Well, here I am again. But why? Today, an image came to me, of a time some 32 years ago. It was at the head of a valley in the North York Moors, near Dalby, a summer evening. I remember that when I rode my motorbike over the crest of the hill, I looked down into the valley and the smoke form the chimneys of the half dozen or so cottages was sleepily rising straight up.. a night without a breath of wind. A warm summer evening, with nothing to distract but a warm touch of air as I rode down the lazy zigzag road to the valley floor.. I bought a motorbike that night, a BSA 250 Starfire, when all of my friends were buying Yamahas or Hondas. I don't really know where I'm going with this, other than to say that there are perfect moments -times when the world and the mind conspire to make a memory so perfect that it fells like a chapter from a favourite book. These jewels exist, and more than that, have an existence that make life worth the living.  Yes, the example I have given is a little asinine, a little trite, but this is because it is just that - an example. The real jewels won't be shared, won't be spoken of here. They will be wrapped close to my heart and squeezed into my soul...and those who matter will be there.

Norwegian Blues?

This is a dead blog. It is no more. etc. Or is it? I haven't blogged for a couple of years, and can't say that I've missed it. I suppose that you only have so much time to spend tippety tapping away at a keyboard, and the decline of my blog had been supplanted by an increased presence on twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn et al. But perhaps things have come full circle - I now find myself on Facebook and twitter less and less, and I still think that there should be a little corner of the internet that you can feel comfortable in, a place where you can bare your soul, scream into the void and care not a jot whether someone "likes" it. So here it is - not dead, but risen again.

So, taking off my shoes and wiggling my toes in a strictly metaphorical way, here I am. It's been a strange experience visiting a dead blog; not to mention the fact that I couldn't remember the address, the password, or which of my four email accounts I used to create it. But the very act of revisiting previous states of mind leaves you with an odd feeling, a sort of emotional hangover. You remember he emotions, some clearly, some less so, and there is a resonance with those emotions that are strong today. It's an interesting experience, reviewing these little emotional shapshots, and the temptation is to hold them up against the present day and see what's changed. Whilst I am known near and far as someone who finds it easy to resist temptation, on this occasion, I don't think that I will.

So who was I two years ago? Two years ago I was living in a state of flux, starting new projects, discarding others, and feeling cautiously optimistic about the future. Now, one of those projects has paid me for the last two years, and looks close to bearing fruit. Strange then that I should feel less optimistic when I have more reason to believe that the future holds good things. Perhaps this is the little voice inside me that secretly believes that all will turn to ordure, and that I am always destined to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory? Perhaps it is just that the stakes are so much higher now?

The black dogs of depression were very much a part of my life two years ago, and it's fair to say that it's probably something that will never be fully banished - I still have bad days when I wish that I could fold in on myself like a little origami man, but most of the time I can remember that I have good days too.

Two years ago I was getting very cross trying to give up smoking (and failing). Today I am just getting very cross.

Two years ago I blogged. Today I blogged.

Please be patient. We are experiencing technical difficulties.

Feeling Better Now.

..says it all.

I am tired, I am weary. I could sleep for a thousand years.

Somehow, returning to a badly neglected blog makes me feel a little surreptitious - like a lost cat that strolls into the room weeks after being designated "missing, presumed fed". Whatever the reason, I'm back...

January and February seem to call back the black dogs, and this year is no different. Dark nights and darker thoughts, crudely numbed by whatever comes to hand. Deep down, but with a steady yellow eye on my every move, the self loathing squats like a toad in my guts.
It's easy to see the dark side. Close your eyes and there it is. Implacable and inescapable. To see the light all you have to do is open your eyes, but that's a dangerous business. It's all there, spread in front of you - your whole life, pinned and labelled, viewed through a piss stained veil. You can find yourself drawn to one exhibit, losing yourself in it's meaning and form, tuning it over, examining it from every angle until it becomes the whole of reality. The past is somehow more real than the present - it's fixed - not subject to the paintbrush of "today". You see traits, not states. The past is dead, gone, and fades more with every tick of the clock. But like a scent it affects everything you think about. You can't ignore the box full of broken toys that are yesterdays dreams. But knowing that they exist somehow stains the dreams of the now. There they lie - silently reminding you that there is no gold at the end of the rainbow, mocking your plans, sneering at your hopes.

But my defences are up.

Busy busy busy,
Busy little Bee.
Must keep busy.
Why can't you see?

Busy busy busy,
Busy little Bee.
Working for the honey.
Nothing comes for free.

Busy busy busy,
Busy little Bee.
A bellyfull of nectar,
But it won't save me.

Sometimes I don't know why I bother.

The future's so bright... hah.

Many years ago I used to work for a small consultancy business that specialised in organisational development and occupational stress, and one of the few things that I remember from this time is that one of the main causes of stress is a person's lack of control (real or perceived) over their life. Why mention this? Well, because I'm not feeling particularly in control at the moment. Like a child's balloon in a hurricane I seem to be buffeted from one thing to another, taking knocks along the way. Whilst wearing my "pater familias" hat I guess that I should be steering the family ship with a firm hand on the tiller and a steely gaze to the horizon, but at the moment the seas seem to be a little too stormy to do anything other than lash myself to the mainmast and hang on. Work as an independent consultant is a very movable feast - you are either working or not, earning or not, and the decision as to whether you work or earn is not entirely in your own hands. A contract lost, a client in trouble, and suddenly you are in the business of looking for work. Not that this is the case at the moment, but the future looks ever more uncertain. I mean, Woolworths for god's sake - who would have thought it? I've seen the effects of this first hand - a company on the same business park as one of my clients supplies Woolworths - last week they laid off over half of their staff (close to 100 people I'm told), and this is only the beginning. A family member works in the car trade - and their dealership sold 2 cars in the last month with a profit margin of £60. The stories of wrecked businesses keep on appearing. God knows what the next year is going to be like. I really don't know how bad the recession/depression is going to get, but right now I strongly feel the need to get a plan together. And this is where it all falls down I guess - how can you plan for uncertainty? Do you just hunker down, cut your costs and hope that it will all blow over? Do you look at more radical alternatives? I think that most people will be hunkering down, which makes me want to go in another direction. If all turns to ordure, I don't think that the social security system will be strong enough to cope - so any safety net needs to be of my own making but what? I think that the answers will be found in the past - right now I'm researching the success stories of the great depression - I'll let you know how I get on.

Haiku

Snow on the cherry tree
A single leaf remains
Solitude or death?

Everywhere you go (Always take the weather with you) Or "a few days with Jesus"

Well, what a week. When I heard I was going to Spain I was less than excited - it was, after all, work and not a holiday, and living on your own in a cheap hotel for four days can be a bit of a drag. So I didn't exactly have a joyous spring in my step when I set off. Overall though, the experience was not as bad as it could have been and better than I had feared. Arriving in Malaga at 8 o'clock at night things did not get off to a good start. I picked up my hire car and quicly realised that;

a) I had not driven a manual car for over 6 years.

b) The steering wheel and gearstick are on the wrong side. (Although this turned out to be a blessing in disguise, because all the drivers drive on the wrong side of the road, so it sort of makes sense.)

c) The sat nav maps on my phone were at least 3 years out of date - and the display might just as well have displayed a skull and crossbones with the message "Here be Dragons" for all the use it was.

d) It was dark.

e) It was pissing down with rain.

So, to a merry accompaniment of shouts of encouragement from Spanish road users I lurched, juddered and swerved my way around Malaga until I spotted the road that I needed to take. It is a measure of my ability to quickly acclimatise that I was only lost for an hour or so. Some time later, I found the hotel. Then, looking for a parking spot, I got lost again and found myself on the motorway, speeding away from the hotel at a great rate of knots. By this time I was a seasoned Spanish driver, so it only took me about 45 minutes to find the hotel again. Cue a calming beer, and off to my room. I decided to use the USB dongle to pick up my emails, as the Internet connection in the hotel cost €24 (!) this proved to be a wise choice, as my Internet usage only came to some £35.....um. The next day it was off to the hills, where I was to be recording the Spanish Voice Over for a computer game.

The Studio

The studio was Little piece of hippy heaven snuggled into the foothills of whatever mountains were looming over us (note to self - pay more attention to geography). It was originally set up be a chap named Usul - a friend of Ravi Shankar's who died a couple of years ago, and was a place that had proudly earned the epithet "ramshackle". Take away the recording equipment and the tipsy wooden beams and placeholder roof would have not looked out of place in Hobbiton. The grounds were studded with orange, grapefruit, lime, clementine that you could just pick straight from the trees. I know, I can hear your thoughts already, but let's be fair, for most of us, the natural environment of the citrus fruit is the supermarket shelf, isn't it? In addition, there were the signs of another recently harvested crop which I would have found much more interesting had I needed to feel at one with life the universe and everything.... Inside, propped in a corner was a sitar that was once played by Ravi Shankar himself! Like any right minded person, I picked it up in the hope that Sitar playing skills had magically descended upon me. Alas no.

So, to work. The work would have gone swimmingly but for the constant interruptions of the local cockerel - every couple of minutes the recording would have to stop whilst we ran outside and shooed away the bloody thing. These things happen. The 2 actors, Jesus and Javier, were absolute stars, and made the trip for me - anyone who introduces themselves with the phrase " you are from England - you know David Icke?" can't fail to be interesting, or baffling. Or both. The work progressed, actors made sounds, we recorded them and all was well (cocks excepted).

After recording, I followed the same routine, hotel, shower, stroll, tapas, beer, hotel. A word about tapas. The tapas in Spain is Brilliant. (capital B intended), whether it's the chorizo, the anchovies, the octopus, the chicken livers, the little kebab things, the salads, the ham, the meatballs, the fried breadcrumbs, the potatoes in "stuff".. well, I'm sure that you get the point. For anyone planning to stay in San Pedro, the best place I found was La Bodega - relaxed, traditional, friendly, yummy and no Brits.

And so it went - having done my research and found that Estepona rejoiced in a year round climate of around 19 degrees, I was not best equipped for the freezing conditions. Evidently it is very rare for there to be snow. Really. And now back to the home front - delayed projects tapping me ever more urgently on the shoulder, things I really should be doing. And here I sit - blogging. Well, no more. To work it is. Until the next time, hasta la vista!

Brothers, Sisters, we don't need no fascist groove thang.

Having fallen off the wagon, I am feeling generally well disposed towards the world at the moment. Farewell road rage, and hello familiar worries. Although I do have some new worries...

The events of the last couple of weeks have been worrying me, although not in the way you might expect. It seems pretty clear that we are heading towards a recession or a depression, depending on who you listen to, and although I don't think that we will be looking at soup kitchens and Jarrow marches, I think that one of the consequences of recession hasn't been seen yet. Always after an economic downturn there seems to follow a radicalisation of politics - liberalism (with a small l) doesn't seem to sit well with a population that's worried about jobs, money and the future that's in store for our kids. *cue some sweeping generalisations* The depression of the 1930's was the manure that gave vigour to the fascist movements in many western countries, and the dole queues were rich recruiting grounds for the National Front in the early 80's. With unemployment nudging 2 million again, how long before the Daily Mail readers start looking at the economic migrants with hate-filled eyes? Immigration has been an issue for debate over the last few years, and that's when there have been plenty of jobs to go around - how will the man in the dole queue view the Poles, Lithuanians, Latvians, Albanians, Croatians etc when he sees them earning money that "should be his"? I can even feel the stirrings of unease inside my own guardian-reading heart. Similarly, when money is tight, who gives a toss about the environment? When times are hard, who cares what the natives are doing to each other in Matabeleland? When you can't afford to run your own country, can politicians afford to look after another country's interests? "Foreign aid? No thanks, charity begins at home." And when the west is desperately trying to keep it's populations happy, fed and employed, some countries will see this as the perfect time to press their own agenda. Even in the last week, we've seen North Korea and Iran getting more belligerent - pushing the boundaries to see what they can get away with. I'm sure that this is going to continue - what hold we had over Russia and China has gone - and Georgia, has been the result. I certainly wouldn't like to be living in Taiwan at the moment - I wouldn't be at all surprised if there are some major Chinese military "exercises" there in the next few months. As the west sees that it cannot project itself on the world through conventional force, the only deterrent left becomes the unthinkable nightmare of nuclear weapons - raising the stakes of the game to a point where you simply cannot afford to call the bluff of the muscular states. And as the west sees it's hegemony slipping away, there will be those in the wings talking about the destiny of our countries, how we shouldn't bend our knee to the upstart nations, national pride, and even *whisper it* racial purity. And as we see the rise of the right, so too will we see the left gaining strength to balance the equation - the failure of capitalism will be flag, the fight against fascism will be the cause, and China will be the shining example. Throw into the mix a racially and religiously diverse population and we are heading for shit street. Politicians have seldom been so free of ideology as they are at the moment, to a point where it is difficult to say what the different parties (in the UK at least) actually stand for. Pragmatism has been the byword for recent politics, both in terms of the policies and the self-serving agendas of the politicians themselves - but when that pragmatism encourages politicians to swim with the current of public opinion, you get a distorted and amplified view of what 's in the public mind - no matter how ugly that is.

"Hard times in old England, in old England, very hard times."

V

Day four of giving up smoking and I'm not a nice person to be around. Or indeed to be. I'm very very tetchy. Angry almost. The headaches don't help. Driving is especially trying - Bruce Banner goes out of the window, and what is left is not a courteous and considerate road user. I have come up with a strategy however, to try to reduce the risk of a little incident; I have a mental narrative playing, where I try to categorise all other road users by the make of their car. For example, all Vauxhall drivers are cunts. Every one.

Corsa/Nova: Either untermensch chavscum "cruising" round town with their pox riddled fuck puppets advertising to the world their lack of taste in cars, music and women, or semi senile piss soaked grannies who are about as useful behind the wheel of a car as a random bucket of organs from the local butchers.

Astras: Falls into two categories, old Astras and new Astras. Old Astras are the equivalent of a mule in the wild west - cheap, basic transport, invariably laden down with tools, wood and bits and pieces from the local DIY shop. Driven by slouching old men with a roll up behind one ear and trousers held up with hairy string (probably). Highway code? They wrote it. In fucking crayon. Utterly unconcerned by the presence of other road users, probably because they are wondering where the nearest lay-by is so that they can clot their sporran over page three whilst eating a pie.

New Astras are invariably driven by bitter, under achieving, office supplies salesmen (and women). Cheap suits, cheap aftershave, and the flashiest mobile phone they can afford. Bitter at their lot in life, and wishing that they could be eligible for a better car, they always seem to drive as if they have something to prove. News flash: You've already proved it. And we're laughing. We KNOW that you'll never make middle management and the elusive executive upgrade, but do you? One day soon, after a morning spent carving up other motorists and and afternoon failing to sell any A4 copier paper you are going to sit down, assess your life, and make the world a happier place by leaving.

Zafira/Meriva

Where to start? The Paedophiles choice. Mum goes to Iceland, and dad drives a Zafira. For some strange reason, I see a lot of the GSi (is that right?) or "sporty" models about. A little badge on the back of your four wheeled transformer does not a cool dad make, and secretly they know it. People who drive these cars masturbate in the shower whilst thinking of the wife's sister, or the work experience girl. If you own a Zafira or a Meriva your life is over - oh you may still be breathing, but have you ever asked yourself what for? Your kids lie awake at night wondering how much they will inherit when you die. Alright, not as badly driven as some models, mainly because the drivers are acutely aware of their own mortality.

Tigra/Antara/Agila

Tigra - one of the ugliest cars in the world, can only be bought by blind people, who shouldn't be allowed to drive. (actually, I suppose that rich people could buy Tigras and give then to people that they really don't like, but I suspect that this is not a sustainable market given the current economic climate).

Antara "From £21,000". If you cannot think of a better way to spend £21,000 then you are dragging average IQ of the human race down, and you should be shot for the good of us all.

Agila. A Suzuki. Built in Poland. By Vauxhall. On which planet does this sound good? Judging by the drivers, planet Ditzy. Always female (or pre-op transsexual). Often with a passenger who that are incapable of talking to without turning their head and looking them in the eyes "why should I look at the road? It's not as if it's going anywhere..". Not involved in as many accidents as they cause, which is a pity.

Vectra

Ah, the Vectra. Ever wondered what happens to the bitter, under achieving office supplies salesman if he gets promoted? A bitter, under achieving sales manager. Or a policeman. Whatever, the effect is much the same, a cocksure, know-it-all napoleon complex wrapped up in a cocoon of insecurities, spite and bile. Often causes accidents by replying to email offering penis enlargement on their blackberry. Interestingly, many Vectra drivers seem to be aware of this on some level, and often drive the cars as if they really hate them. You know that David Brent would drive a Vectra.

Labels for this post: e.g. scooters, vacation, fall

It is true that it has been some time since I put finger to keyboard and for that I apologise. Newsworthy events have been few and far between of late. Or so I have believed. Ennui has reared it's lethargic head and yawned at me. Work has become more of a chore than usual, and the excitement of the new has become the lassitude on the mundane. Starting projects is all well and good, but they need to be followed through and finished at some stage. I have become aware that I am good at starting fires, but bad at keeping them fed. Even so, I feel the urge to start something else now, something exciting, something rewarding, something fulfilling. And in a way, I have. But more of that later. All counselling is now finished, and it would be forgotten but for the fact that I had set a recurring alarm in Outlook and since all of my phones are synced, every week I get a reminder for an appointment that I no longer have. Strangely, I haven't deleted the appointment and I don't know why.. perhaps it's part of me saying "at least once a week you need to gaze upon your navel" perhaps I'm just lazy. Hmm. It's quite appropriate to be having these thoughts at a time when I've just talked myself out of a potentially lucrative contract - inside I'm shouting "take the fucking money you idiot!", but there was a conflict of interest with another client, and it didn't feel right to take the money when it could come back to bite me on the arse and besmirch my professional reputation. Easy come, easier fucking go.

Change is in the air at the moment - I smell woodsmoke, apple and blackberries, and everything tells me that I should be looking to the new. I think that it's something ingrained in me since school - new term, new year, new challenges. I always prided myself that I seemed to have a wellspring of ideas and creative solutions to problems, but now I realise that ideas are useless unless they are acted upon. Ideas are just dreams, until sweat and focus make them solid. I've been lacking sweat and focus. So I'm purposely denying myself the indulgence of dreaming up new schemes, new things to do, until I've put a few of the old ones in their place. So that is where I am - revisiting old ideas, assessing them and if they are still worthy, whipping them until they run or die.

In a related development, space has now been cleared in the garage for the next great project - getting my motorbike ready for next spring - good honest work. Work fit for a man. With a reward at the end. Operation Triumph is go!

Piss, vinegar and CJ Stone

Today I rediscovered an old friend. In a manner of speaking.. One of my favourite writers is a chap called CJ Stone. I first stumbled accross his writing in the guardian column "Housing Benefit Hill". Truth be told it was this column that confirmed me as a guardian reader, for a while. When the column ended (or was dropped, I'm not quite sure) the guardian seemed to lose a little bit of it's edge, an edge it hasn't really found since. I'm not saying that the guardian was defined by the column, but it was a good fit with the editorial style of the time, when there were not too many writers that had a good word to say about the miners, the travellers, the rave scene, reactionary legislation and all of the other things that were important to me at the time. Another thing that endeared me to his writing was a kind of attached detachment to the subjects he covered - yes, I know it's a poor description, but I can't do any better. It seemed that he was seeing the people and event through my eyes rather than his. Even now the writing reminds me of what we have lost in terms of political awareness and the willingness to protest and party. I'm older, I know, but I doubt that the generation behind me has as much of the piss and vinegar that we seemed to be full of. Or Shepherd Neame (meh, give me Theakstons any day). "Piss and vinegar? No thanks, I'll have a nice shiraz and a doobie thanks awfully."

Anyway, read his stuff. It's good. Fierce Dancing is a particularly good book, and if by any chance somebody is reading this thinking that they have a copy that I lent to them, I'd like it back. Either of them. That'll teach me to lend books after midnight.

Many boats, one river.

Sorry. It's not you, it's me. I haven't been taking this blogging thing seriously. I just needed a little space. But I'm back now. For better or for worse.

So what's been happening? Life. Like a boat trip, it moves on, it carries you along on the current, and you get to look at things from a different perspective every single minute. It's good that perspectives change - it says as much about the subject as the object that such a simple twist can create profound effects. It says to the soul "I change, you change, we all change." And not even god (intentional non-capitalisation) can control it. We can swim with the current, or against it but you have to acknowledge that it's there. Not that I'm saying swimming against the tide (so to speak) is a bad thing, far from it - it can be a noble, enriching, life defining action. To deny or oppose change is as valid as accepting it - it's just that you have to pick your battles.

So am I accepting it? Ask me tomorrow.

My perspective changed recently - slightly but perceptibly, and perhaps I am a little happier for seeing that he grass I always thought to be greener actually isn't... "Ha!" you say - he's just got round to counting his blessings..and well, yes I have. I have plenty of blessings - a fine and foxy missus, top kids, good friends, a roof over my head, food on the table, and a lot of toys.. But you don't appreciate these things until.... until.... well, in my case, until ................

The Buddha taught that this thirst grows from ignorance of the self. We go through life grabbing one thing after another to get a sense of security about ourselves. We attach not only to physical things, but also to ideas and opinions about ourselves and the world around us. Then we grow frustrated when the world doesn't behave the way we think it should and our lives don't conform to our expectations.

Thanks to PaintMonkey for reminding me about Buddhism in his blog.

Writing using definitions instead of words is hard.

In case that; granting or supposing that; on condition that the pronoun of the second person singular or plural, used of the person or persons being addressed, in the nominative or objective case, have or form in the mind as an idea, conception, (to indicate a person, thing, idea, state, event, time, remark, etc., as pointed out or present, mentioned before, supposed to be understood, or by way of emphasis) a large number, quantity, or amount of anything (used to indicate possession, connection, or association), of nonsense, falsehood drivel or the like (third person singular present indicative) of whatever or whichever it may be, satisfactory in quality, quantity or degree, then please have or form in the mind as an idea, conception in an additional case or instance furthermore, (a form of the possessive case of “I” used as an attributive adjective) person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.

My beautifully cracked mirror. (Edit)

Don't think, just ***** eh? Don't think. Do not think. Think? No thanks. I don't think, thank you very much. Properly dresdenized as far as ************** is concerned. Black dogs ************ black mirrors. Razed and flattened. Crawling through the rubble. Look at my hands. ********* Oil and blood - very meta fucking ********. I can look in a million directions, but only follow one path. I am *********, but can't. Crawl on, that *****. ********* me over the top, whistle me down a wind. Blow baby blow. Exhale, inhale. And repeat. That's the ******, the secret, the ********* truth, the turd in the lucky dip. Creeping, ********* to the top of the rollercoaster. Struggling upwards. Screaming down. And repeat. In through the nose, out through the *********. Or vice-versa. Mind like a ransom note. ************ cut and pasted. Strings of plasticine squeezed together until they become one. One malleable *****. I wish my mind was a stainless ***** ****. "I ****"? WISH? If wishes were ****** I could remember the end of the saying. How fucking ********. Don't wish, just..... what? What? Children can wish *** * ****, but when you're ********** wishing is just ************ onanism. Turn on, tune in, and miss the ********. Miss it. Missed.Hey, the grass is greener **********? Always greener, softer, more **********, more fragrant and always where you're not. What sort of a ******* is that? **** the saying, **** the sentiment. Can you see? Can you? ********** is reflected on the back of my eye. In my ******. My beautifully cracked mirror. Be grateful **** ********, otherwise I might see things as they really are.

Well, it's a little shamefacedly that I return to the blog that has been so wantonly neglected for the last couple of weeks. Excuses? None. Sheer bloody laziness on my part. So what's new? Well, a few things actually...

1 Toys. Toys acquired include a new phone (bog standard Nokia 6500) which was ought from
Three so that I could get a broadband dongle for £4 a month. Whizzy it is. Simply plug it into yer lapdog, and bingo - t'interweb access wherever you go. Works pretty well too - all the drivers are pre-installed in it, so it really is plug and play. connection speed ain't broadband, but it's good enough. Top toy. Next new toy is a Mazda Bongo - following the untimely demise of our much loved campervan, Bluebell I decided to put all my eggs in one basket, and go for a "one vehicle solution" for the household. So farewell then Jeep, hello Billy Bongo. I'll post a pic as son as I get it - it's a fresh import from Japan, so it's taking a while to register it with the DVLA.

2 Jobs. I was about to say "it all seems to be going pretty well on the job front" but that seems like tempting fate, so let's say that it hasn't all turned to ordure yet. Consultancy is up to 3 days per week, bottles are coming along very slowly, and I seem to have over committed myself by agreeing to do some "sweat equity" work for a couple of startups. All of which means that I've been pretty flat out over the last couple of weeks.

3 Life. Life is good. Had a bit of a moan the other day when we were informed that the Levellers gig at Harewood House was cancelled, but then we were offered tickets to "A Beautiful Day Out" at Arley Hall, which means that not only do we get to see the Levellers, but also Seth Lakeman, Dreadzone, Chumbawumba and 3 Daft Monkeys. Result. Also had a top weekend on the boat, along the Leeds-Liverpool Canal to Dowley Gap, nice two day trip, nice pub, nice nosh, top one all round. (Apart from the puncture on the Jeep at 7pm on Sunday night when we were wanting to be getting home). Mucho looking forward to Thornborough Festival too.

4 Head. Not sure on this one, I've missed out on my last 2 counselling sessions, because of one thing or another, so I haven't had the time set aside to gaze into my navel - but on the sanity meter I must be doing pretty well - for the last couple of nights I've actually fallen asleep at night rather than dropped unconscious due to self medication. But overall I seem to be on an even keel at the moment.

5 Weirdness. Lots. Don't know if this is the time of year for it, but seems to all around - in my head and out of it. As an example, I woke this morning having had a very vivid dream about having to explain myself out of a tricky situation in the style of William Topaz McGonagall. What's that all about then? Eh?

6 Fashion. After a short but intriguing discussion with the PaintMonkey, I am decided to change my style. I think that I will be spending more time in the charity shops searching for the "Isembard Kingdom Brunel meets Edwardian Gentleman with a nod towards Steampunk" look.

What Ho!

Spaceman, I always wanted you to go into space man....

I had trouble getting to sleep last night, and as is my wont I cycled through the things that I think about in such situations, the mental comfort blankets that let me fall asleep......dependent upon my mood and state of mind the top three are:

1)Sex - obviously - no need to elaborate here.

2) Super powers - currently there are two super powers that I'd like to have - the first being ability to make people defecate at any time. This would be very amusing - I'm particularly thinking of politicians here, and would love to see how they react to suddenly full undercrackers in the middle of important speeches. However, it would also be fun simply walking down the street and picking a chav at random.... The second super power would be the ability to control the minds of other people - I would be the puppet master, dictating the thoughts, actions and emotions of everyone (Muahahahaha!!!!) As I write this, in my minds eye I see a psychologist stroking his goatee beard and muttering darkly... BTW, 5 extra house points if you know the classic science fiction book series that this is borrowed from.

3)Being a spaceman. The scenario is this: Somehow I have acquired a spaceship - old school 1950's style flying saucer. What I do next is: land the saucer on the lawn of the White House, erect a force field around it, and wait. When the worlds TV cameras and diplomats are in place, the ramp slowly descends... and out of the mist I walk slowly down the ramp onto the grass, unzip, and piss on the lawn. I then re-enter the spaceship and leave. There is a variant to this tableau, where I am joined by a bunch of friends (all suitably attired in retro spaceman chic), and we proceed to have a barbecue, get royally pissed, then leave.

That's about it really. I do feel strange blogging this - currently I have no idea if anybody else has these little pre-dreams, or how anyone else gets to sleep (passing out is always a good option). Do let me know that I'm not too weird.

Fuckwittery

This is what happens if you try to drive into ASDA's carpark and ignore the "max headroom" signs.. my fault. Bluebell the campervan is seriously unwell -we won't find out until Monday if a)the insurances has a fuckwit clause, and b) if she's repairable or a write off. Fuck.

Whilst we are on the topic of transport related disasters, it seems that the away team charged with bringing das boat up to Yorkshire has also had a mishap, though thankfully not of the same magnitude - a collision with a lock gate has possibly bent the rudder post, making the steering a bit heavy - they are cruising towards somewhere that can effect repairs as I speak. Fingers crossed that it isn't a pain in the wallet... So after the bad news outlined above, I set to with a vengeance to get royally blathered on Saturday night - fire, music, food, good company and an unexpected absence of children made for a bladdy good night. Today, Knaresborough beach called, again - good people, good times. Even if PM and TG were a bit tardy ;)

Better with or without?

Where to start? At the beginning? Not possible really - the beginning is in a different country, a different time, a different life. Some things don't really have beginnings - they emerge slowly and stealthily, like an island rising from the sea. And so it was. One day, suddenly and forever it was here, a great granite fact of my life. Background, foreground, detail and wash - it was inescapable. A silent friend at my side. A stealthy foe stalking me. A comfort during the bad times. A necessity for the good times. So much a part of me that to hate it would be to hate myself. And yet it's impossible to love. How can you possibly love something that will destroy you? We all need our weaknesses, our crutches, our excuses. Without the crutches Tiny Tim would just be the runt of the litter, barely worth a spit. Stephen Hawking would be a very intelligent, very anonymous academic. Pete Doherty would be a vacuum. Would they have it any other way? (See what I'm doing here?) The irony is of course, that we don't get those choices very often -to decide who you will be, what will rule your life, what to be guided by, what to avoid. And when the choices do come along, they're hard, cold, and lonely. And not to be rushed.

copoutcopoutcopoutcopoutcopoutcopoutcopout.

Next time I may write something about my cat.

This life intentionally left blank.

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