My Life......Back to the Future

 Once more, Spring has sprung, blessing us with her seasonal warmth for another year – just in time for summer – and with it, a young man's thoughts turn to romance, and all the thrills and promises that accompany a new love. Unfortunately, if your NOT a young man – by general consensus that is – then you're probably turning your thoughts towards another lady – Mother Nature ! She is a far more demanding and unrelenting a mistress. With trembling knees and cold sweats – like a first date, really - I'll start to think about having to jet wash the patio, or suffer mild panic attacks with the expectation of having to mount an expedition into the darkest regions, of the lost world of flora & fauna, more commonly known as 'me back garden'.

It was with this oncoming event, that may - I confess – have influenced my decision to “accept” an invitation to a garden féte at the local vicarage. A community tradition, as British as cream teas, Morris dancers and Midsomer Murders. During my walk-a-round, I passed the familiar institutions, the “A Kiss for a Pound” stall – nice to see Jordan in steady employment for a change – and the competition for ' Best Buns.' usually judged by some pillar of the community or local celebrity – before the “rise” of Big Brother/Goggle Box “winners”

Then, suddenly, I came across the “Fortune Teller” tent, and it triggered a flashback to my youth, and my first exposure to occult practices and the powers of prediction.

It was the summer of 1980, and I was a shy, insecure, self-conscious and flat broke young man, just another of those  “statistical reminders of a world that didn't care.” So, with desperation as my moral compass, I sought answers with the aid of Lady Constance Ophelia Norman, and her crystal ball.

Usually, searchers of the unknown and keepers of truth, go under the title of Madame or Mistress something or other, but my psychic adviser had much more nobler credentials. Which I thought must be a good omen, for surely a member of the aristocracy, would have much” better connections” when downloading the spirit world. Constance Ophelia Norman – an abundance of names for one supposedly medium person - was as the classic soul song said 'once, twice, three times a lady'. She entered the tent in a heady haze of mysticism and Estee Lauder, her large frame dis-placing the air as her generous form approached me. She extended a heavily beringed hand towards me and gave me a fixed expression accompanied with a choice of astrological readings and a non-refundable price list..

“ Which would you prefer ...the Tarot cards or the Crystal Ball ?” she enquried.

“ Oh, well, I'll take the.....ball, please. I've always been curious to see one of those in action”

“ Ah ! That's a pity. Unfortunately there was a slight accident, earlier, and I sort of... cracked it.” Constance confessed.

“ So, you mean it's broken. Too bad you didn't see that coming” I laughed nervously.

“ Hmmm, or you, for that matter” her ladyship muttered under her breath, “ but I can see just

as well with the cards, or perhaps I could interest you in a bit of palmistry, if you're feeling lucky ?” she smirked.

“ Lucky ? “my faith wavered slightly, “ I'll go with the cards thanks, lets just hope my fate doesn't come with a marked deck !” I tried to be funny – a feat that I still have as yet, to master.

“ One man's luck is another man's destiny” her ladyship countered.

“ That may as well be. But, tell me how about superstition, where does that stand in the cosmic scheme of things ?” I queried.

“ What, you mean like walking under ladders or a crossing black cat ?”

“ Ah, now black cats, I get confused about that one. If a black cat crosses your path, is that a good or bad thing ?”

“ I suppose, that all depends on just what one is doing at the time “

“ Yes, true, very true. I never thought of it that way. “ I conceded.

Her ladyship, displayed an impressive degree of manual dexterity and kept her cards very close to her chest – which was even more impressive given her stature- before splaying them out in a semi-circle on the small table, between us. Channeling the appropriate energy, she began the reading.

“ Now, ask the cards, whatever your heart most wishes them to show” she advised.

“ Gosh ! Where to start ? The future, all my hopes, dreams, desires, there are just so many questions, where shall I begin ? I mean, can they actually tell me everything, like where I'm going to ?”

“ Well, I can tell where you've been !” my guide retorted, with a look of disdain.

I decided to ignore this remark, “ O'k. How about romance. Lets asks the cards...will I ever find love ?”

“ Not in that shirt !” advantage spiritualist – I felt at this point..

“ Look here, I don't care too much for your attitude towards me. Kindly, keep your views to yourself and focus your energies on me future, if you would please !” I exploded.

Her Ladyship, looked down at the table, in silence, and then slowly turned over one of the cards.

“ Oh Lord !” the sayer gasped.

“ What is it ? Have you seen something disturbing ? ” I fearfully enquired.

“ Other than you ? " she answered holding up the card. "It's Mr Moody ! “

“ Mr Moody ? which type of card is that ? “

“ You know...' The Mister Men'... Mr Moody.... the blue one ! “

“ Is that why he's moody, because he's blue ? “

“ NO ! Of course not ! What's his colour got to do with anything ? “ she snapped.

“ You're absolutely right, we shouldn't let our colour dictate who we are -- “ at this point, I began to fear that we were about to lose ourselves in a pack of misunderstandings. So, I tried to re-animate my reading,“ Mr Moody, does this mean that I'm about to be emotionally challenged or something ? “

“You mean you're not already ? No. It means my precious grandson has been playing with MY CARDS again ! Let me see,” the mistress of fate, desperately shuffled through the rest of her mystic deck. “ Yes, it's as I feared, some of my signs are missing. I can't seem to find “ Death” anywhere ! “

“ Don't trouble yourself on my account ! “ I exclaimed.

“ Death doesn't necessary mean the end of existence on this earthly plane. It can merely be heralding in the end of one cycle and the dawning of a new era in your life. Like a change of job or a change of lover. Change...it CAN be a good thing”

“ Surely, that all depends on just WHO's doing the changing !”

“ What are you talking about ?”

“ Well, it's o.k. If I'm the ONE doing all the changing, But, what if it means that my boss is about to give me the sack or that my girlfriend's getting ready to dump me. Then, change ...really sucks !”

“ Oh, I see your point.”

“ Still, It could have been worse, I suppose” I posed philosophically.

“ How so ?”

“ It could have been Mr Blobby ! “ I pointed back towards to the cards.

“ Hmmm, quite.....especially in that shirt “

With this last remark, I sensed it was time to call it a day, and cease my quest for otherworldly guidance, and – after crossing her palm with several hours of minimum pay - headed out into the daylight once more, but no less in the dark about my destiny as before.

My future still questionable, and as much a mystery, as it is today.


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Pants the whole pants, and nothing butt the pants

Being of sound mind and body - granted this is negotiable - at least for the purpose of this exercise, That I find myself confessing, to having reached a period of my life, where I seem to have collected a series of social scenarios, that are guaranteed to get my gander up, a number of pet peeves, a short list of annoyances, - to which I refer to as my " gripes of war."

Religious intolerance, censorship, animal cruelty, car insurance evaders, political correctness, solicitors, ageism and then on lesser charges....bad customer service, car rage, white van drivers, the french ( more a national pastime ) and young offenders.
For the nature of this discourse, it is to this last category - which has the most significant amount of entries on my "gripe" sheet - that I feel compelled to bring to "justice", or at the very least make them accountable for their actions, in the form of ridiculing without prejudice - on this occasion.
.In particular, the male of the species, these serial perpetrators who consistently carry out GROSS miscarriages of social etiquette. They semi-walk, well more of a degenerating swagger, along - their crotch, seemingly relocated somewhere around their knee area - with their gravity defying jeans, that suspend disbelief and practicality---and then to add insult to personal injury, they insist on exposing their bloomin' kaks !
As if this act of social defiance, gives them some sort of street cred, instead of seeing the colour of their money, we're left with just seeing the colour of their laundry. To make matters even worse, there appears to be a different levels of "coolness" attached to these fashion victims of public, posterior display. It started out as just whities as the preferred colour of undies -probably inspired by the Beckham effect - but has since collapsed into a free for all between blue versus grey, I suspect though, their choices are more simply based on whatever pair their mother has recently washed for them. I have also noted -un-voluntarily - that there is a movement towards reducing the space - even more - between hipbone and kneebone, or more succinct if you will, more pants less cover.
A friend of mine had recently informed me that this action owes much of it's origins to the penal system. Where prisoners would convey their sexual availability to other inmates, by exposing their underwear to new depths, to show if they were in or out. This got me to thinking that perhaps our teenagers had a secret level code, for the difference in backside prominence, say:
Level One, Will be available for basic hand-holding with incorporated embarrassed blush
Level Two: Would be open for general - awkward - kissing duties and level one playing.
Level Three:  Multi-player, fully inter-active role games and rapid downloading access - this is romantic parlance for the noughties generation.

In any event I charge the plainstiffs - these progenitors of the rear-guard action -guilty, GUILTY, GUILTY...of this heinie-ous crime !
in every sense - especially the common one - of the word. If no-one stands up to them now, where will it end ? It's a slippery slope my friends, that nobody really wants to see.

Would these young offenders be as understanding or as acceptable of this fashion grime, if their fathers or granddads walked around town displaying themselves in such a manner, I think not...I think not.

Let us live by the maxim - in this case - less is more !

Notre-Dame - A Joke retold as Short Fiction

The seasoned, Notre-Dame tour guide, stepped to one side, to allow the rest of his "party" to join him up in the bell-tower area, and give them a chance to regain their composure, along with their breath. "Ah so ! we are all 'ere in one piece, bien ! Now, as you will see, zer are four bells 'ere, in zis North Tower. But, zer is one more, much larger bell, ze great boudon bell , Emmanuel, located in der South Tower, which is ---" at this point, the guide was rudely interrupted, mid-verbatim, by the sudden arrival of a colourfully attired gentleman, hailing from the United States. " Hey, buddy ! Where's da Hunchback fella, Quasi-pseudo ?" he enquired, as loudly as the print on his shirt.
" Ah monsiuer, zis gentleman was, how you say, a fiction of your imagination, zer is not and 'as never bin a Hunchback 'ere, nes pas !" the guide tried valiantly to explain the lack of a vertically challenged campanologist, but to no avail. "Listen, bub, I paid forty - god dam - bucks for this tour, just to see the the guy in the movie ! I demand that I git satisfaction, or I want my money back, comprehendez vous ?" pressed the agitated American.
" But, monsieur, the bells 'ere are only rung by electric motors now ! It's true, that sometimes when we 'ave no power, Anton, the cathedral's maintenance man, can ring them manually," surrendered up the defeated guide
" Great ! well don't just stand there, git this Anton, fella out here, now !" 
 " Anton, are you up 'ere ? Anton, please come out , if you can 'ear me, show yourself, s'il vous plait !" 
 There appeared, slowly, from out of the bells shadow, a shambling figure, which moved it's way towards the now, tightly packed, slightly apprehensive group. As he drew near to them, his facial deformities became apparent. From the the nose down, the lower jaw was exceptionally swollen, distorting the natural order of his features, this abnormality physically forcing his tongue out of the side of it's mouth, resulting in a shotgun delivery of saliva every-time he endeavored to converse.
 " Qui !" he answered.
" Ah Voila ! this gentleman," the guide gesticulated towards the overly prominent American, " has requested to make your acquaintance." 
" To hell with meeting the guy, I jus' wanna see him ringing these babies ! I paid good American dollars and climbed enough stairs to reach the top of Mount Everest, so let's see these bells in holy action !" 
 With this, Anton stepped towards the smallest of the bells, and drawing it up to his chest he 
sent it swaying across to the other-side of the tower. On reaching the zenith of momentum, it slowed and for just a second looked like it had actually froze in time, before making the return trip across the dark belfry. As the bell hastened upon it's sender, Anton skipped towards it, and welcomed it's arrival with a short, sharp, head-butt of the face !  Creating a unique musical collaboration - known as Gothic fusion - a blend of flesh, bone and heavy metal, resulting in an heavenly chime that passed through the little band of on-lookers, before leaving the tower and sweeping on over the surrounding Ile de la Cité . 
 The crowd were in complete awe and appreciation of Anton's display and rewarded him with high praise and wild applause !  Which in turn drove the highly impressionable, trans-Atlantic visitor, to such a state of elevated excitement, that he wanted to share in the ultimate Notre Dame experience himself. So, he grabbed the nearest bell to hand, and lifting it way up over his head, he proclaimed,  " That's nothing ! Stand back Frenchie, This one will make the angels themselves, cry ! "  
With this, he summoned every once of strength - and considerable weight - which he had at his disposal, and launched the bell along a similar trajectory. Unfortunately, the power behind this action, didn't permit as smooth a motion as before. The bell almost breaking free of it's fixtures and fittings as it jolted to an abrupt stop, on reaching "the other side", then without pause or loss of speed....it began re-entry. 
 This time, at the crucial moment of contact, the Yank made a fateful error of judgement. Miss-judging
time and space, he leaped up towards the on-coming holy vessel, all too late, the lip of the bell catching him squarely under the chin ! 
  What occurred next, was purely answerable to the laws of physics, in-particular those laid down by a Mr I. Newton - firstly the law: That which is in motion will prevail.
Evidence: The way the body was propelled through the air, pass the remaining group and over the low, belfry wall.
Thereafter, followed by another - very popular - law of Issac's.....gravity.
Evidence: Sudden loss of height.
Anton, was stupefied in witnessing this horrible chain of events, but he still managed to set off
immediately, down the steep stone staircase of "  Our lady of Paris" tower, in pursuit of his fellow "Ringer." But, even taking the stairs three at a time, it was still quite a feat, to descend to the ground
in time to aid any possible assistance or last minute rites.

A passing Gendarme had arrived at the scene, and was conducting his investigation into the macabre situation that lay before him. Using simple methods of deductive reasoning. he had come to the conclusion that the cadaver belonged to a male caucasian of middle age, no distinguishable marks - except those sustained by colliding unexpectedly with the earth - or any visible means of identification.
With no other lines of inquiry left open, the lawman resigned himself to asking for eye-witnesses, among the growing crowd. now assembling around him and his nameless companion,
" Is there anybody here who knows how this happened? Has anyone seen this gentleman, before ? PLEASE, DOES ANYBODY KNOW THIS MAN;S NAME ?" he pleaded. Just as he finished, Anton, finally appeared, bursting through the into the inner circle of observers. One hand clutching his chest - to prevent his heart from exploding out of it's comfort zone - and the other hand held high in the air to gain attention, without pausing or thinking, he responded, " I don't know his name, but ------HIS FACE RINGS A BELL !"

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My Life....A Question of Sport

Geneticists have recently isolated the chromosome, that determines the inclination/interest/semi-obsession towards sports. This breakthrough has enormous social implications, as well raising a number of ethical, philosophical, gambling and sponsorship issues .The chromosome responsible for this conditioning of "mankind" has been designated as SS1 - more commonly known as Sky Sports 1 +. The genome, which is found largely in the male of the species, as well as some other lower primates, controls the area of the brain that stimulates competitiveness, tribalism and verbal intercourse, which mostly,manifests itself during awkward social occasions, or when exposing oneself - conversationally speaking, that is - to strangers who share the same affliction of hormones...
  This compulsion, drives grown men to relentlessly chide one another about which "team" he may or may not be "supporting" and throw humorous - friendly fire- aspersions over their general decision making process, based on this one, life consuming, conclusion !
  I wonder, if civilization had never invented the simple ball, then perhaps MAN-kind might have evolved along a different socially conditioned pass-time, say perhaps... the weather. Picture the scene, a man standing at the bar of his local watering hole, when he recognizes one of his mates enter the saloon. He waives him over, shouting his name over the noise of the room, and the large flat screen tv - situated centrally and yet inconveniently, to it's passing patrons - which is currently broadcasting the national and regional weather statistics. After the obligatory, back slapping and token exchanges into one another's Status Quo, it's proceeded by the argument of who will get the drinks in first, followed invariably by a temporary lull in their sparring. Suddenly, the man-gene kicks-in like an auto-reflex, " Hey ! what about Stoke city, last night ? Localized floods, thunder & lightning followed by hailstones the size of golf-balls, what a show !" The now, despondent friend, shook his head, " Aye, their well ahead of the annual rainfall this season, they're going to be tough to beat on the precipitation league table this year." His accomplice, contemplating the consequences of his fellow weather watcher's words, and feeling as flat as his beer looked, then claimed, " For sure, not even Michael Fish* can save us now !"
  If only science could develop some sort of placebo sport, something that satiates the spirit of competitiveness, whilst at the same time, without all that testosterone posturing and mass hysteria.... oh wait, there already is one...it's called cricket !

* See worst forecasting - 1987 - since weather records began !       -

to be continued

My Life...Clothes maketh the man !

My year is already off to a sorrowful start, with yet another of my - ever decreasing - men's clothing outlet stores, having ceased trading this month. It is now, no longer a simple case of paranoia, my life as a fashion conscious consumer, really IS being made redundant.
 I can't help but feel, that I am slowly and systematically, facing imminent exile from those glitzy, modern studio style stores, with their trendy, urban ranges at competitive prices, adorning my much beloved high streets. Soon, my only refuge will be the small, independent, old school, men's tailoring establishments, with their collection of ageless - see: haven't changed in the last 30 years - tweed suits and heavy corduroy trousers at exorbitant prices, that haunt the narrow back passages of male couture.
  I'm not sure who - exactly -is to blame for this sad state of wears, is it simply the calculated machinations of clothing manufactures/fashion houses to "weed out" the slightly less frequent male buyer from their stores. Or, is it the rise of the dreaded European sizes, which transforms a normal, everyday, medium type fellow, into a gargantuan, misshapen lost soul, that walks amongst us, as a regenerated XXL statistic -to para-phrase, "One small step for a medium, one giant leap for euro-conversions." Either way, I have now, finally. reached the end of my tether, not to mention size options.
 I have a secret fear, that one day, I will trigger off some sort of special security alarm, as I actually ENTER one of these modern man's temple of fashion. Upon which, a store detective will approach me, taking my arm, he discreetly asks that most embarrassing of questions, " Excuse me sir, but can you provide any form of identity, to prove that you are not over thirty years old. Also, I have reason to believe that you may be in possession of a waistline exceeding 34 inches ?" With this, he escorts us both - myself and the Marks & Spencer's man I'm destined to become - out of the building.

  " LOOK HERE MALE CLOTHING MANUFACTURERS ! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH !" I am drawing a line in the sand, I am drawing in my waistline. It's about time that you took the real measure of a man, along with his hopes and desires to be regarded as a sharp dresses individual, regardless of age and stature. Just, see what is left in all of your sales, NOT the XXL sizes, NO it is the XXS - what sort of ridiculous size is that anyway, exactly ? So, maybe you should re-evaluate who your customers are and more importantly, what are their actual body shapes/sizes ? A size 40 inch chest is NOT - until now - an XXL, if it is, then I fear for the future of, not only the more discerning, mature male consumer, but for the way the fashion industry as a whole, sees the shape of things to come in men's clothing..

My Life...New Year. resolutions and all !

2014: A New Old Start ?

Well, Christmas is over for another year, it's been safely wrapped and boxed up once more, and along with the old faithful, family Christmas tree -100% recycled, semi-realistic-semi-Nordic looking, fully drooping, specimen - has been successfully replanted in the loft, for the next twelve months. Which of course, means it's time to participate in another, equally age old seasonal custom/hangover...the New Year resolution !
 Those lofty declarations of updating your social life-style, deleting personal habits or downloading the latest media hyped health regime. All of which, have about as much life expectancy as your average New Year Gym Membership !

As the poet, Robbie Burns, may have said:
" With the last chimes of Auld Lang Syne, goodly intentions are sworn,
But they soon come ta nought, come first light of  New Year morn !"

Perhaps, we should just be more honest, or set ourselves more manageable/attainable goals...a sort of resolution~revolution, if you like. So here are just a few possible alternatives:

1): If you're single and looking for love, instead of trawling through all those endless, loveless dating sites or exposing your self to the pressures of "speed dating" -whatever next, micro-romance, love in under five minutes - why not...just change your your Facebook status to " in a relationship."  No waiting, no messing, job done.

2) Wanting to stop an impossibly addictive, long term personal habit. Then just create a newer, less irritating
one towards the end of December and choose this particular anti-social trait to be the one that you cease- rather like the shops do in their January "sales."

3) Thinking of changing your job...try just socializing with different work colleagues and sitting somewhere
else for lunch...work will be the same, but it might make it feel like your in a different company.

4) Wanting to improve your mind...for a start don't buy anymore of those darned "Fifty shades of Grey" novels - or anything else by the same "author", for that matter.

5) Finally, that most popular, relentless, mother of all New Year desires and all encompassing life changing
expectation...LOSING WEIGHT ! I simply advise, "Go forth to yonder wardrobe, seeketh out any such articles of colour, shape, design or length, that makes you look fatter..and discard these items instead." After all this, kick your shoes off, sit back with the largest glass of wine- or any other alcoholic relaxant - you can find...and enjoy yourself. After all, you have a whole year before you have to put yourself through this again !