170216

And like so many pheonixes... Um, hi. On the basis that I'm now entombed here and speaking entirely to myself, which frankly was my suspicion all along, there probably isn't too much point embarking on some elaborate explanation or update. But I think I might be back, and more or less intact at that - physically certainly; mentally and emotionally perhaps a tad less so, but writing here can be my self-prescribed therapy. Since Decade 4 is drawing to close for me later this year, I daresay I'll take an even more reflective tone than I did before. I'd like to unearth some creativity if I can, as well as waffle, talk about myself, and philosophise really badly. Same old same old. And yes I did have to google the plural of 'pheonix'. I won't invite anyone to say hi, as there's clearly no-one there.

290212

Happy fifth Wednesday in February! We haven't had one of those in twenty-eight years, in case anyone was wondering. On Wednesday 29th February 1984 I was deep into a my second term at junior school, in the class of a delightfully old-school, cardigan-wearing, blackboard rubber-throwing, quiffy-haired teacher who has long since departed this world. I had a full complement of grandparents (now none), a new-found love of the most wonderful sport known to man (still have that), not a care in the world (no comment), and no idea why I had no desire to join in the games of kiss chase that took place in the playground most lunchtimes (worked that one out now). I occasionally wore jeans.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-17101768

I haven't worn jeans since I was eleven years old. I had never liked them, a fact which I had made very clear to my parents on a number of occasions. But one day the following leap year, 1988, I was presented with a new pair of jeans. I was annoyed - upset even, and decided to draw a line. Over a period of a couple of weeks my protests about the jeans became repetitive and ferocious; both qualities I rarely exhibited. One day the conflict came to a head and I was forced to wear the new jeans. Exhausted, exasperated, but not defeated, I played my trump card - I cried. This was partly calculated I suppose, but the tears were borne of genuine frustration and anguish. This was an event so rare that it shocked my parents, who, realising they had underestimated the strength of my feelings, never asked me to wear jeans again. I think the offending garment made its way to a charity shop some time later.

The thing is, I'm not sure why I don't like jeans. I think other people can look fine in them - attractive, even, but the idea of wearing them myself has alarmed me for as long as I remember. Other clothing aversions (shorts, certain types of shirt) have come and gone over the years, but this one persists. In recent years I have worn trousers which are not dissimilar to the jean in style, yet crucially, nothing resembling denim. I can, I think, categorically state that I will never again wear jeans. I don't think it was ever a stylistic objection, and it certainly isn't a phobia. My family and friends wear jeans and always have done, so there was no apparent reason for me to develop such a strong aversion to them. Perhaps it was merely an extravagant way for the eleven-year-old me to prove a point to my parents, which has grown into a lifelong habit. Either way, I'm jeans free since 1988, and staying that way.

231211

It's always the same with Christmas. I'm a child at heart, and my energy levels noticeably rise in the days leading up to the holiday period. This year the build-up seems to have been longer than normal, so I've gradually whipped myself up into my own version of a festive frenzy. That sounds more impressive than it is, and really only comprises of talking to people I wouldn't ordinarily talk to, whistling slightly more than usual, and tuning the kitchen radio to a station that only plays Christmas tunes. Even so, by my own standards I've been lively, playful and, goddammit I'll say it, happy. Despite a succession of late nights I've comfortably maintained a regimen of early morning rising, have so far maintained admirable dietary discipline, and even remain motivated to exercise each day.

Yet I can feel it upon me. The slump is approaching. Of course Christmas day itself is an anticlimax for many, consisting as it typically does of an initial whirlwind of gift exchange and food preparation and consumption, followed by a slow descent into dull games, generic TV, and more food, interspersed with snoozing. But I'm okay with all that. I can cope with seeing the uncle I don't like, pretending to be grateful for the third packet of Licquorice Allsorts, and watching Oliver! for the fifty-seventh time. What I struggle with, and always fail at, is keeping myself from slipping into introspective mode. All celebrations do this to me. I find myself withdrawing to a corner, watching, reflecting, sometimes brooding. I suppose sobriety doesn't help matters, but there's something about witnessing key moments in people's lives; in my own life, that breaks my heart. Perhaps it's the knowledge that the moment is about to be lost forever. Perhaps it's some kind of response to the desperate futility of it all. It could be that I am touched by the ability of my family and friends to cast aside all the hostility and cruelty in the world and concentrate for a few precious moments on the love they share.

Or maybe I'm just a miserable bastard. I don't know, but either way I inevitably reach this state of Christmas paralysis. I become a rather sad-looking and distant observer. And that's not me. It's not me at all, though I think many people believe it is.

The moroseness has been hastened a little this year by a comment one of my ex football team mates made at the pub the other night. We were being told that another chap from the team had been busy lately decorating his new house, and the first chap made a mischievous enquiry about whether he lived alone, or with a 'friend'. There was a moment of awkwardness, then someone else told him to 'behave', and the conversation moved on. I can't be certain, but I'm fairly sure the comment was directed at me.

To clarify, I don't really regard myself as closeted, but neither have I made any explicit statement about my sexuality to this particular group of friends. For some time I have been working on the assumption that they all know I'm gay, and whilst none of them were invited to the civil partnership ceremony earlier in the year (see how I subtly revealed that?), several of them have seen me around town with my partner, so I assumed that any speculation or gossip that may have taken place in the past had long since ceased.

I'm surprised and annoyed to discover that this should still be a subject of interest for any of them. The individual who made the comment is someone who I like, and having mulled it over for a couple of days, I don't think my opinion of him has changed as a result of this. I suppose I resent being reminded of my embarrassment about those times in the now distant past when I was evasive about my sexuality. I wonder if I continue to avoid making certain proclamations because, deep down, I fear some of the prejudices it might unleash. It's possible that I am ashamed to admit to myself that perhaps I even share some of those prejudices.

Christmas specific bi-polarism, that's what I've got. Ho ho... oh!

Until 2012, over and out. Merry Christmas all.

201212

I'm not in the habit of directing people to other web pages, but please visit the below if you have the time. It's a favourite of mine.

http://www.dooyoo.co.uk/food/morrisons-chunky-plaice-fillets/1201663/

141011

I often think people take swivel chairs for granted these days. When I was a child, they seemed such exotic and grown-up items, and it was a real treat to be able to pilot one for just a few seconds. I was especially fascinated by the chairs which swivelled clockwise to raise the height of the seat, and anti-clockwise to lower it.

At school, the teachers often had swivel chairs, whilst the pupils were forced to make do with those moulded plastic ones with holes in the back of the seat. At least they came in a range of pleasing autumnal hues, oranges, browns and a sort of dusky buttermilk.

I would take every chance I got to leap into the teacher's chair and propel myself around by pushing against the ground with one or both feet, using the thing as a personal roundabout, trying to reach the highest possible speed before abruptly stopping and launching myself back in the opposite direction, in a misguided attempt to avoid dizziness.

I have a rather nice swivel chair in my office at work, my energetic use of which has led to one or two funny looks from my colleagues. But what, I ask, is a swivel chair for, if not for swivelling?

241110

One of my favourite pictures of me. Upside down.

041110

'Live for the moment'. Interesting concept, isn't it?

I know it's basically meant to mean you should take every opportunity you have to experience and enjoy whatever life throws at you. Squeeze every last drop from every last moment, because it might be your only chance. Taken to extremes, this maxim advocates the abandonment of consideration for both the past, and the future. There's obviously room for interpretation though, and the extent to which we remember and learn from past experiences is up to us. Likewise, most people would think it wise to remain cognisant of any implications our actions today, may have on tomorrow.

Nonetheless, living in the moment is something I've always practised, it seems to me, more literally than most. As a child I would always put off chores or schoolwork until the last possible day, even the last possible moment, favouring instead a walk, the TV, or that game I invented which involved trying to fling those little sachets of soy sauce or ketchup you get in Pot Noodles, into the small oval-shaped opening in an empty tissue box positioned against a door on the other side of the room. The thought that I was better than anyone in the world at propelling a 5x4cm condiment-filled plastic envelope with devastating accuracy some ten feet across my bedroom, seemed vastly more important than anything Mr Whatsisname might have set me for homework.

I'd still do the homework, most of the time at least. Getting into trouble was drawing unnecessary attention to oneself. There was the occasional calcuated gamble that a deadline would be extended that didn't pay off, but I could always talk my way around any punishment. I had one detention during my entire school career, and that was for the ridiculous misdemeanour of forgetting to bring in my Bible one day. No, the homework would get done. But it would be rushed, and vastly inferior to that of which I was capable. None of which mattered to me. I limited the amount I did to the bare minimum which was permissable, boxes were ticked, the years passed.

This wasn't laziness, you understand. It wasn't the mere rebellion of a young boy who thinks he knows better. I could see the viewpoint of my teachers, of my parents. Good education = good job = successful life = happiness. It was just that I never agreed with any of it. Can't remember a time when I did. I don't remember any kind of epiphany or realisation that it was all bullshit. I just always knew that it was. People lived for a while, then they died. What happened in between was really neither here nor there. Just get from one end of the piece of the string to the other without encountering too much resistence. That was my philosophy as a five-year-old just as much as it is now.

On occasion, I recall chuckling to myself at the huge amount of work I was going to have fit in next week in just a single evening as a result of my indifference, as if that person who would be struggling to do the work next week was someone other than myself. When the time finally came to do the work, neither would I curse my selfish, work-shy, good-for-nothing self of a week ago for making hay while the sun shone, at my expense. He was my kind of guy, you see. If anything I admired his devil-may-care attitude.

Using the sauce sachet and tissue box game as an example, the fact is that I have always taken a perverse pleasure in spending disproportionate amounts of time on obscure tasks I know full well to be completely pointless. It's my own little way of thumbing my nose at a life which, if I am honest, I believe to be pointless in its entirety. I can't identify with people who work hard, who pursue ambitions, who set goals and spend months, years and even lifetimes in their quest for some perceived state of perfection. So long as there is nothing wrong NOW, at this very point in time, I'm satisfied. Even if there is something ominous on the horizon, even if it is around the corner, so long as it is not HERE, NOW, I remain serenely unaffected.

Often, the ominous will recede, or turn out not to be so bad after all. On the rare occasions that something that looks bad turns out to be every bit as bad, or even worse, I either pedal like hell to remove myself from the situation, to find as direct and trouble-free a route as possible to my default position as a bemused and uninterested spectator-cum-semi-participant in the world; or I carry on regardless, oblivious to any threat.

Here's an example for you. A few years back, they found a growth on one of my mother's kidneys. They had become intertwined in such a way that the only thing to do was remove them both. That's a reasonably major surgical procedure, all with the spectre of cancer hanging over her at the same time. She is not a healthy woman - overweight, a heavy smoker who gets next to no exercise - not high on the list of suitable candidates for organ removal. It was not a pleasant time for my mother, or any of my family. Except for me. It slightly embarrasses me even now, but my behaviour did not deviate in the slightest, not for a single moment, from what could be described as normal for me. Not from the point of diagnosis, right through her admission to hospital, the procedure itself, and the recovery period thereafter. I wasn't sad or worried for a single moment. I love my mother a great deal. We have always been close, and even now speak every day. I will be upset when that time does come, and will miss her very much. But the me who's going to have to deal with that isn't the me of today. As it happens, I think my consistency and apparent stoicism was actually a source of comfort to her back then. But I wasn't putting on a front. I wasn't concealing inner turmoil, and fighting back the urge to shower her with sympathy and affection lest it be the last chance I got. I had no such urge.

This isn't a coping mechanism. It may have been a subconscious decision at first, but for a long time I've been very well aware that now is all that matters to me. It seems illogical to me to react to something before it takes place. Not only because it might not happen, but also, and more importantly, because allowing the possibility of something bad in the future to pollute a perfectly harmless and agreeable now, would be a crime, pure and simple. Now is all that we have, and the purity of now is fundamental to any happiness we might be able to achieve. If I feel strongly about anything (and I don't), then it's that.

More evenings than not, upon going to bed, one of my final thoughts before sleep is something along the lines of "Right here, right now, there is only me. It is dark. I am warm and safe. Nothing matters." That comforts me like nothing else.

170810

Considering that this is essentially a private space, it's remarkable how difficult I've found it to be truly honest in what I write here. Anyone who knows me through this site doesn't know me in real life. Everyone who knows me in real life doesn't know about this site, apart from one, and I'm hardly in contact with him at all these days, even though he's right up there on my list of favourite people.

So what's the point of having a secret space if I never reveal any secrets? I guess I'm a little ashamed of certain things, and don't wish to share them with strangers. I may allude to them, but I doubt I could ever openly discuss them, even in writing. Perhaps shutting them out makes them less real, and renders my questioning of my own decency invalid. A form of denial, if you will.

Suffice it to say that I have, err, erred. But I know I have it in me to rediscover the right path. Sorry - religious imagery not good. What I mean to say is that I intend to make certain modifications in my behaviour from here on in. I'll let you know how it goes, in a very vague and non-specific way of course.

290610

There was a time (I refer readers to my previous post), when England's elimination from the FIFA World Cup (TM) would have left me devastated. I'm talking genuine trauma. Tears, anger, denial, that feeling like you've been punched in the stomach. Now? Utter indifference. Within twenty minutes I had shrugged it off and gone off to consult cinema listings. (Ignore the terrible reviews of 'Whatever Works' - it's pretty good).

Yet I don't think this change of attitude has come about as a result of our national team's ever lengthier list of not quites, nearlys and nowhere bloody nears. Three moderately successful World Cups followed by an awful one have worn away the blind faith of most people I know, but I know myself to still be capable of donning the blinkers and hoping for, even expecting a positive outcome. Yet I choose not to, at least where sport is concerned. There was a time when I would sit in front of the TV, quietly whispering to a God that I knew full well didn't exist, that if Nick Faldo could make this putt, or Jeremy Bates could somehow win this tie-break, or Peter Schmeichel could save this penalty, or David Bryant could win this end (maybe not that last one), I would happily do his evil bidding for the rest of my days. Am I mixing up God and the Devil there? Not sure.

I suppose my point is that in recent years I've allowed the perspective of which I was always capable to occupy the driving seat more. It's not that there are more important things in life than sport, it's that there is nothing important in life full stop. Some might say I've matured. Perhaps I'm a little more cynical than I used to be. Either way, on some level it saddens me that my emotions are stirred so rarely these days.

In respect of the passing of my youthful exuberance, I will decline to sign off with a typically flippant remark.

240510

Well it turns out that even if I have a fractured skull there isn't much to be done. Skull fractures are pretty interesting as it turns out. They can be described by location (temporal, basal) or type (linear, depressed). The depressed ones, and those accompanied by outer head wounds, obviously need some urgent treatment, what with the brain either being squashed or exposed to the world. The linear ones tend to be left alone though, since they heal by themselves given some time. I won't be playing any football for weeks and weeks now, so the risk of re-bumping that same area, even allowing for my penchant for walking into things, is negligible. Incidentally, I don't think I have fractured my skull - though I've been enjoying imagining what it would be like to have done so. I appreciate that the reality is probably less romantic. In fact, my skull is quite high up my list of bones I wouldn't like to fracture.

We picnicked at the beach yesterday. Some eye-catching people were on show. Parts of me are a rather darker shade than they used to be. It hurts a little. Summer, it would seem, has arrived.

210510

Well we lost, but only just. One-nil down at half time, we dominated the second half but by the end of ninety minutes only had one goal to show for a series of very good opportunities to score. There was a larger crowd than I had expected.

Reduced to ten men by a sending off in extra time, we conceded the decisive goal about ten minutes from the end. It was very clearly offside, and I was pretty glum about the whole business. My mini-world-cup-shaped losers' trophy resides in my parents' house, never to be looked at again.

My head still hurts from a foul on me in the second half. I'm not sure whether it was forearm, elbow or shoulder - something hard. I have a mild headache and occasional nausia, and some involuntary muscle twitching on the left side of my body; eyelid, bicep, thigh. Perhaps I'll die. Maybe I'm just tired.

I repeat - football is BLOODY FANTASTIC. Can't wait for next season.

270110

Phrases that annoy me Part 1:

"Everything happens for a reason"

This group of words, in this particular order, touches more nerves for me than perhaps any other, due to certain experiences with which I will not bore anyone here. Quite apart from the personal nature of my objection to this trite little package of good old-fashioned hogwash, however, it has always struck me as both nonsensical, and in no way helpful in what those who use it are trying to achieve.

I know that consoling someone after something bad has happened is not easy. Pain, whether physical or psychological in nature, can not be explained away, eased by logic or overpowered by wisdom. And yet words are often the only way we can reach someone who is suffering. What can you say to someone who is upset, that they have not heard before? Very little, in most cases. The mere fact that you take time to console and be with someone is likely to be far more important to them than anything you might actually say. Words are cheap, hollow, meaningless.

This is my first, though by no means greatest objection, to the use of 'Everything happens for a reason'. Is that supposed to cheer me up?! That this is my miserable destiny and no matter how I struggle to improve my lot, some all-powerful force will decide the course of my life? That I can look forward to my hopes and dreams being merrily trampled upon by some arbitrary cosmic boot for the rest of my life? That there is little point working towards anything or making plans, because what happens to me has already been decided? Thanks a bunch.

Of course some people use 'Everything happens for a reason' to explain happy accidents and unexpected good luck, or to comment on how apparently unconnected events can spark a train of events. A little more harmless in this context I guess, but essentially carrying the same message that we are helpless; bobbing up and down in the ocean of uncertainty waiting for something nice to float our way, or to be mowed down by a passing liner, bitten in two by a tiger shark, or simply to die of exposure. Balderdashery, if ever I heard it.

I've probably made it clear by now that I don't agree with 'Everything happens for a reason'. Not only does it absolve us from any blame, or indeed credit, for things that happen, it encourages a belief that we should remain passive in the face of 'Everything', that there is no point trying to change things. Most of all, it simply isn't true. Lots of things happen for no reason at all, that is to say no thought or planning has gone into them. They are not designed to achieve anything, and whilst they may have causes, these are often entirely unconnected to any consequences. Further, even events which have been planned sometimes have consequences which were not intended.

I do believe that we each have the power to influence in some way the vast majority of events in our lives. 'Everything happens for a reason' isn't a direct contradiction of this as such, but it does tend to divert attention from our ability to decide what those reasons should be, where we should attach meaning in life, and how we view our place in the world. We all have setbacks and moments of doubt. We all make mistakes. But most of us retain a good deal of scope to decide the direction of our lives. And even where we lack the power to influence events, we never lose the power to decide how we react to them.

In summary: lots of things happen for lots of different reasons; lots of other things happen for no reason at all; as individuals we have a choice as to how we are affected.

110110

New Year greetings, and if you happen to be a turkey, congratulations on having made it this far. I dread to think how many calories were thrown down my gullet between the middle of December and now, but cannot admit to any real sense of regret. Christmas Day is the only day of the year when I feel justified in eating an entire Terry's Chocolate Orange for breakfast. It's what Jesus would have wanted.

Coupled as it was with some time off work to have, and recover from, a small operation, my festive absence from work was the longest of my working life so far, a whopping 20 days, comprised of the following:

6 days of weekend
6 days of annual leave
4 days of public holiday / work shutdown
4 days of medical related absence

The extended period was a good opportunity to reflect on where I am in my personal development, on what I have achieved, and on what I want to do in the coming months and years. But instead I sat in the house eating, wandered around town people-watching and shopping, and watched TV.

That's not entirely true. Once I had recovered from the operation I was rather busy preparing for visits from, and making visits to, various family members. In summary, a pleasantly familiar Christmas and New Year. If I was in a fault-finding mood, perhaps a couple of extra days would have come in handy in order to catch up with certain individuals who are foolish enough to call themselves my friends, but I will no doubt bump into them over the coming months.

My employer allows its workers two days special paid leave in order to help them give up smoking, which seems a good incentive for a New Year's resolution. The first step for me is to take up smoking.

031209

Diarist, sports correspondent, current affairs commentator and now music reviewer. I can do it all.

Album Review

I Dreamed A Dream - lovely Susan Boyle

Lovely, lovely, wonderful Susan. I have mentioned my admiration for lovely Susan Boyle in passing to a number of people, and for some reason they generally seem to think I'm joking. Let me declare, with as much seriousness as I can muster, that lovely Susan Boyle's uniquely rapid rise to world dominance is in my belief a genuinely heartwarming story. Admittedly, there are bound to be those in the background leeching money from the mind-boggling album sales, upcoming US tour and numerous public appearances, but at the root of it all is the story of a woman blessed with a voice of the purest crystal, yet denied the chance to share it on any significant stage until not far off the beginning of her sixth decade. And she's bloody lovely.

Track 1 - Wild Horses
I am not overly familiar with this as a Rolling Stones song, which is perhaps why it grabbed me so powerfully when I first heard lovely Susan's rendition on the radio. A gentle piano accompaniment leaves plenty of space for Susan's elegant tones to reverberate through what is an enchanting, catchy and very strong opening.

Track 2 - I Dreamed A Dream
Indeed you did Susan. Indeed you did. I think we're all familiar with that remarkable first audition, a moment which will no doubt remain career-defining no matter how many concerts or album sales are racked up over the coming years. I don't even need to go on YouTube any more it's so clear in my mind. Can't talk any more...tears welling in eyes... I LOVE YOU SUSAN!

Track 3 - Cry Me A River
Apparently a Boyle favourite from her limited early performance and recording career, and clearly a song she has an affinity with. Soulfully delivered, and without a trace of the schmulziness which can seep into the vocals of several contemporary male crooners I can think of.

Track 4 - How Great Thou Art
Eclectic old mix, this, but none the worse for it. Okay I'm no hymn lover, and in all honesty this isn't one of my favourites, but despite being little more than a repetition of the chorus gradually increasing in volume, this somehow doesn't turn into the droning dirge one might expect. It is a pleasant interlude between more meaty tracks, and provides some uplifting vocal arcs from lovely Susan, even if the lyrics are essentially religious claptrap.

Track 5 - You'll See
Poor, poor Madonna. Not only does lovely Susan waltz along and become the fastest selling female solo artist of all time (over 2 million albums worldwide in WEEK 1, for goodness sake), she also out-performs Mads at her own game. This song has never done that much for me, until now. Susan brings an integrity and operatic depth of which the queen of pop could only dream.

Track 6 - Daydream Believer
Perhaps the surprise track of the album, lovely Susan dusts down this Monkees singalong classic and gives it the West Lothian treatment. As big a fan as you probably realise by now I am, lovely Susan's versatility here caught me off guard. It's fresh, and stripped back, but doesn't neglect the essence of what is a joyful song.

Track 7 - Up To The Mountain
It's soul, it's gospel, it's solid gold. I haven't seen Kelly Clarkson's well-received American Idol performance of this Patty Griffin tune, but I feel safe in saying lovely Susan surpasses it here by several million miles.

Track 8 - Amazing Grace
Yeah, yeah. Predictable as hell, but you can't knock the tune, or John Newton writing something that appears on a contemporary album 230 years after he wrote it. Frankly I could listen to lovely Susan sing the yellow pages, so it may as well be this instead. Why does nobody ever record He Who Would Valiant Be?

Track 9 - Who I Was Born To Be
The only original composition on the album, and a little unfairly hidden away down here at Track 9. Presumably chosen as much for it's lyrical poignancy as much as anything else, a track which continues to grow on me after ten or twelve plays. I look forward to more songs written especially for lovely Susan on her next album. Maybe I'll write her one. Royalties? You keep them all, Susan. It's the least I can do.

Track 10 - Proud
We love you Susan, we do
We love you Susan, we do
We love you Susan, we do
Oh Susan, we love you
Sorry, got distracted there for a moment. Good track.

Track 11 - The End Of The World
You come across a song you've never heard before, only to find out it was written in the early sixties, and has been covered by (amongst others): The Carpenters, Herman's Hermits, Brenda Lee, Bobby Vinton, John Cougar Mellencamp, Johnny Mathis, Nancy Sinatra, Sonia, Twiggy and Agnetha from ABBA. How has something so delightful eluded me for so long? Thankfully, it has not eluded lovely Susan.

Track 12 - Silent Night
Takes me back to GCSE German lessons around this time of year: Stille nacht, heilige nacht, o tannenbaum o tannenbaum - no, that's wrong. Three hymns in twelve tracks is acceptable I suppose - there are grannies to be catered for, after all. The singing, as it is all the way through, is monumental; the song a tad dreary and not the way I would have ended the album. I'm prepared to blame some faceless executive if you are?

And there you have it. Utterly biased confirmation that this is the album for you, no matter who you may be. Lovely Susan can turn her vocal chords to a fair few genres, it would seem. Despite the relatively short space of time between lovely Susan's 'discovery' and this album release, it in no way feels thrown together. We have elements of pop, soul, country, jazz, musicals, opera, gospel, hymns and many more things in between. If there's nothing for you in that little lot, then you are a fool, sir (or madam).

301109

I'd like to state at the very top of this post that I did donate to Children in Need the other week, and I did buy a poppy earlier in the month. I also bought a raffle ticket in aid of RNIB only this morning.

In general, however, and particularly where people are concerned, I don't regard myself as a very charitable person. It's not compassion fatigue (love that phrase) either. If I'm completely honest with myself, I'm not sure that charities that help people are great causes. Try as I might, and believe it or not I really am trying not to sound utterly heartless, I think there are far too many human beings in the world, and we've become a bit of a nuisance. It seems more worthwhile to me to contribute to organisations who make it their business to clean up the mess we as a species have made, and continue to make, in the name of covering the face of the Earth with yet more of us.

It's important, yet somewhat difficult, to separate the real compassion I feel for people around the globe who suffer from various types and severities of physical and/or mental impairment, and for those whose lives have been blighted by war, famine, drought, crime, extremist political regimes and natural disasters, from my belief that there are more serious issues for this planet and its inhabitants. Whilst I accept that there is a vast number of people with no option but to exist in horrific conditions, it's clear that Homo Sapiens is not about to die out. Quite the opposite - the latest estimates are that there are 6.9 billion of us, and by 2050 this is due to increase to approaching 9 billion. Set against no more than 200,000 gorillas (in the wild), around 20,000 rhinos, and fewer than 5,000 tigers, this hardly seems fair.

It's quite a philosophical wrestling match. Whilst indivuals may well merit and deserve our help and love, as a species we're fairly obnoxious. On a personal level, whilst I would certainly accept charity were I to find myself in need, how should I reconcile this with believing that we/I are/am not a worthwhile cause?

Furthermore, when should I put up my Christmas Tree?

240908

Life in general isn't very interesting, and my own life certainly isn't one of the few exceptions. I exist quite happily from day to day, scoring minor successes and enjoying achievements which, in the wider scheme of things, really aren't too important. As a blogger I am demonstrably uninspired, have little to say, and pretty much a failure. I don't like talking or writing about myself very much. A little humility goes a long way, and I'm as humile as they come.

I told a woman to fuck off the other day. She deserved it (the inconsiderate bitch), but I was disappointed in myself for departing from my usual serene aloofness. Next thing you know I'll be hitting people. Or setting fire to their property. Or poisoning their pets. My favourite threat, though admittedly not one that I have so far had occasion to use, is: "I know where your children go to school". Sets all the right alarms ringing I reckon.

Calories today: 1000 (correct to 4pm). No this isn't a weight loss / fitness blog, but there's no harm in trying to appeal to a wider (get it?) audience.

Tip of the day: Don't start a 'tip of the day' section on your blog.