life here. In
fact no one lived here for 5,000 years but about 14,700 years ago nomadic people
whose wanderings started in the places we now call The Middle East and North
Africa (which weren’t quite as nippy in the ice age), wandered up here.
Unfortunately the side effect of us becoming a bit warmer was rising sea levels
due to all that ice melting. So in about 6500 BC this land became separated from
continental Europe and our nomadic visitors were kind of stuck here.
Mind you… where there is a will
there is a way… because by The Mesolithic era (4000 BC), some folk had made
boats… as new people turned up and had different tools which the nomadic
people observed and learnt from. These new folk were thought to be from what is
now Spain and France and man they had some fancy new ways to go with the
penchant for travel. Before long four of the newcomers activities had become the
norm, boat building, domestication of animals, arable farming and pottery. Oh
boy was pottery big. (However it does seem the Mesolithic people were as slap
dash with their pots as the pre ice agers were their spears… Cornwall is
littered with them!)
Guess who turned up next? Yep… the
Germans. Actually that’s not entirely true. The Bell-Becker people who turned up
here in 3000BC came from the bit of Europe we’d now call Germany, Holland and
Denmark… but also hung out in Spain and France. But guess what they brought
with them? No… not pottery classes or ship building sessions… this lot
turned up with horses. We’d not seen them before and a love affair with these
big old creatures began. They also turned up with a process that would prove
jolly useful as it produced a metal called bronze. Learning from the new
arrivals meant that suddenly things could be manufactured. Now this was great…
but you know what was better…. they turned up with booze. We LEARNT A LOT from
the Bell-Beckers and were so happy to have them come stay, but all that horse
riding and metal work under the influence of alcohol meant this happy period
passed in a blur.
Because while all this
was going on there were some folk who sneaked in under the radar… or should we
say…walked right in and settled down. It’s thought they came from what is now
known as the Iranian plateau, and South Asia. These were the Goidelic folk. They
were much more careful with their pots, spears and belongings so archaeologist
have a hard time pinning down when exactly they turned up… but their
descendants are known as The Celts. Sometimes people leave behind something more
tangible. It is often pointed out that if you doubt they were here you’ll
probably be doing so in one of the spin offs from the language they left
behind:, English, Hindi, Portuguese, Bengali, Russian, Marathi, French, Italian,
Punjabi, being just a few. One thing is for sure…. by
the time the Roman’s turned up practically everyone was talking Goidelic, riding
horses, making bronze brooches and getting very very drunk.
55 BC was the first go the Roman army
(from what is now known as Italy) had at taking over the gaff. They got the gig
being organised and structured as they were and held on tight for almost 500
years (430AD)… so it was a good innings.
The Romans never really intended to stay, they just wanted to run the
place for a while. They even succeed in fencing the more unruly Celts in because
they really objected to being ruled. The Romans never got a chance to sort them
out because problems at home meant the occupation gig was up. Apart from being
as crap with their pots and coins as to leave a trail behind them… they left a
few cultural changes we still use today (with the odd modern tweak to bring them
up to date). These include sensible things like brick architecture, aquaducts,
calendars, laws, legal systems, and census… but also include under floor
heating, public baths and shopping malls which can all trace their origins back
to those organised army people from Italy.
The trouble with the Italian’s going
home was that there was nothing to stop the Germans turning up again. And they
did. In fact the ones who came from Angeln (now would be Upper Germany) did so
in such numbers that they reportedly left their own country empty. The lot that
turned up from Saxony (what is now Holland and lower Germany) and the Jute
people (what is now Denmark) were a bit more restrained. These were old school
migrants. Unlike the Romans (who to be fair did hang around a while) they had no
intent to go home. This was not an army of occupation – this was mass
immigration.
After a while the word was out that
what is now the UK was the it place for an up and coming migrant… where the
Angeln’s , Saxon’s, and Jute’s went… the Franks and the Frisians followed. The
Frisians were particularly exotic bringing platinum blonde hair to these shores
for the first time. Four hundred years went by in a flash and most occupants of
the UK could name a relative who had a bit of either Angeln or Saxon in
them.
Well… guess what. 789AD saw a few
more Danes turn up. BUT this lot came in boats to raid the gaff. They weren’t
immigrating – they stole, killed and burned villages. Yep the Vikings were
coming. First the Danes, then the Norwegians. And every time from that point
onwards if Blighty started to be passé there would be renewed Scandinavian
interest. BUT. What sword and fire cannot be quelled by a bit of feminine charm.
All that racial mixing had resulted in some fine looking women. Vikings start to
fall for the local lasses… and the next thing they knew they were married and
settling down to trading rather than going out on the rob. And it all would have
worked out well… until the French decided they needed a new colony in
1066.
So by now, the German Settlers (now
called the The Anglo-Saxons) were kind of running the gaff as they were the majority and put this bloke
Edward in charge. It was cool job description, wealth beyond your wildest
dreams, be the boss… and have a few kids. And Eddie to his credit.. did 2/3.
However he kind of died without doing the having kids parts. Which in retrospect
I’m sure he’ll agree was rather a bit of an oversight that he’d rethink if he
could do it all again. He did his best to patch things up…he got his sister’s
husband Harold to sub for him. And this would have been fine IF Eddie hadn’t
also mentioned to his distant cousin William in France that he could sub for him
if he didn’t have any kids by the time he popped his clogs.
Hastings. Arrows. Eyeballs….You kind
of know what happened there. (And there was us thinking only the Vikings sorted
things out violently).
SO. The rule book is became French.
Which wasn’t too much of a problem as a small number of Normans were living here
anyway and suggested that the best way to deal with the locals was to get in bed
with them. Now this wasn’t going to be too much like hard work. The Anglo-Saxons
and the Normans shared the same religious beliefs and a certain common culture.
The Anglo Saxons liked adding ‘de’ in front of their names to sound posh like
the Normans and the Normans liked growing their hair long hand having moustaches
to look hard like the Anglo-Saxons. It really wasn’t gonna be too bad as long as
everyone agreed that talking French and eating reptiles was not going to
work.
So a new version of the language was
created over time, as the two populations intermarried and merged. Reptiles went
off the menu…and no one has invaded the UK mainland since. Basically because
they saw what happened to the French. They kind of stopped being French. Normans
began to think of themselves as Anglo-Normans… which was such a mouthful no
one could be bothered with that for long. So by 1400 everyone decided to call
themselves by the part of the kingdom they resided in … and thus the idea of
creating a French colony didn’t work out that way at all. In fact the son’s of
the Norman conquest were fighting AGAINST France by 1337!
So… the we’re only in the 14th century and the UK has so far has been made
up of people from what is now North Africa, The Middle East, France, Spain,
Germany, Iran, South Asia, Italy Holland, and Denmark. Then there were more
Danes, some Norwegians, and some misguided French Colonists and of course the
Germans kept turning up in different guises every few hundred years. Amy the
racist would be screaming “Surely there is no room for any one else!!!” But
Amy…the people YOU are descended from haven’t even got here yet.
You see a key thing about the Normans
settling in so well was having the same religion. However, to fund a successful
take over bid sometimes takes outside coffers… and one of those sources were
Dutch financiers who originated from what is now the Middle East. These people
followed the religion called Judaism. These people were decidedly conspicuous by
appearance, language and religion and were not having the best of times in
Holland. Part of the benefit of backing the winning side in the battle for the
UK meant the path was smoother for migration. These migrants were not any less
conspicuous in the UK though. Not that that stopped them coming. By 1348, the
numbers here were estimated to be between 4.5-6 million of them. A popular
target for blame and purges… the numbers fluctuated until Russia went mental
and started killing Jews in 1882. The UK offered sanctuary. It was a migration
unique in British history never had there been non-Christian refugees in such
numbers. It was something the UK unfortunately had to repeat when such madness
broke out again in the 20thCentury.
Although an industrious people they found the price of sanctuary often meant the
ruthless exploitation of the Jews finances by the crown .However socially they
proved even more priceless as they introduced the idea of humour, music, and
food as powerful parts of cultural self-assertion. The Ironic Eccentric had
arrived.
An ethnic group living
mostly in Europe, who traced their origins to South Asia arrived in about 1440
and were known to the populace here as “The Gypsies”. The English term Gypsy originates from the Greek word
for “Egyptian”. Although largely Christian, a mythology built about
around these people having ways that were not of the Church of England. Queen
Elizabeth I wasn’t too chuffed so she tried to kick them out with her 1562
Egyptians Act. They (like Liz’s attempts to boot them out) went nowhere. Today
these people are known as Romani. Cultural exposure has resulted in a way of
life that fascinates most people.. and it’s not just the guitar work and flouncy
skirts. This may be down to the mysterious ambiguity that surrounds their world,
but it’s more likely to simply be because they travel extensively and exist on
the edges of society. This has become the Gap Year which gives us non Romani’s
the chance to have a capsule Romani experience.
One set of people Elizabeth I did
sanction staying in the UK were the “Blackamores”. From 1555 onwards it was
quite the thing to have at least one. “Blackamores” in Elizabethan speak were
people who could trace their origin to Sub-Saharan Africa. (In non PC speak those originating
from what is now West Africa and later refers to descendants of slaves having
been ‘bred’ in what is now known as the Caribbean.) 12 million persons were
removed from Sub-Saharan Africa during this process – this is now known as The
Atlantic Slavery Trade. But what is sometimes forgotten was that not all were
shipped to the New World, Black slaves were attendants to sea captains and
ex-colonial officials as well as society people, traders, plantation owners and
military personnel. The knock on effect being that by the height of the slave
trade (1790) the free population of “Blackamores” in the UK ran at just under a
million. The contribution of which we will revisit in a moment.
Like Jews, Slaves and
Gypsies were not enough, having parted company with the Church of Rome, Our Liz
had a lot of immigration issues to deal with. England became a haven for
persecuted followers of the new protestant faiths (of which the Church of
England was one). So from the 1560’s on wards Huguenots started shipping up on
these shores… by 1750 over 5 million had either passed though or settled. Of
course they suffered accusations levelled at immigrants from time immemorial
-that their presence threatened jobs, standards of housing, public order,
morality and hygiene and even that they ate strange foods! Huguenots remain a
recognisable minority in British society
(Calvinists), making their presence felt
in banking, commerce, industry, the book trade, the arts, the army, acting and
in teaching.
Seems we on this island never tire of
a German influx. In 1693 it was all about Palatines from the German Palatinate
(now known as the Rhine Land). These people were largely unskilled and destitute
although many settled in the UK (London, Bolton and Liverpool primarily) others
continued to Ireland, the Caribbean and America. But the ones who stayed had a
knock on effect on the British Wine industry bringing knowledge from their
ancestors who came from south west corner of Germany into France.
In fact, Europe remains the biggest
source of migrants to the UK what ever century you pick. The 1871 census
recorded the overall European-born population made up a third of the 33 million
UK residents. The 1991 census had almost the same percentage of residents being
born in other European Countries even though the population had swollen to 59
million UK residents.
But not everyone ends up migrating
here because of nomadic wanderings, love, war, conquest, slavery or
persecution.
Sometimes migration happens because of
good old fashioned economic reasons. Trade is a favourite way of introducing
countries to each other and presenting the possibility of migrating else
where.
Most of the early Chinese in the UK
arrived as seamen, after the treaties of Nanking in 1842 and Peking in 1860
opened up China to British trade. Clearly life here wasn’t too tempting as their
population in Britain remained very small in 1871 it was recorded as 207.
Distinct in physical appearance and belief in a different philosophical system
this group tended to be more widespread and decentralised. By 1911 just 1,319
people of Chinese descent were living in the UK. It seemed there would never
really be a real Chinese community in the UK. Today the British Chinese
community is the second largest in Europe just after France. Their influence
initially revolutionised the catering, gaming and housekeeping industries and
went on to bring a far eastern perspective to many other areas of business and
social processes. The most recent census (1991) show they now represent 0.7% of
the UK population (just over 430,000)
Assimilating people of different
religions has never been an easy process. With 4 major religious groups which do
not have Judo-Christian origin, it has been a slow process since the UK started
trading cotton, silk, indigo dye, saltpetre, tea, and opium with the sub
continent in 1599. As recently as 1939 the South Asian population of the City of
Birmingham was estimated at just 100 — that is, merely one hundred souls!
Having practically single handedly transformed the way the British approach
retail, their influence also can be seen in medicine, catering and
micro-business. These days people of South Asian origin represents 4% of the UK
population( 2,331,423).
So what happened to those West
African’s and Caribbean’s after slavery ended in 1833? Did their numbers get
much bigger than the million that were wandering about in 1790 after the need
for attendants for sea captains and ex-colonial officials, and plantation owners
ran out?
Well…..This is very
much the story of two completely different continents coming to live in a third.
So here goes. The population of 900,000 people of that origin took a blow during
the late 1800’s which was the heyday of ‘scientific racism’. It was
‘scientifically’ believed at that time that as a race they were inferior and
should be left to die out. Of course science proved such reports to be
bogus. However, the ex-slave population did show an extremely
high rate of mixed-race relationships, and were well on their way to becoming
the first UK ethnic group to ‘disappear’ – numbers dropped to under
300,000.
However but by the end of
that century the very people that were once shipped to the new world were
shipping themselves back to the mother country to work in the Docks of London,
Liverpool and Cardiff. By 1881 Victorian society reported a population of 802,
439. This increased again in the following century when merchant
seaman and soldiers came for WWI and again around WWII as wartime workers,
merchant seaman, and servicemen for the army, navy, and air forces came for the
war effort. Following the Wars, mass immigration occurred primarily from the
Caribbean. Caribbean immigration was effectively stemmed in 1972 and since the
1980s, the majority of black immigrants into the country have come directly from
West Africa, in particular, Nigeria and Ghana. Together these communities have
impacted upon food, the arts, media, sport and medicine and infrastrcuture. 1991
Census show this population as 1,148,738 which represents 2% of the UK’s
population.
So final tally before I settle down to
put my mark on my 2011 census form.
Since the ice age defrosted it seems
that my little island is made up of… in order… large numbers of people from
North Africa, The Middle East, France, Spain, Germany, Iran, South Asia, Italy,
Holland, Denmark and Norway, throw in some Jews, Romanis, West Africans,
Caribbeans, Huguenots, German Palatines, Chinese and South Asians into the mix.
All of these people have ties to this place going back anything from a couple of
millennia to a couple of centuries.
Which is why I’m looking forward to
doing my 20111 census form. Yes it is intrusive… but when it is done we’ll
know who is on the bus. It may scare Amy but I’m looking forward to the stories
of who ever turned up next. They say there is a strong possibility that when
they finish counting whose on the bus our total population may have gone over
the 60million mark!
On one little Island??? Amy the racist
would be screaming “Surely there is no room for any one else!!!”
To which I say… as long
as they contribute something entertaining, useful or profitable and we’re not so
crowded that anyone is getting their toes wet… “Vive la
différence.”
Ha… look at that… a FRENCH
PHRASE!
Maybe this French Colony worked out
after all!

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BLOG 147: Just a passing fad

Posted: March 5, 2011 in Uncategorized
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Saturday, 5 March 2011

BLOG 147: Just a passing fad

“It’s just a passing fad!!!…Discount the fawning techno-burble about virtual communities. Computers and networks isolate us from one another. A network chat is a limp substitute for meeting friends over coffee.” Clifford Stoll

“Baaaaaaaaa”….. that is what my friend said to me… “Baaaaaaaaa”. My friend thinks I’m a sheep. And why? Because I used Facebook and Twitter to invite people to an event. Apparently, I should have got off my derriere and gone out and post invitations in a letter box and to do so using social media means that I’m a sheep.” Baaaaaaaaa”.

This friend could not believe that I submitted to the social media fad. She thought I had ‘more about’ me. She could not believe that I think I am actually conversing with people when I use social media sites. She says with great pride that she has accounts on those sites (of course) but she NEVER really uses them… “ I check in with it every now and again to see if I’ve missed anything but really social media is just a trend… it’ll pass” And I was chastised for being taken in by fashion. To my friend I was guilty of being caught up in a fad.

Fads…. those fashionable trends that are taken up with great enthusiasm for a brief period of time. I suppose a great way of describing them is a ‘craze’. It is the ultimate display of sheep like behaviour in human beings.

… or should I say fish…being carried along with the flow. And to give respect where it is due it takes a lot of strength to swim against the current. People like my friend are very proud about not going along with a trend. And she’s not alone:

“Fads are the kiss of death. When the fad goes away, you go with it.”

Conway Twitty

He pointed out that submitting to a fad can make you seem with it while the fad is “in”, but like all fashions, by the very nature of a fad it will disappear leaving you looking like a fool. Far better to be the fish swimming against the current than one of the many left washed up on the shore.

So are they right to take this stance? Or are they just rebels without a clue?

“You see, the automobile was just a passing fad. It’s got to go.”

Lawrence Felinghetti

San Francisco’s first poet laureate once felt cars were really not going to contribute much to the future… after all humanity had got about quite happily and efficiently before some idiot showed one at a French Artillery show in 1769 and the first mass produced one rolled onto the streets in 1901. And he was right… humanity had managed to get about quite well without cars.

Fact: There are now approximately 806 million cars on the planet. Numbers are increasing rapidly (especially in China and India) and there is little sign of this particular transportation fad passing to date. Lawrence may have been secretly overjoyed that this fad lingered as his great and timeless masterpiece “Two Scavengers in a Truck” kind of depended on them.

“Movies are a fad. Audiences really want to see live actors on a stage”.
Charlie Chaplin

The South London Lad predicted movies would be just a fad. After all as a successful stage actor of many years he knew the relationship between the actor and the audience was one that was best developed live and could not be replicated by a flickering light in a darkened chamber. And he was right… actors have been performing live since the first play was performed around 2500-2600 BC in Egypt and still do.

FACT: The global film industry is at 2011 worth approximately £1.7 trillion. Filmed entertainment rises year on year by 2.9% with the fastest growing markets being Brazil, Russia, India and China. Charlie will be pleased to note that his prediction has been overridden by the fact that HE is now considered one of the greatest filmmakers in history, and HIS movies were and still are popular throughout the world. Although funny enough no one can quite recall any of his stage performances.

“Taking in and blowing out smoke? It got to be such a fad”.

James Coburn

The Magnificent Seven/In like Flint actor was alarmed to see the popularisation of smoking during the twentieth century, but he knew it was just a fad. After all inhaling a daily narcotic publically could hardly be viewed as glamorous. And he was right… there was no sign of glamour in the first report of a smoking Englishman (a sailor in Bristol in 1556) who was reported as looking like a dragon with “emitting smoke from his nostrils”.

FACT: Globally cigarettes alone are an industry worth £97 billion per year and remains the most common method of consuming tobacco. The active substances trigger chemical reactions in nerve endings, which heighten heart rate, memory, alertness and reaction time. Dopamine and later endorphins are released, which are often associated with pleasure. Despite currently living in an era of bans due to the health issues arising from this habit smoking is on the increase. Coincidentally non smoker James Coburn’s most famous characters all were smokers. For the 1.22 billion smokers globally the taking in and blowing out of smoke remains an evocative, sexy, macho, tough and irresistibly glamorous activity.

Emmmmmmmmmmmmm……. Not doing too good at proving that going along with a fad is a short term thing. Surely the OLD ways are the best ways? Like my friend said, social networking is just a silly fad, mankind has better established and more popular ways of communicating.

And she has some heavy weight support. After all, Clifford Stoll is an educated man – he gained a Ph.D. and is the author of multiple books as well as a slew of technology articles. So when he spoke of the future of social networks in 1995, the world listened:

“It’s just a passing fad!!!…Discount the fawning techno-burble about virtual communities. Computers networks isolate us from one another. A network chat is a limp substitute for meeting friends over coffee.” Clifford Stoll

Yep only a lonely loser would consider social networking! The two words together make the ultimate oxymoron when used in the context of computing!!! Sitting on your own, staring at a screen, fantasising that there is anyone out there who cares? My friend is right. I’m a sheep “Baaaaaaaaa”…..

Or am I?

FACT: If the social networking site ‘Facebook’ were a country it would be the third largest by population in the world. More people populate it than The USA, than Indonesia, than Brazil, than Pakistan, than Bangladesh… Only China and India have higher populations. Previous ‘passing fads’ that hit the magic 50million global users (the number that points to it being a trend that is here to stay) are:

Telephones (96 years to get there)

Radio (36 years to get there)

Television (13 years to get there)

Internet (4 years to get there)

No one is quite sure about Facebook at within its first year it hit 200 million global users. It has categorically proved that social networking is not a fad and is a fundamental shift in the way we communicate. And before you say it is just the kids doing it the fastest growing demographic on Facebook is 55-65 year olds! To be fair, Clifford Stoll DOES now have a Facebook page… but unfortunately at the time going to press it has only 273 likes. Maybe he’s out having a cup of coffee with ‘real people’.

Thing is its great taking a stand against new trends.

Most are in fact fads. And it is great to be superior and say you will not go with the flow. Like Conway Twitty, who I quoted in support of my friend’s take on fads. I guess the man stuck with his convictions and sang Country music the old way till he popped his clogs.

But to do so is also to take the risk of being utterly and completely proven wrong. The new ways will creep in… and get more popular. Before you know it they’ve hit the magic 50 million and you’ll be wondering how on earth you managed before.

But to get to that point you have to take the risk of being thought by your peers as subscribing to an idea that is just a passing fad.

Gershwin saw this and set it to music perfectly:

They all laughed at Christopher Columbus
When he said the world was round
They all laughed when Edison recorded sound
They all laughed at Wilbur and his brother
When they said that man could fly

They told Marconi
Wireless was a phony
It’s the same old cry
They laughed at me wanting you
Said I was reaching for the moon
But oh, you came through
Now they’ll have to change their tune

They all said we never could be happy
They laughed at us and how!
But ho, ho, ho!
Who’s got the last laugh now?

They all laughed at Rockefeller Centre
Now they’re fighting to get in
They all laughed at Whitney and his cotton gin
They all laughed at Fulton and his steamboat
Hershey and his chocolate bar

Ford and his Lizzie
Kept the laughers busy
That’s how people are
They laughed at me wanting you
Said it would be, “Hello, Goodbye.”
And oh, you came through
Now they’re eating humble pie

They all said we’d never get together
Darling, let’s take a bow
For ho, ho, ho!
Who’s got the last laugh?
Hee, hee, hee!
Let’s at the past laugh
Ha, ha, ha!
Who’s got the last laugh now?”

People are still singing that song 75 years after it was written. You can substitute any new idea for the ones he brought up… but the song stays relevant.

People will always laugh at new ways of doing things, new products, new movements… they will always call them fads…

But fellow sheep… have no fear… WE will have the last laugh.

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BLOG 146: BEST IN BREED

Posted: March 1, 2011 in Uncategorized
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Monday, 28 February 2011

BLOG 146: Best in Breed


“I don’t deserve this award, but I have arthritis and I don’t deserve that either”. Jack Benny

 

Winter is a strange time to have awards do’s. At a time of year where staying in is truly the new going out…rewards for achievement and effort in every job from Anglers to Zoologists are given out. The organisers tempt the great and the good from each industry out for the night with the promise of a free meal and a chance to show off. The great and the good are most noted of course for braving the season to attend the awards celebrate achievement in the big three:movies, music and fashion. And of course these big events are televised…so in effect, we all get to go!

 

And while it’s fun to sit at home and watch them on TV, anyone who has ever been to one will know that trying to eat a plate of gourmet food whilst wearing hire clothes is not the only peril that lies ahead of the attendees. Sadly these perils are televised too.

 

Fact is…Most award dos are awful.

 

Really, they are terrible. Either the organisers are so focused on the nominees they forget the guests or they are so focused on the event they forget the experience. And what is an awards do without guests and an experience?

 

Mainly award dos are just something to get through, so you can say you were there. (Or get into an after party… why is it after parties are planned with more foresight and care than the awards so the party is supposed to be celebrating!)

 

I was just sitting here thinking about some of the shockingly bad award dos I’ve been to and I realised they all have one or more of the same 8 things wrong with them.

 

So in the usual JaxWorld Style… here are my top eight things for organisers NOT to do if they expect me to come out to their event in the deep mid winter!


 

1. Do not let people think it is ok to start late

 

Is there anything more annoying than having chowed down on the meal, drunk all the table wine, moved into the auditorium, sat down…and all you hear is the PA squawking for the next hour requesting in ever more desperate tones that people still need to get to their seats so the ceremony can start. Frankly, having grown up with the British licensing laws I know that people can shift along pronto if they know the doors will be locked. Organisers need to tell attendees that they will lock the auditorium 15 minutes after the start time … believe me bums will be on seats.

2. Do not forget to theme the event

 

Anything worse than a patchwork of awards being handed out in a hotch potch of an event? Organisers need to really look at the awards and programme them so they make sense (ie best in breed) and build up to the big one (ie top dog). It also never hurts to have a loose thread of a theme for the event to tie it all together. Especially in the auditorium. One of the best I went to was themed “The Butterfly Effect”: they ushered guests through entry doors to the auditorium and we were transported to world of light, fresh colours and flowing drapes convey the fragile beauty of a butterfly. Throughout each award winner and nominee accomplishments were likened to the Butterfly Effect idea of small acts generating great impact. Which after all is what most organisers want their event to be all about.

3. Do not waste a funny guy

 

A master of ceremonies should be someone who can tie the many disparaging threads of the evening together and make it flow. Someone who you look forward to hearing from between the gushing acceptance speeches. This is should be a person who can think on his feet and always have something entertaining to say. The best way to keep to people happy is to make them laugh…it is a known fact that sleeping people don’t laugh out loud. So Organisers…instead of wasting a stand-up comic as an envelope ripper…hire one to host the whole evening to keep the evening fludid and everyone awake… so the show isn’t a complete dud.

 

4. Do not cross dress

  

Organisers should advise participants that it’s an awards do… not a stag party. Unless cross gender dressing is your norm…please resist the urge to present or receive an award in an outfit more usually worn by a member of the opposite sex. If any organiser requires further proof that this is an express ticket to losing your audience bear in mind that even with the Academy Awards make-up and costume department James Franco and Anne Hathaway couldn’t pull it off at Oscars. Believe me…. no one can!

5. Do not say it for longer than a minute and a quarter

 

I know you’d like to believe as the recipient of an award everyone wants to hear what you have to say. They don’t. They are there for three reasons. To see who loses. To wear their best outfit. To network. If you want to thank the academy…say it in six words… it takes 1.2 seconds. No need to take an hour and a half thanking everyone from the midwife to the undertaker… we know the award wasn’t entirely down to you. It’s such a yawn fest when they go on and on, and apparently it’s illegal to spring load a trap door to open after a minute and a quarter. Pity. But maybe instead, Organisers need to give nominees a small piece of paper, a pen and a stopwatch with a maximum 75 seconds time.

6. Do not have a musical interlude featuring non professionals

 There is a reason why dancers and singers train. It’s not something everyone can do at the highest level without honing the craft. Musical interludes at awards dos are a great platformfor artistes at this level to perform and is a great treat for the guests. And yet at awards show after awards show I have had to suffer people from other professions giving it a go. (Why do footballers always want to sing and models always want to dance?) An Awards do is not the right stage for a first time stab at something you fancy giving a go. Organisers need to know that if they are booking entertainment to get the pro’s in and keep the enthusiasts out!

7. Do not let really really old people on stage

The lifetime achievement award is never a good idea if the recipient is still alive. Really old people have a lifetime of memories and have met just about everyone interesting that has ever lived…. so give them a stage…and they will tell you all about it. Every stunningly LONG moment of every stunningly long year. Lifetime to me means retrospective. Which means a lifetime achievement award should only be given posthumously. I tend to find those recipients have speeches that NEVER over run. Organisers who adopt this system all agree.

8. Do not end on a damp squib

The end should be a highpoint. It should be a finale. Organisers should think Last Night of the Proms. When that is over, the whole crowd link arms and sway while chanting ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ the rush of emotion is tangible as it envelopes the Royal Albert Hall. Where as at the Brits this year…the end was a bloke shouting “THAT’S IT… GOODNIGHT!” Organisers should draw the threads of the evening together to create a final sequence which should feel like the closing act of an opera . This should be the lasting memory the guests, nominees and winners carry out of the venue into the night.

Of course… once the awards do is over… people can get to the fourth reason why they go out on a winter’s night to suffer interminable puffery and professional camaraderie….. The After Party.

 

And you know what… I have nothing to add to improve on this time honoured tradition.

 

After Party’s is where you get to see the stuff you talk about for the next few months…or maybe a little longer!

 

Which reminds me of the time I saw a certain person steal the award her drunk rival had displayed on a table at certain After Party….

 

But hey… that’s another Blog entirely.


 

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BLOG 145: Beers with the Neighbours

Posted: March 1, 2011 in Uncategorized
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Wednesday, 23 February 2011

BLOG 145: Beers with the Neighbours

 

“It’s a small world, but I wouldn’t want to have to paint it.” Steven Wright

Two things you really should know about me. I love beer. I love globes.

I love the fact that beer is so cold and refreshing and just perfect on its own and just perfect with every meal (except duck… just doesn’t cut it with duck). I love the fact that beer is best swigged from a bottle. (This is what gave it the edge over my other great love… wine). I love the fact I live in a beer friendly society, that has pub culture and that as a nation the friendliest thing we do is have a beer with people.

It may seem a slightly unrelated fact but I love the globe. Not the occupants or the actual planet per se… just any map of the world. I find it fascinating to look at where places are. Maybe it’s living in Europe that does it. I think when you live in just 1 of 50 countries that live cheek by jowl with each other; you get pretty curious as to exactly where your neighbours are.

Especially if you live somewhere as cosmopolitan as London where you are more likely to bump into anyone from anywhere than anywhere else on earth. I find it helps to have a mental image of where Ivittuut may actually be. So the love of beer and the co-incidence of living in the world’s most actual melting pot and knowledge of where places are… are pretty useful attributes when sinking beers in a pub in London.

And then you find yourself having a beer with someone who is from Ivittuut.

And you haven’t a clue.

Not a scoob.

El blanko.

WHERE THE PLOP IS IVITTUUT???

If you know the answer without the help of Google… then YOU are my personal hero.

I cannot believe I have a collection of globes (including one that illuminates at night), that I have replace my A1 size wall hanging of the world every time a new state is born… and this person with a distinct northern European accent says that they were born in Ivittuut and I haven’t even a vague idea of whether it is a country, a province, a city or a cowshed. I just couldn’t picture where it was… everyone else in the room was either bluffing for Britain or they all knew. My ego says bluffing. So I bluffed along too and as with all conversations in the UK, we glided away from origins and onto experience, which after all is the glue that bonds all us simple folk together.

But… guess what I did, the moment I got in.

Gaaaaaaaaaahoooooooooooooogal!!!!

And I found out where on earth Ivittuut actually was.

To be fair to myself when you think Europe you kind of think it starts at Iceland in the West and ends in Russia in the East… you kind of know it goes up North into Norway and South into Malta . You kind of forget that of the 50 countries in Europe, 5 are also in Asia… but one thing you absolutely totally forget (unless you are from Ivittuut) that there is a part of Europe that strictly speaking is in the continent of North America.

Yep. Ivittuut is in Denmark… and Denmark is a little bigger than I thought.

Denmark to me has always been a little European country to me. The bits I’ve visited the most are on the islands floating around in the sea under Sweden. (I remember being rather surprised years ago to find a chunk of Denmark attached to Germany) But never the less Denmark certainly didn’t extend much beyond my mental picture of Europe. And besides… when I last went there it sure didn’t have a town called Ivittuut as far as I know. And I’m a map geek… I should know!

Well as it turns out … for just over a thousand years… Denmark extends into what is now known as the continent of North America and is a lot further west than Iceland.

How comes I never knew that the worlds largest island with a population the around the same as the UK is a part of Denmark and Ivittuut is a town in Greenland. How could this happen without ME being informed?!

Greenland is part of DENMARK???

Greenland is in EUROPE???

People are actually from GREENLAND???

Well f**k me silver and blue…. I never knew that!

Well, once I got over the shock, this little map geek had a wonderful time looking it up. Turns out the town of Ivittuut was abandoned in the 1980’s… which was about the time the chap I was talking to moved to London! Arrrrrrrrrrrggggghhh… if only I knew that when I ran into him… there is NOTHING on the interweb to indicate why this town was abandoned, and I actually met someone from there and didn’t ask!!!

Unfortunately – as anyone who has ever lived in London will know – despite sinking a few pints and having inconsequential conversation for several hours, the chances of our paths crossing again is about zero.

I suppose the most consequential thing from that interlude will be the questions I never asked because I was to ignorant to know what they were. Because I was too busy trying to be more knowledgeable than I was.

That’ll teach me for bluffing.

So I’m coming clean now. I had no idea about anything Danish outside of pastries, Hans Christian Anderson and beer. I have totally missed my opportunity to ask probably the only person I will ever meet from Greenland anything interesting about his homeland. So.. if anyone does happen to know why a whole town closed in 1987… or why no one ever told me that Denmark is bigger than the Carlsberg factory… can you let me know?!

Cheers!

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BLOG 144: Accepting my rucksack

Posted: March 1, 2011 in Uncategorized
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Friday, 18 February 2011

BLOG 144: Accepting my rucksack

“Moving on, is a simple thing, what it leaves behind is hard.” Dave Mustaine

Regular readers would know I’m no stranger to the “Holy Crap!… didn’t see that coming” cycle. Things I could reasonably expect to take for granted have completely and unexpectedly perished. I’m not a particularly strong person but I’ve survived (some may even say thrived) where others in similar or even lesser circumstances have crumbled. I think the key to my buoyancy is down to the fact that I never say oh well things could be worse, smile and carry on. Sometimes you just have call it what it is and stop being so English about it. “It’s not a digging utensil…it’s a spade” as a wise man once said. Sometimes you have let people know that you are having a crap time of it in order to accept what has happened and move on.

Michael J Fox told a story in which God gathered some people who had the worst troubles in the world and told them to sit in a circle. God then instructed each to tell the gathered company about their individual troubles and how it makes them feel. God then turned each person’s troubles into a rucksack and told them to place their troubles in the centre of the circle. At the end of the meeting God told each to chose a burden lighter than his own and go back to his life. Each chose the trouble he came to the meeting with and left feeling better able to cope. The moral of this tale according to Michael J Fox is that the recognition from someone else that your burden is weighty is a freeing experience – making you able to bear the load you once thought unbearable.

It always comes as a shock when someone who has a talent is struck down with a debilitating condition. Michael J Fox, was in the prime of his career when he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. I should imagine for an actor that would be a definitive curtain call on your future aspirations – so I was surprised to hear him describe what most people would see as an affliction as a blessing. Since being diagnosed with the condition he has interacted with many who share the condition but do so without his undoubted advantages. It was only by doing this that he became acutely aware that the conditions affect on his ability to work has been much cushioned by the wealth generated during his career and the lack of knowledge people have of the condition generates fear and ignorance. He said having his acting career so brutally and publically curtailed served only to give him another stage to do something perhaps a little more worth while on. He feels going public with his condition and using his name in connection with fund raising for research and support has freed him from focusing on what Parkinson’s has taken from him. But first he had to not only admit to himself certain losses but get others to appreciate them too – it made his load lighter.

I have to admit being greatly moved by his attitude.

To get to that point you have to get others to accept the gravity of what has happened to you. Once that is achieved and the loss is recognised, you can then move to plan B. This is not a case of wallowing in your problems it’s a case of getting recognition for the losses you have to endure. It seems we have a propensity towards putting a brave face on things. It’s a very English thing to do to say, “Things could be worse” and smile and carry on. It’s almost as if you are being unnecessarily negative if you take the time out to see exactly how bad things actually are… which is daft as surely it is best to know exactly what is no longer possible, grieve for it, then move on. But repression is almost a national occupation, we do not comfortably deal with something as real as loss.

Losing something, be it your health, your job, your relationship…what ever it is…is just bloody crap, and you should be allowed to acknowledge that. You should be allowed to look honestly at what you have lost and acknowledge the fact it has gone and will not be back.

As uncomfortable as it is to go against our national character of grinning and bearing it I tend to treat all loss as a death. And like a death, I allow myself permission to grieve.

So here’s the Jaxworld guide to dealing with the ‘DAMN! I did not see that coming’ events that result in you suffering a loss.

First you have to take personal inventory. What have you lost? What does this mean in real terms? What needs to be dealt with that is within your control? What is outside of your control? Do it on paper or on Excel it doesn’t really matter… just look at it in black and white. Trust me it’ll look less scary written down than it does when it crawls out from under the repression rock dressed up as anxiety. I don’t know why but just the process of taking inventory starts to bring things under control.

Once you can see clearly what the problem is you can start to begin to accept the situation you are in. It’s important not to jump straight to finding cures to the problem before you have had a chance to accept you have a problem in the first place. You have to allow yourself to run the full spectrum of emotions that go with loss. Before you do anything allow yourself to feel anger at the turn of events. Allow yourself to make bargains with deities. Allow yourself to feel hopeless and low. These are not ‘unbritish’ emotions – these are the normal steps to letting go. It’s a cycle that is important to go through as it totally blows out all the destructive emotional debris which will stop you making daft fight or flight choices that people make when they jump straight to finding a cure.

The next stage is to get evidence that you are not alone. Of course this goes against the great British tenant of “Thou shall not be a burden” – but trust me, (it’s that circle that Michael J Fox talked of God making people sit in), you will be surprised how not alone you are. Pick up the phone and talk to friends and family and see how quickly sharing honestly what is going on with you opens others up to put their rucksack in the circle. Listening sincerely to others and being sincerely heard in return is very empowering.

It’s always at this stage that I have always found that I can finally look at my own rucksack favourably. It’s at this stage where I can say, “This is the thing that happened to me. The thing I did not expect. The thing that should have thrown me off course… but I’m still here”… It’s at this stage where realise that I actually can find the strength to handle the weight, and that I can and will accept the load.

Acceptance is NOT the same as resignation. Bearing things quietly is the favourable way of dealing (or more honestly NOT dealing) with things in these parts. But it seldom works. I don’t know why we do it! We should not be so afraid of taking ownership of the dark periods of our lives. To be able to accept that crap has happened, that crap cost you dear and you have grieved for your losses is not being negative and wallowing in the bad stuff. It is healthy to calculate your losses and talk about it – even measure your loss against other people’s problems.

Not all our burdens will be viewed somewhere further down the line as the making of us… some may, but most won’t. But all eventually get viewed simply as challenges , providing we processed the losses rather than brushed the personal cost under the carpet.

You may not ever overcome your problem – but by being honest with yourself and others about what your burden entails – compared to all the other rucksacks in the circle, yours will be the one that you will choose to carry. And who knows… like an actor struck with Parkinson’s at the age of just 30 you may find it was not a weight designed to crush you .

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BLOG 143: Chase me!

Posted: February 19, 2011 in Entertainment
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Thursday, 10 February 2011

BLOG 143: Chase me!

“Most of what we understand about love comes from the heroes and heroines of fiction” Sebastian Faulks

 

It came to my attention that my romantic ideals may well be distanced from reality, when I ran away from a boyfriend when I was a teenager. We were on a wild deserted windswept west-country beach, and he said something I vaguely disagreed with. So I pulled my hand from his and trotted slowly in the other direction…convinced he would chased after me (and hopefully pin me to the sand with a show of ardour that would convince me that even for those few moments he could not live without me). Of course… he stood bewildered as I ran (in a vague facsimile of slow motion) to the end of the cove… and watched with some amusement as I briskly walked back to him (as he had the car keys… I did mention we were in the west country didn’t I?… nowhere on earth does the middle of nowhere like the west-country counties of England).

 

I recall muttering to myself that I would sue Daphne du Maurier whose book Jamaica Innhad greatly influenced my fevered teenage imagination. Clearly real west-country lads were not indifferent to girls because they had to face the prospect of a moment without them to bring out the grand passion… they were just indifferent to girls.

 

Many decades later lounging in the comfort of my rather lovely (if I say so myself) sitting room in my palais de femme divorcée I recounted the tale of the beach run and how I have continued to expect to be chased after even in the face of compelling evidence to the contrary. My friend found it that evening (and STILL finds it) highly amusing, that I should be so influenced by fiction that I apply it to real life.

 

Whilst I always find it joyous to be the cause of a smile (or in this case outright laughter) for any of my friends… it made me wonder.

 

Can widely held modern romantic ideals be traced back not to the human character – but a writers pen?

 

No wonder I’m of kilter with real romance. Just a tour of my bookshelves reveal an awful lot of misinformation: There are just so many couples in literature whose romances are totally improbable…

Prince Charming and Cinderella – Comte de ma Mere L’Oye by Charles Perrault
Bridget Jones and Mark Darcy: Bridget Jones Diaries by Helen Fielding

Antony and Cleopatra : Antony and Cleopatraby Wiiliam Shakespere
John Proctor and Abigail Williams: The Crucibleby Arthur Miller
Laurie Laurence and Josephine March: Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
Marius Pontmercy and Cosette: Les Miserable by Victor Hugo
Mr Knightly and Emma : Emma by Jane Austen
Westley and Buttercup: The Princess Bride by William Goldman

 

True, there is always a bit of jeopardy. No path to true love is smooth… sometimes a little death has to be suffered, but with some good old fashioned chasing and romantic tussling… every gal gets her man. (Or at least is loved so good, proper and thoroughly she can live off the memory). And that I’m afraid is a lesson learnt from fiction… that love (true love) is worth it. It has become what we understand about love.

 

But the lessons we girls learn through fiction often is not the authors intent. To illustrate the point I have completed a reasonably sized survey on my mates… this is what we all agree we have learnt from our top ten tomes of romantic literature….

 

Romeo and Juliet. (1591) William Shakespeare.

STORY: Your dad hates his dad and his mum thinks your mum is scum. You are 15, in love and NO ONE, I mean NO ONE thinks you two dating is a good idea. Add to the fact one of you is messing with drugs and the fact you BOTH play with knives… this ain’t gonna end well. But wow… your boyfriend is gonna risk Daddy setting the dogs on him to break into your garden and catch a glimpse of you in your nightie.

LESSON: US AGAINST THE WORLD MAKES THE STRONGEST PUREST LOVE

 

Pride and Prejudice (1813) Jane Austen

STORY: You meet this guy and he is soooo rude to you. He insults your family then busts up your big sister’s engagement. He can’t resist telling everyone you are as common as muck. Fair dos he is handsome and rich but what an asshole. Until he has a change of heart, covers up your slaggy little sister’s scandal and asks you if you are free on the same day your big sisters wedding (which is now back on) cause he thinks you two better get hitched as well.

LESSON: EVEN IF THE GUY IS THE MOST OBNIOXIOUS PRIG, GIVE HIM TIME AND HE’LL CHANGE.

 

The Great Gatsby (1925) F Scott Fitzgerald

STORY: Your conman of an ex wants you back. Which is a pity cause you married someone else after he binned you. But man! He will not give it up. Turns out your husband is a terrible bully and your ex has nothing else to do with his time but woo you… extravagantly. Your hubby finds out and goes ballistic at you but your ex protects you right to the bitter end.

LESSON: STAY IN TOUCH WITH YOUR EX. HE’LL BE USEFUL EVEN IF HE IS A WASTER.

 

The Odyssey (800BC) Homer

STORY: Your husband is in the army and hasn’t been home for ages. People are beginning to think he ain’t coming home – helped by rumours of tarts overseas that he has been cavorting with. You have your own problems trying to stay faithful when 108 of the countries hottest men move into your house with a view to get into your pants. It takes 20 years, but somehow rumours, available tarts and hot men do not tempt either of you to be unfaithful and finally hubby gets home.

LESSON: STICK BY YOUR MARRIAGE VOWS EVEN IF IT LOOKS DOOMED

 

 

Jane Ayre (1846) Charlotte Bronte

STORY: You have been beaten black and blue by the ugly stick. I mean you make dogs howl at the sight of your face, and you ain’t rich enough to make anyone forget it. But never mind, you are quite clever so you go and work as a governess for a very handsome geezer. Apparently he married some rich beautiful west indian bird that no has seen for years…so everyone assumes he is a widow. You fancy him rotten, he’s not so keen on you. But the Mrs ain’t dead, she’s mad as a bucket of frogs and is locked in the attic. Mad Mrs gets out and burns the house down with herself in it. Now he IS a widower… and guess what… the fire blinded him, so now he don’t mind being married to you.

LESSON: UGLY BIRDS WILL GET THE RICH HANDSOME MAN IN THE END.

 

Wuthering Heights (1847) Emily Bronte

STORY: Oh you are hot! Unfortunately no one else in town is apart from the unsuitable mixed race moody kid you used to hang out with when you were little. Of course you don’t marry him you marry someone else (he is after all unsuitable). But then … YOU die. Guess who’s the only one who gets upset… yep, the mixed race moody kid. So you haunt him, drive him nuts till he does awful things to your widower then you convince him starving himself to death is a great idea because then you two can be together always. Which he does.

LESSON: ANOREXIA WILL GET YOU A HOT MAN

 

Macbeth (1623) William Shakespeare

STORY: Sexy old you has a husband who will do anything for you as long as you keep being sexy. Kill a king, take over a kingdom… oh and 24 pairs of Jimmy Choo’s.. he’ll do it all as long as you keep floating around in a negligee. He is like superman when you are about, he can do anything. Of course the moment you are not, he gets as weak as a damp lettuce and it all goes pear shaped.

LESSON: IF YOU AMP UP THE VA VA VOOM YOU MOTIVATE MEN TO GREATNESS

 

Gone with the Wind (1936) Margaret Mitchell

STORY: You are a little minx. You have several men on the go, and you love it. Of course there is just one guy who can see through your devious ways… and as luck would have it he sweeps you up and carries you upstairs for a good seeing to. Of course you totally mess up your marriage by being a little minx and he walks. Not that you are too put out because you’ll get him back… won’t you?

LESSON: MEN LOVE DIFFICULT WOMEN EVEN IF YOU ARE A NIGHTMARE!

 

The Illiad (800BC) Homer

STORY: Okay, you are sooo married but look young for your age. Then some people turn up to do a trade deal and one of them is a foreign prince who has brought along his kid brother. You are old enough to know better but the kid is so hot… all rippling muscles and hair that is begging to have fingers run through it. So you have a fling and your hubby turns a blind eye. However the kid gets hooked on you and you are terribly flattered. However, the next thing you know you have agreed to run away with him. And just when you were thinking of going home your rather angry hubby declares war. So 20 years of fighting breaks out. Just as well you went for such a younger guy as you were kind of stuck with him for a long while – but no worries, hubby took you back as you STILL looked fine.

LESSON: BEING A LOOKER GETS YOU OUT OF TROUBLE AND BEING A COUGAR IS OK

 

How Stella got her Groove Back (1987) Terry MacMillan

You are middle aged, a divorcee, a stockbroker and bored. You go to Jamaica on holiday. You get it on with a bar man half your age who thinks there are times when the vapid cuteness of a young nymph can’t hold a candle to the practiced sensuality of a more mature woman. You go home, can’t forget him and have him sent out to you faster than a fed-ex package. Your ex hubby don’t like it, your kids even less, but who cares…at last MAMA is happy!

LESSON: NOTHING HAS CHANGED SINCE THE ILLIAD EXCEPT NOW YOU GET TO KEEP YOUR TOY!

 

And that’s the thing… be you a little girl being read Cinderella, a school girl studying Shakespeare, an undergraduate doing a dissertation on the Homer, a commuter losing yourself in chick lit or an occupant of a seat in the theatre or cinema… these unlikely tales of love conquering all obstacle (even death) are with us. We even draw messages from these tales the author never meant!

 

We absorb these fanciful tales and hope that we too will live lives of such colour, that we too will weave the magic of story telling by our very existence…missing the point that our idea of love comes from people who never existed. People for whom any obstacles route to being vanquished has been worked out in advance. People for whom challenges only exist on the page.

 

Teenage me trotted down a beach in Devon hoping to be perused and embraced by a west-country lad who had offended me very (VERY) slightly. For a while as I ran slowly into the wind, my hair flailing behind me, the surf beating against my shins… it did feel like the most romantic moment in history. The anticipation that he was chasing behind me, blood coursing wildly through his veins at the prospect of losing such an amazing relationship…sent adrenaline straight to my heart. I thought it was kind of worth it.

 

Of course, as we all know… all I got out of it was a 5 minute work-out and a lift home in his car.

 

Over the years I’ve told the tale to various girlfriends to make them laugh. Easy to be self effacing as I’m no longer teenage me. I’m older and wiser and even have published romantic fiction of my own. I know the difference between fact and fiction better than most. I can afford to laugh at teenage me.

 

BUT.. next week has in it the day my lovely big sister refers to as ‘International-Rub-Your-Relationship-In-The-Face-of-Singleton’s-Day‘ (also known as Valentine’s Day). And you know what?… There must be a little bit of Teenage Me left in there somewhere. Because I know come the 14th of February… SHE’LL still sort of want to be chased… just a little!

 

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