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.
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
Monday, 11 January 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, 3 December 2009
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).
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).
Thursday, 19 November 2009
021209
This is going to be a post about football. I know that's not necessarily an interesting thing to talk about, but to be fair I haven't done it before, and one post in a year is quite forgivable I think. Whilst my passion for football has become a subtler, quieter one in recent years, in many ways it burns at least as brightly as it ever did. For some reason the sport retains the ability to generate within me an enthusiasm that I've found impossible to recreate elsewhere. That's not to say it's the most important thing in my life, but it's certainly where I feel most free, most expressive, most competitive, yet paradoxically, most in control. The absurdity of attaching meaning to anything in life is never more heightened than in the pursuit of a small round leather-coated balloon, yet somehow it's that knowledge that none of it matters that makes it matter so much, that allows me to lose myself almost completely in the immediacy of two teams on a medium-sized patch of grass.
I'm talking there specifically about playing the game, but I still watch a reasonable amount of football too, and can identify somewhat with the tribalism that supporting a club or national side tends to engender. I have a favourite team, and sound reasons for favouring them. My bias at times knows fairly distant limits, but it is by no means an unconscious bias, and my partisanship is never without at least a trace of irony.
Characteristically, I find myself two paragraphs into a post without having come close to the specific issue I set out to discuss, which is Thierry Henry's 'controversial' handball versus Ireland. To summarise the incident, the game was decided by a goal precipitated directly by this clear example of foul play, and allowed France, the home side, to qualify for the World Cup Finals in South Africa next summer at the expense of The Republic of Ireland. Had the goal been disallowed, either team would have had the remainder of extra time to score and win the game outright, or failing that, emerge victorious through the relative lottery of a penalty shootout. Instead there was anti-climax, disappointment, outrage, vitriol, a formal complaint, shrugging of shoulders, and general disillusionment.
There are several facets of this debate which seem to demand comment. Firstly, on a cheatingness scale of 1 to 10, Henry's act probably rated around 4. There are a couple of such incidents in most games. I don't think it was premeditated. It is unfortunate that it was allowed to go unpunished in such an advanced area of the pitch at such a vital moment, but in itself as an isolated occurrence of law transgressance it was neither malicious nor dangerous nor petulant.
Secondly, I do not believe that this injustice strengthens the case for using video replays to assist refereeing decisions. There are many incidents in matches which can be interpreted questionably by a match official, or missed by a match official. Offsides, foul tackles, shirt pulling, handballs, ball in or out of play, foul throws, the whole obstruction vs shielding the ball debate, the list goes on. Any of these can lead directly to a goal. I cannot see how it would be fairer to treat selected categories of these differently from the remainder by allowing an extra official, located in front of a TV screen, to tell the referee what his decision should be. To complicate matters, many such incidents can be interpreted in quite different ways even upon second and third viewings, in slow motion, from multiple angles. There is a real danger that an incident could be referred only to result in a delay of two or three minutes whilst the TV referee ponders over inconclusive footage, under unbearable pressure to come up with a decision which cannot reasonably be reached. Surely, the least unsatisfactory way forward, and fairest way forward, is to allow the on-field officials to retain total control of what goes on between the white lines?
Nextly, there is scope for improvement. Micro-chip technology may soon be used to notify a referee immediately when the ball crosses the goal line. No delay; no controversy; no problem. We may see additional officials behind each goal in selected competitions before too long. This should all but eliminate goalmouth incidents where the referee's view is obscured (though I maintain the linesman should have seen Henry's misdemeanour in this instance). There is certainly a case for younger, fitter match officials. We currently have men in their forties trying to keep up with professional athletes half their age. I appreciate that life experience may bring with it greater calmness and objectivity, but this is of limited use if you are 60 yards away with an obscured view. In this country, all top-level officials are now fully professional, but all the FA did to achieve this was to pay the existing, amateur referees more. An intensive, fast-track system is required to train promising young referees to officiate in top level games within 2-3 years.
And finally, isn't injustice exhilarating? Football, and (reluctant though I am to use a ball game as an analogy for life), perhaps life, would be very dull indeed if everyone got exactly what they deserved, all the time. If the virtuous people always won out, and the lazy, selfish, rule-breaking, deceiving, scheming, cowardly, jealous, greedy people were always found out, punished, and corrected. A large part of football's appeal, to me at least, is the opportunity to triumph in unfavourable circumstances, to pick myself up off the floor and hurtle into the next tackle, to chase an unlikely dream in spite of a muddy pitch, a howling wind, a dirty kit, a cheating opponent, and an incompetent bloody referee.
I'm talking there specifically about playing the game, but I still watch a reasonable amount of football too, and can identify somewhat with the tribalism that supporting a club or national side tends to engender. I have a favourite team, and sound reasons for favouring them. My bias at times knows fairly distant limits, but it is by no means an unconscious bias, and my partisanship is never without at least a trace of irony.
Characteristically, I find myself two paragraphs into a post without having come close to the specific issue I set out to discuss, which is Thierry Henry's 'controversial' handball versus Ireland. To summarise the incident, the game was decided by a goal precipitated directly by this clear example of foul play, and allowed France, the home side, to qualify for the World Cup Finals in South Africa next summer at the expense of The Republic of Ireland. Had the goal been disallowed, either team would have had the remainder of extra time to score and win the game outright, or failing that, emerge victorious through the relative lottery of a penalty shootout. Instead there was anti-climax, disappointment, outrage, vitriol, a formal complaint, shrugging of shoulders, and general disillusionment.
There are several facets of this debate which seem to demand comment. Firstly, on a cheatingness scale of 1 to 10, Henry's act probably rated around 4. There are a couple of such incidents in most games. I don't think it was premeditated. It is unfortunate that it was allowed to go unpunished in such an advanced area of the pitch at such a vital moment, but in itself as an isolated occurrence of law transgressance it was neither malicious nor dangerous nor petulant.
Secondly, I do not believe that this injustice strengthens the case for using video replays to assist refereeing decisions. There are many incidents in matches which can be interpreted questionably by a match official, or missed by a match official. Offsides, foul tackles, shirt pulling, handballs, ball in or out of play, foul throws, the whole obstruction vs shielding the ball debate, the list goes on. Any of these can lead directly to a goal. I cannot see how it would be fairer to treat selected categories of these differently from the remainder by allowing an extra official, located in front of a TV screen, to tell the referee what his decision should be. To complicate matters, many such incidents can be interpreted in quite different ways even upon second and third viewings, in slow motion, from multiple angles. There is a real danger that an incident could be referred only to result in a delay of two or three minutes whilst the TV referee ponders over inconclusive footage, under unbearable pressure to come up with a decision which cannot reasonably be reached. Surely, the least unsatisfactory way forward, and fairest way forward, is to allow the on-field officials to retain total control of what goes on between the white lines?
Nextly, there is scope for improvement. Micro-chip technology may soon be used to notify a referee immediately when the ball crosses the goal line. No delay; no controversy; no problem. We may see additional officials behind each goal in selected competitions before too long. This should all but eliminate goalmouth incidents where the referee's view is obscured (though I maintain the linesman should have seen Henry's misdemeanour in this instance). There is certainly a case for younger, fitter match officials. We currently have men in their forties trying to keep up with professional athletes half their age. I appreciate that life experience may bring with it greater calmness and objectivity, but this is of limited use if you are 60 yards away with an obscured view. In this country, all top-level officials are now fully professional, but all the FA did to achieve this was to pay the existing, amateur referees more. An intensive, fast-track system is required to train promising young referees to officiate in top level games within 2-3 years.
And finally, isn't injustice exhilarating? Football, and (reluctant though I am to use a ball game as an analogy for life), perhaps life, would be very dull indeed if everyone got exactly what they deserved, all the time. If the virtuous people always won out, and the lazy, selfish, rule-breaking, deceiving, scheming, cowardly, jealous, greedy people were always found out, punished, and corrected. A large part of football's appeal, to me at least, is the opportunity to triumph in unfavourable circumstances, to pick myself up off the floor and hurtle into the next tackle, to chase an unlikely dream in spite of a muddy pitch, a howling wind, a dirty kit, a cheating opponent, and an incompetent bloody referee.
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
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?
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?
Monday, 16 November 2009
161109
Last evening I and the man who continues to defy logic by loving me and living with me went to see the new show of Mr Stewart Lee: "If you prefer a milder comedian, please ask for one". Having enjoyed his recent BBC2 series, I was expecting something quite special, and I was not disappointed.
There are three or four basic themes in the show, skilfully interwoven and layered with callback references, pointed comments on current affairs, some improvised elements and a great deal of irony. Whilst this is week 6 or so of the tour proper, and the bulk of the material has been kicking around for 6 months or more, it's obvious that the performance itself is a living organism, flexing and developing according to the dynamic between Lee and each audience. This freshness of delivery is vital to good stand-up, and can at times result in the routine suddenly darting down an obscure and apparently unconnected rabbit warren. Lee basically allows himself to go wherever he feels is necessary in order to drive home a point. Read interviews with him and it's evident that he's conscious of his at times repetitive style. The decision he seems to have made to indulge this side of his performance speaks volumes for his maturity as a performer, for it is in these passages of absurdity that Lee shines brightest. It takes a certain level of confidence to repeatedly (I'm talking about twenty times) shout the phrase "MASSIVE PRAWNS" at the climax to a rant against people who emigrate from the UK for a better quality of life. Never, ever, ever have I laughed harder. Ever.
The real beauty of the set is the way it allows for these excursions of varying lengths from the basic script, yet still comfortably sits within a framework of just that handful of overall themes. The thought which must have gone into the construction of the routine is evident throughout. Changes of pace, volume and tone - some subtle, some abrupt - put me in mind of Dave Allen, in style if not content. Most of all the slow and elaborately detailed build-ups to climactic outbursts give the show a tremendous sense of connectedness, despite a myriad of asides.
We were barely ten feet from the stage. And all for well under £20 apiece too. A resounding 10/10 rating from me. SEE THIS SHOW!
ps - Richard Hammond fans, it may not be for you.
There are three or four basic themes in the show, skilfully interwoven and layered with callback references, pointed comments on current affairs, some improvised elements and a great deal of irony. Whilst this is week 6 or so of the tour proper, and the bulk of the material has been kicking around for 6 months or more, it's obvious that the performance itself is a living organism, flexing and developing according to the dynamic between Lee and each audience. This freshness of delivery is vital to good stand-up, and can at times result in the routine suddenly darting down an obscure and apparently unconnected rabbit warren. Lee basically allows himself to go wherever he feels is necessary in order to drive home a point. Read interviews with him and it's evident that he's conscious of his at times repetitive style. The decision he seems to have made to indulge this side of his performance speaks volumes for his maturity as a performer, for it is in these passages of absurdity that Lee shines brightest. It takes a certain level of confidence to repeatedly (I'm talking about twenty times) shout the phrase "MASSIVE PRAWNS" at the climax to a rant against people who emigrate from the UK for a better quality of life. Never, ever, ever have I laughed harder. Ever.
The real beauty of the set is the way it allows for these excursions of varying lengths from the basic script, yet still comfortably sits within a framework of just that handful of overall themes. The thought which must have gone into the construction of the routine is evident throughout. Changes of pace, volume and tone - some subtle, some abrupt - put me in mind of Dave Allen, in style if not content. Most of all the slow and elaborately detailed build-ups to climactic outbursts give the show a tremendous sense of connectedness, despite a myriad of asides.
We were barely ten feet from the stage. And all for well under £20 apiece too. A resounding 10/10 rating from me. SEE THIS SHOW!
ps - Richard Hammond fans, it may not be for you.
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
271009
I don't have many friends. By some people's definition I don't have any friends. I don't go out for 'a drink with the lads'. I don't drink. There are no 'lads'. I didn't keep in touch with anyone from school, and never planned to. I didn't go to university. I keep in touch with a handful of past colleagues, but diminishingly so. I socialise with sporting acquaintances, but unlike most of them my focus is firmly on the sport. Aside from this blog, the concept of being sociable in a virtual environment is as alien to me as it is in real life. A search of my name on line results in little more than some golf and football results.
Some people think I'm shy. I daresay some people think I'm ignorant. It's probably an unhealthy mix of the two with some social awkwardness thrown in. Part of the trouble is that whilst I can certainly empathise with people, I rarely imagine that I can contribute in a meaningful way to their day/life, or for that matter they to mine. Conversations with me are punctuated with silences which, whilst not at all uncomfortable to me, I am conscious that others may feel uncomfortable with, or at least feel as though they are making me uncomfortable. In actuality, during the silences I am simply sifting out flippant, childish and sarcastic responses which I deem inappropriate for the weighty matters at hand like work, current affairs, football, and The X Factor. We all do this of course, but it seems comparatively rare for me feel familiar enough with someone to switch off the filter and expose them to the first thing that comes to my mind. Looking back at the early stages of some of my more successful relationships, I have been told that I can appear cold, disinterested and even unfriendly when, in fact, my intention is quite the opposite.
In fact, since this self-indulgent nonsense is leading nowhere fast, let's look at one such instance right now. I have never told this story to anyone. God knows why as it hardly lays my soul bare, but please treat it as confidential (in an available-to-the-whole-world type way) nonetheless:
To set the scene, it is early 2002. I am 25 years old, and have relatively recently abandoned a semi-conscious policy of emotional isolation. I am close to my family, but have never attempted anything approaching a romantic relationship. I genuinely haven't felt the need (what can I tell you? I'm a late developer). The turning point, looking back, was a serious ankle injury sustained in late 2000. I had been playing football four or five times per week prior to that, and suddenly had so much free time on my hands that it quickly became obvious I would need something else to do. I am only too well aware how ridiculous that sounds, but I swear it's true.
Hmm...this is sounding like a coming out story, which is odd, because I really don't have one to tell.
Fast forward through a mini flurry of meetings with potential suitors (a more candid blog might categorise these as 'hook-ups') in 2001. By the turn of that year I have pretty much made up my mind that some lucky individual deserves to be with me on a more permanent basis. And so fate brings me to a local toy shop one day in February 2002, where I am looking for a playful birthday present for a colleague. I don't find one, but decide to purchase a small moulded plastic polar bear merely as an excuse to talk more with the charming young gentleman behind the counter, who has already approached me whilst I am browsing to enquire as to whether I need any assistance, an enquiry I meet with a polite "no thanks, I'm fine". Idiot.
I purchase the polar bear, and glance at the receipt, which helpfully informs me "you were served by X". Embarrassingly, considering the incident has otherwise remained clear in my recollection for more than seven years, I cannot remember the chap's name, hence the X. I certainly can remember how he looked - tall, dark, angular, well-groomed.
After a couple of days of plucking up courage, I resolve to call the shop and ask to speak to X. I have pretty much scripted what I am going to say, in order to avoid awkwardness. I'm about 70% sure that X is gay, but only about 25% sure that he would be interested in me, so it's a phonecall I make with some level of trepidation. Here is the conversation (not quite word for word, but pretty close):
X: "Hello, Bath Toyshop"
Me: "Hi, is that X?"
X: "Yes...who's this?"
Me: "You may not remember me, but I bought a small polar bear from you at the weekend"
X: "Yes I do. What's wrong with it?"
Me: "Nothing's wrong with it. I'm not actually calling about the polar bear"
X: "Oh"
Me: "This may be completely misjudged and inappropriate, but I wondered if you might like to go out for a drink some time?"
X: (Clearly taken aback but I guess flattered) "Oh! Umm....you're the blond-haired guy, right?
Me: "Yes, dark blond"
This is the bit of the conversation I remember least, but involves me confirming I am who he thinks I am, and him jogging his memory of our brief interaction.
X: "When were you thinking?"
Me: "Well I can be back from work anytime from about 5pm"
X: "Okay, how about this evening, around 5.30?"
Me: (Now I'm taken aback) "Ummm...yes that's fine. Where should I meet you?"
X: "I'll be outside the shop."
Me: "Alright. See you then. Bye."
X: "Bye."
For a few reasons (chiefly that I've not been single very much in the intervening years), this remains the only time I have ever asked anyone out. One hundred per cent success rate! I remember feeling rather proud of myself back then, and even now it doesn't seem like something I would ever have done. But I still have the polar bear to prove it.
We met, as arranged, and got on well, though I guess not quite well enough, because although I would happily have gone further than a friendly drink there was little interaction after the first couple of meetings. I would wander past the shop on my way into town from time to time and make a point of not noticing X, though I know he would notice me. After about a year I allowed myself to return a smile, but he must have moved away soon after that, because I have never seen him since.
Anyway, returning to the point I was ham-fistedly making earlier. It turns out that when X initially approached me in the shop to ask if I needed help, he thought my response hostile when, in actual fact, I had only remained in the shop in an attempt to find out more about him. I hope I have become better at first impressions since then. It's one thing to retain a faintly disinterested air of mystery, but quite another to give someone you find highly attractive the impression that you would happily stab them in the eye with a rusty pair of scissors.
Some people think I'm shy. I daresay some people think I'm ignorant. It's probably an unhealthy mix of the two with some social awkwardness thrown in. Part of the trouble is that whilst I can certainly empathise with people, I rarely imagine that I can contribute in a meaningful way to their day/life, or for that matter they to mine. Conversations with me are punctuated with silences which, whilst not at all uncomfortable to me, I am conscious that others may feel uncomfortable with, or at least feel as though they are making me uncomfortable. In actuality, during the silences I am simply sifting out flippant, childish and sarcastic responses which I deem inappropriate for the weighty matters at hand like work, current affairs, football, and The X Factor. We all do this of course, but it seems comparatively rare for me feel familiar enough with someone to switch off the filter and expose them to the first thing that comes to my mind. Looking back at the early stages of some of my more successful relationships, I have been told that I can appear cold, disinterested and even unfriendly when, in fact, my intention is quite the opposite.
In fact, since this self-indulgent nonsense is leading nowhere fast, let's look at one such instance right now. I have never told this story to anyone. God knows why as it hardly lays my soul bare, but please treat it as confidential (in an available-to-the-whole-world type way) nonetheless:
To set the scene, it is early 2002. I am 25 years old, and have relatively recently abandoned a semi-conscious policy of emotional isolation. I am close to my family, but have never attempted anything approaching a romantic relationship. I genuinely haven't felt the need (what can I tell you? I'm a late developer). The turning point, looking back, was a serious ankle injury sustained in late 2000. I had been playing football four or five times per week prior to that, and suddenly had so much free time on my hands that it quickly became obvious I would need something else to do. I am only too well aware how ridiculous that sounds, but I swear it's true.
Hmm...this is sounding like a coming out story, which is odd, because I really don't have one to tell.
Fast forward through a mini flurry of meetings with potential suitors (a more candid blog might categorise these as 'hook-ups') in 2001. By the turn of that year I have pretty much made up my mind that some lucky individual deserves to be with me on a more permanent basis. And so fate brings me to a local toy shop one day in February 2002, where I am looking for a playful birthday present for a colleague. I don't find one, but decide to purchase a small moulded plastic polar bear merely as an excuse to talk more with the charming young gentleman behind the counter, who has already approached me whilst I am browsing to enquire as to whether I need any assistance, an enquiry I meet with a polite "no thanks, I'm fine". Idiot.
I purchase the polar bear, and glance at the receipt, which helpfully informs me "you were served by X". Embarrassingly, considering the incident has otherwise remained clear in my recollection for more than seven years, I cannot remember the chap's name, hence the X. I certainly can remember how he looked - tall, dark, angular, well-groomed.
After a couple of days of plucking up courage, I resolve to call the shop and ask to speak to X. I have pretty much scripted what I am going to say, in order to avoid awkwardness. I'm about 70% sure that X is gay, but only about 25% sure that he would be interested in me, so it's a phonecall I make with some level of trepidation. Here is the conversation (not quite word for word, but pretty close):
X: "Hello, Bath Toyshop"
Me: "Hi, is that X?"
X: "Yes...who's this?"
Me: "You may not remember me, but I bought a small polar bear from you at the weekend"
X: "Yes I do. What's wrong with it?"
Me: "Nothing's wrong with it. I'm not actually calling about the polar bear"
X: "Oh"
Me: "This may be completely misjudged and inappropriate, but I wondered if you might like to go out for a drink some time?"
X: (Clearly taken aback but I guess flattered) "Oh! Umm....you're the blond-haired guy, right?
Me: "Yes, dark blond"
This is the bit of the conversation I remember least, but involves me confirming I am who he thinks I am, and him jogging his memory of our brief interaction.
X: "When were you thinking?"
Me: "Well I can be back from work anytime from about 5pm"
X: "Okay, how about this evening, around 5.30?"
Me: (Now I'm taken aback) "Ummm...yes that's fine. Where should I meet you?"
X: "I'll be outside the shop."
Me: "Alright. See you then. Bye."
X: "Bye."
For a few reasons (chiefly that I've not been single very much in the intervening years), this remains the only time I have ever asked anyone out. One hundred per cent success rate! I remember feeling rather proud of myself back then, and even now it doesn't seem like something I would ever have done. But I still have the polar bear to prove it.
We met, as arranged, and got on well, though I guess not quite well enough, because although I would happily have gone further than a friendly drink there was little interaction after the first couple of meetings. I would wander past the shop on my way into town from time to time and make a point of not noticing X, though I know he would notice me. After about a year I allowed myself to return a smile, but he must have moved away soon after that, because I have never seen him since.
Anyway, returning to the point I was ham-fistedly making earlier. It turns out that when X initially approached me in the shop to ask if I needed help, he thought my response hostile when, in actual fact, I had only remained in the shop in an attempt to find out more about him. I hope I have become better at first impressions since then. It's one thing to retain a faintly disinterested air of mystery, but quite another to give someone you find highly attractive the impression that you would happily stab them in the eye with a rusty pair of scissors.
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