Well, there's this for those bored enough to like this sort of thing (obviously me, for one), but the trouble is I stumble through the whole process and despite apparently succeeding, I don't have a clue as to how I managed it. I think the true measure, or rather and essential measure of real success is 'repeatability' - if you can't do it again, IT was a fluke and YOU are a bullshitter. NB You have to click the small arrow to get the picture to move. If you only see a still picture of a corner of my kitchen, you're as stupid as I am.

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Welcome to Cornwall, home of the gratuitous diatribe by disaffected sixtysomethings

The obscure website to which I subscribe which claims to ‘monitor’ traffic to this blog — and I don’t even begin to understand how it works or why it even exists — tells me that I had a recent visitor who arrived here after following up links to ‘Cornwall’. Well, Lord knows what he or she made of this blog. The most recent entry is merely and unshamed plug for my novel (should that be ‘novel’) which, I am sure, will have fallen on deaf ears, and the entry before that was a bad-tempered outburst about ‘hacks’ and quite how awful they are (for which I make no apology: two days ago, I bought Private Eye. The former Mail news editor who has recently been promoted to assistant editor and now sits on the features desk (and who is otherwise rather a good egg) borrowed it to read. When I got it back, I discovered he had come across a story he wanted the Mail to follow up and had simply ripped out a page. Now call me old-fashioned, but I find that quite a bizarre thing to do. To his credit he replaced my copy with the copy the news editor gets and apologised profusely. But it was a paradigm of the kind of thing which goes on among hacks.
But my visitor, in search of references to all things Cornish will surely have wondered what the bloody hell my diatribe against hacks has to do with Cornwall, Kernow, tin, tourism, obesity, teenage pregnancy, poor housing, retired diplomats, non-Cornish in twee pixie hats trying to flow you tat in the resorts on the south coast, scruffy ‘museums’ claiming to prove that King Arthur’s Camelot was just north of Camelford (motto: ‘never let a chance nominal resemblance go to waste and screw the public for all its worth’, though to be fair there are the remains of a castle — though admittedly not a lot — at Tintagel which is said to have been the home of Arthur’s father Uther Pendragon and where Arthur was born), and generally loads of Brummy, Lancshire and London immigrants trying to cobble together a living.
Cornwall is one of those places which sounds romantic from afar but which turns out to be something quite different once you get here. Newquay, for example, is a hole, full of drunken teens pissing away their welfare payments. Lord, this is turning into yet another diatribe. Must spend the rest of the day pretending I am not over 60.
PS For those who are interested, I am taking Pottery, my stepmother’s 19-year-old cat to the vet’s to have his bandage replaced. He recently had a cyst removed.
Have a nice day.

Hello again, and please buy my novel because no one else is. Pearls before swine? Or just another piece of cack?

Not posted anything here for a while, and I don’t know why not. There’s no particular reason, it’s just that from scribbling here about once a day, I went to writing nothing at all. It’s not that there is nothing to write about, and it’s not that when I was writing I had anything particularly interesting to say. In fact, in an odd sort of way the satisfaction of periodically posting this blog didn’t come from having got something down on paper (so to speak - quaint phrase that, odd to use it here in the digital age) but in the getting it down. I’m not a writer but a talker. It’s that activity which I enjoy, shallow as it might be. To put it another way, there’s less to me than meets the eye. Why all this? Well, I’ve just been watching a film called I’m Not There, a rather unusual biography of Bob Dylan. I haven’t actually finished it yet, because it is over two hours long and I don’t really want a late night. It is one of those films which, for no obvious reason, holds your interest although you cannot make head of tail of it. We often think that ‘the message’ is the thing, but films such as I’m Not There prove us wrong. You cannot fake engagement. You can lie about it to others, but you can’t lie about it to yourself. If you are engaged but you don’t know why, it doesn’t matter: what is important is that you are engaged. When I visit an art gallery, I walk around it quickly, looking at all the paintings on show, and then I walk around it again more slowly and find that some works hold my attention for longer than others. I don’t know why that should be so, and I’m not going to go off at some bullshit tangent speculating as to why that is so. The only important point is that it is so: some works hold my attention for longer than others. So when it comes to writing, I have nothing to say at all. It is the saying I want to make interesting. That is why I am disappointed by the various reactions to Letters Never Sent (latterly retitled Love: A Fiction and available to buy here or alternatively here) because no one, but no one ‘got it’. What I attempted to do, and what I feel I succeeded in doing, was very straightforward. And because it was (is) my first novel and I didn’t really have the confidence of an experienced writer, I larded it with any number of clues as to what was going on hoping that readers would cotton on. But no one, but no one, ‘got it’, so the inescapable conclusion, at least as far as I'm concerned, is that it isn’t as well written as it might have been. Even the new title - Love: A Fiction - which is intended to work on three levels (three rather simple levels at that - I’m not at all trying to be clever-clever) is a giveaway. Oh well.

Hacks are self-centred, self-regarding pillocks, and I shall be glad eventually to see the back of them

I’ve worked as a hack since 1974, which makes it 36 years man and boy, and I have met and worked with quite a few other hacks (a disproportionate number of whom, incidentally, were called ‘Andy’, but that is for another time). And my considered opinion is this: hacks are self-centred, obstreperous, selfish, self-regarding fuckwits who are never quite as bright, cultured or well-informed as they like to think they are. They might, individually be pleasant and good company — indeed, I know several who brush their teeth quite regularly— but when they are not themselves but are hacks, they become strangely quite insufferably, although I have also come across — and work with at least one — some definite exceptions to that rule.
There is something about the job which invariably brings out the worst in hacks. This is not something I have decided upon of late, but it has been my opinion for many years. The reason I am letting off steam here is because of something someone said earlier on, which typifies the boneheaded, uncooperative nature of so many of them.
At the moment, there is chaos throughout Europe because ash from a volcano on Iceland is being blown all over the Continent and almost all commercial flights have been grounded. Our letters editor, a guy called Andy Simpson, has spent the past week with his daughters in Turkey. This morning I was told that he was stuck there, and as I get on well with him, I thought I might ring his mobile on the off-chance he would answer and could tell us when he might be back. ‘Don’t do that,’ said a female colleague, ‘it’s up to him to ring us and tell us.’
Now, I really cannot see the point of taking a stand on the issue. But she was adamant.
Another example: a few weeks ago, I agreed to do some extra work at home (on a self-employed freelance basis so I can claim expenses) organising the puzzle pages. Since we have move over to a new page layout system (from Quark Xpress on Mac to Atex and Indesign on PCs) there was chaos for a few weeks with everyone refusing to set up the puzzle pages. I happened to mention to the managing editor that it was no great deal and he asked wether I would be prepared to do it. Well, as I had been doing it four days a week ever since no one else was doing it, I decided I might as well be paid for it. A bonus that appeals to the geek in me in that I can log into the system at work from home in North Cornwall 240 miles away.
Anyway, as I deal with the puzzle pages daily four days a week, I was doing a little extra work to lighten my load, but doing so was not part of the agreement. That was a big mistake, because now everyone else on the desk expects me to do it. To put it bluntly, they want their arses wiped on the hour, every hour. Bloody hacks. My advice to everyone has always been: if you are approached by a reporter about anything, turn around and walk smartly away in the opposite direction. What they don’t get wrong, they make up, and what they don’t make up they get wrong. They are complete and utter pillocks.

What to do when friendship has run its course? Nothing, really, just don’t pretend

Is this familiar? You have known someone for many years, and in those early days you both regarded each other as friends. But latterly, in the past few years, you feel you no longer like that person very much. It isn’t that you actively dislike them, it is just that you no longer find them interesting or good company — they are very much like those people to whom you are indifferent.
I can honestly say I don’t dislike many people at all. But I can also tell you that I am indifferent to quite a few people. I get on with them, because I tend to get on with most people. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I like them.
What I have outlined above has happened to me twice. It is rather disconcerting when it happens, but on the other hand I get rather jacked off having more or less to play act. The first friend — or perhaps I should call him a former friend — was someone I knew at university. On the face of it we were like chalk and cheese: I was the fresh-faced public school lad who didn’t know shit from sausages, he was the student radical/revolutionary who made much of his ‘working class roots’. Oddly enough, as I moved around the country, this chap would find himself nearby. I knew his first wife and was something along the lines of best man when he married his second wife. Yet over the years we were more or less officially friends, but I can’t say I particularly enjoyed his company. For one thing, I was one of his few friends who knew him in his student revolutionary days and I think this embarrassed him as he dropped the working class London accent and his speech became more markedly refined and middle-class. I remember one afternoon in particular: I had been invited to Sunday lunch (his second wife, who was an alcoholic and is now dead after falling down the stairs one night while, I suspect, very drunk, and I got on well and I more or less had a standing invitation) and after lunch we settled down to watch some tribute charity concert on TV which featured all the bands from — then — 25 years earlier. Well, I wasn’t very interested. I have never been one for nostalgia and all these bands, once long-haired and young, were now balding and middle-aged and had most certainly not taken to heart The Who’s sage advice to die while they were still young. We were drinking wine, and this chap got rather annoyed with me for not joining in the spirit of nostalgia. And I got rather annoyed for being expected to.
That was several years before we finally went our separate ways, but I remember driving home that night thinking that that was a friendship which had run its course.

Pretentious? Moi? Or why romantic self-regard has made of me a philistine

I have once or twice in the past alluded to my pretensions to wanting to be ‘a writer’. I have also confessed that for someone with such pretensions, I have produced remarkably little and, more to the point, have very little justification for having them (which rather begs the question as to whether anyone having pretensions is particularly concerned about how legitimate it is to have them. ‘Pretensions’ and ‘legitimacy’ are surely rarely contented bedfellows). I have read many interviews with living writers in which they reveal that they ‘have’ to write, that they have no choice but ‘to write’, and the obvious implication being that if they didn’t write, they would surely go off their heads. When, in the past, I read such claims, I always felt very guilty, because, to put it bluntly, I don’t have a clue as to what they are talking about.
It isn’t just writers who say such a thing: the sheer compulsive necessity to produce ‘art’ is seen as the essential component of the ‘artistic nature’. Composers, actors, poets, painters and sculptors are apt to make similar claims, and who am I to say that they are not being sincere when they do so? It is always possible, and, not to be too cynical, rather probable that one or two (or three or four) rather pretentious individuals will make the same claim in the hope that they sound impressive. But it is also possible that many of those who say these things are being completely sincere. Possibly a little neurotic, perhaps, but sincere: that for whatever reason buried in the complexities of their psyche, they only really feel alive when they write.
(Incidentally, at some point — although not here and not now because that would merely confuse matters — it would be useful to try to establish what ‘to write’ means. I am undoubtedly, at the moment, ‘writing’ but I am also undoubtedly at the moment not doing what people mean by ‘writing’ when they avow that they ‘have to write’.)
I must say that I enjoy writing much as I enjoy talking, but I can’t honestly claim to have a compulsion to write, and would not die in misery if I could never write again. On the other hand I do feel an itch to write which cannot be ignored, which is one reason why I post an entry in this blog every few days or so. Furthermore, where some writers — or artists generally — insist that the need to write (or compose, or paint, or sculpt or versify) comes from a definite need to ‘express themselves’, I can safely say that I belong in the opposite camp: I like the kind of art in which the artist is thoroughly concealed and, ideally, utterly forgotten. I don’t give a flying fuck whether or not the world ‘understands me’. But I do hope that, in some way or other, I am, at least, entertaining and engaging.
That is not the modern view, but then the modern view is to treat ‘the artist’ as something akin to a god, rather than as someone who happens to be rather good at entertaining and engaging using as his or her medium words, sounds, paint, stone, wood or whatever else takes his or her fancy, just as others are rather good at kicking a football, or selling insurance, or teaching or cooking or even organising. I know that makes me sound like a philistine, but, I’m afraid, that’s what I feel.
I think it all started with Beethoven. I would like to call him a genius, but these days that word is bandied about so much that it has been thoroughly devalued. For centuries musicians, as both performers and composers, were regarded as little more than hired help. If they were employed in court — which was almost always the case — they were often required to wear a uniform of some kind (as was, for example, J.S.Bach), eat with the servants and were treated as nothing more than staff. Beethoven,
who apart from being a genius was also a very difficult man with, I should imagine, a pronounced and well-defined ego, would have none of it. When, metaphorically, he was required to eat with the servants, he refused point-blank and insisted that a man of his talents should be treated with far more respect, as something greater than others. Well, in his case that was fair enough, but with his insistence that he, as ‘an artist’, was not as other mortals, the rot set in and, if you follow my drift, here in the Western world it has still not set out again.
As the ‘classical era’ developed — some might say degenerated — into the ‘romantic’ era, the rise of ‘the artist’ as a kind of higher being gathered pace.
Beethoven’s music could not be described as ‘romantic’, but one can hear in it the transition from the classicism of Mozart and Haydn to the music of the subsequent ‘romantic’ composers. The true romantics, the Schumans and the Wagners and the Mendelssohns, produced some great music but for me a little goes a long way. (For the record, I now dislike Chopin quite a bit, and find that listening to romantic classical music is like gorging yourself on cheap chocolate.) Feeling, sensation and sentiment seemed to lie at the centre of their music, but what marked out the ‘romantic’ guys, and to a certain extent gals, was that they were regarded and regarded themselves as ‘artists’ and as ‘artists’ as something rather special. And that attitude is still with unfortunately largely with us. These days we have reached the point where once the arts establishment has sanctified someone as ‘an artist’, everything they produce is, by definition, ‘art’ and must this be revered and held sacred, irrespective of whether or not it is any good. (I am, by the way, supremely conscious of the irony that this is being written by chap who not in a million years would be regarded as ‘an artist’ and who all too often feels distinctly uncomfortable in the company of the art establishment on those very few occasions when I am.) So we are in the ridiculous situation where Gilbert and George can use faeces (or so they claim) in the manufacture of their ‘art’ and we are obliged to take it and them seriously. It’s art, after all.
There has been a development which is related to this: over these past 40 years and in something of an extreme reaction to a world in which too many people were nothing but drones and serfs and were treated accordingly badly, today’s orthodoxy is that everyone is ‘special’ and deserves to be treated as such. Well yes and no. To our families and friends we are possibly more ‘special’ than we are to the anonymous crowd I share a railway carriage with on those occasions when I travel by rail. And surely it depends on context: and if that context is ‘art’, ‘talent’ and ‘ability’, the answer to the question as to whether everyone and his or her work should be treated as ‘special’, the answer can only be ‘no’.
It is a fiction, although a very popular fiction in some quarters, that if you dig a little, you will find that ‘everyone’ is talented in some way. In fact, we now go further and insist that everyone has a right — some would even insist it is a duty — to ‘express themselves’. A consequence of that liberal fiction is today’s orthodoxy that everyone has a right to be taken seriously by everyone else when they express themselves. Now everyone can, of course, attempt to express themselves if they so wish and do so in whatever form they choose, and they should never be discouraged from doing so. For one thing they might get a great deal of personal enjoyment and satisfaction from indulging themselves in one or other of the arts. But whether in expressing themselves the ‘art’ they produce entertains or engages or is otherwise of interest to others is by no means guaranteed. And more to the point, I am in no way obliged to accept as good everything so produced merely because it is the fruit of someone ‘expressing themselves’, although to say so is these days tantamount to heresy. I am to be shot at dawn tomorrow.

I admit it: I am, apparently, a glass of absinthe away from a life and death of meths drinking. Or why it is advisable not to believe the bullshit

I am, apparently, just a pair of piss-stained trousers away from lying in the gutter and drinking meths. That, at least, is my wife’s opinion. I was about to write that it was her ‘considered’ opinion, but the truth is my wife doesn’t really consider anything she is about to say, or she doesn’t appear to. Whoever first observed that ‘a little learning is a dangerous thing’ will have had my wife in mind, or, at least, her spiritual foremothers. She shared her opinion with me the other night as I was pouring myself a glass
of a rather unusual drink. Now, there are many less usual drinks, but this particular unusual drink - absinthe - comes with rather a lot of baggage. In the popular mind - although ‘mind’ is, perhaps, too strong a word in context - absinthe is the very essence of a debauched, immoral, wasted life just this side of criminality and acts of sodomy on the hour every hour.
I happened to be preparing for myself a glass of absinthe - there is a certain rigmarole involved in preparing a glass of the drink which draws attention to itself - after I had, over several days, taken an interest in the drink and had been googling it to find out a little more about it. I have always liked Pernod, raki, ouzo, fennel (both the seeds and the vegetable), liquorice and aniseed balls, and I began to wonder whether, given that Pernod was first produced as a substitute for absinthe, what all the fuss was about.
The drink was declared illegal in some European countries at the beginning of the last century after claims that it was driving people mad, and there is an intersting, not to say quite convincing, conspiracy theory as to why. That was when the bad PR started. Absinthe, we were all assured, was for wrong ’uns: absinthe drinkers included - and it is here difficult not to add the word ‘notorious’ - Oscar Wilde, Vincent van Gogh, Verlaine and Rimbaud (who oddly enough, no poetry in the latter part of his life and instead choose to serve in the Dutch army), Ernest Hemingway, Voltaire - the epitome of a wrong ’un - and Alfred Jarry. Modern connoisseurs are said to include Johnny Depp, Leonardo Di Caprio and, to keep alive the link with debauchery, Marilyn Manson.
It wasn’t, in fact, made illegal in every European country, and was, for example, never outlawed in Canada, atlthough in the U.S., that highly schizophrenic country in which everything is both tolerated and condemned, it was outlawed. Since the beginning of the Nineties, however, it has again been legal to
produce it, and after a somewhat shaky start when - so the internet informs me - what was being produced as of pretty low quality and was being manufactured by distillers keen to cash in on the drink’s notoriety, it is now universally available, in both the French/Swiss kind and the Czech kind. (It was always available in Czechoslovakia and was never banned, but as the Communist authorities had a kind of petit bourgeois morality, it was rather frowned upon, and production and consumption were discrete.)
From my ‘research’ - great word that and one used by bullshitters the world over, so why should I stint myself? - I gather that the essential ingredient which took all the blame for absinthe driving one mad is now not present in great quantities. One of the herbs used in the production of absinthe was wormwood, and the active ingredient was the chemical ‘thujone’. Because thujone was deemed to be the dangerous ingredient which lead to the banning of absinthe - see my account of an alleged conspiracy below - some websites claim that the amount of thujone present in modern absinthe is very low compared to what the old stuff had. I am in no position to judge. Over these past 20 years, absinthe production had now come of age, and many, many brands of absinthe are now available, both of the French/Swiss variety and the Czech kind. It is available from 55 per cent proof, which I gather is at the low end, to up to 78 per cent proof. If you google absinthe, you’ll come across all manner of reviews and appreciations of this, that and t’other brand.
I decided I would buy myself a bottle, but then came across a website which sold taster kits: a small bottle of its absinthe (50ml, enough for two glasses), an absinthe spoon and, quaintly, two lumps of sugar. As this cost a cool £11, both the unsure punter and the canny producer benefits from the offer. I am no expert on absinthe, but I gather that some, if not all, brands can be quite bitter, and the idea is to sweeten the drink a little with the sugar. I gather that the way to prepare a glass is slowly to pour ice-cold water over the sugar lumps - sitting on the absinthe spoon which, itself sits over the glass - in order for the subtle aromas of the various herb oils to evolve. The Czechs, who have a different kind of absinthe do it differently. They dunk the sugar lump in the absinthe and then set the lump alight. Once this has caramelized, it is stirred into the absinthe.
So I prepared my first glass and that was when my wife observed that I would be drinkng meths next. But after 14 years of marriage, that kind of thing is water off a duck’s back and could and did in no way discourage me.
So what was it like? Well, I like Pernod, pastis, raki and ouzo and to drink it tasted similar. I liked it. But where was that absinthe magic, the green fairy? I can’t claim the she and I became intimately acquainted on that first occasion, but I can report that after a second glass - I had no more than two because that was all I was supplied with - and later on in bed I did feel rather different. It was, in a certain kind of way, as though I were sitting next to myself, but I must stress that the reader should not allow him or herself to be carried away with the description. Yes, I felt different and different in a way I had not experienced before with any other drink, but I suspect that had I had a third, or even fourth, glass, my account would be a little more defined. But I didn’t.
I enjoyed it, but shall I get a full bottle (and I would go for quality, because not doing so is, in such cases, a waste of money)? Yes, I shall, and I shall drink several glasses in the company of my cousin Gerald (who demanded I remove an account in this blog of our most recent drinking session, but who is far better value than most and, I would suspect, the ideal absinthe-drinking companion).
As for that conspiracy theory: well, the temperance movement was against absinthe as it was against every other kind of booze. Absinthe was first produced in the early 19th century and was something of a minority drink for many years, enjoyed by those who liked a little variation. Then France’s wine industry was devastated in the mid-19th century by an aphid and the drastically curtailed production of French wine pushed up prices enormously. So everyone who had enjoyed a glass or ten of French wine found the could no longer afford it and, it is claimed, turned to drinking absinthe. When, at the end of the 19th century, the French wine industry had recovered, it found it extremely difficult to regain it previous volume of sales. This is where the conspiracy theory kicks in: it is claimed that the French wine industry joined forces with the temperance crowd to attack the absinthe distillers - my enemy is your enemy. The flaw in this theory is, of course, as my more astute readers will have already realised, the question of why the temperance crow should have decided to join in with the wine industry. That’s a fair point, but I really don’t know. But whatever the answer to that question is, both are said to have jointly targeted the absinthe distillers and as part of their campaign quote ‘scientific’ proof that absinthe can drive you mad. It seems a lab full of mice were injected with thujone and went ape shit. The conspiracy theorists point out that the amount of thujone given to the mice - who are a fraction of the weight of a human - has 50 times the amount ingested by a drinker in one glass. But as, for me, the
whole exercise was a PR campaign, I don’t care either way. At the time, it seems, an unemployed man turned one his family and killed them all, a wife and many children. He had been drinking absinthe before he committed his crime. This horrific case was cited by the anti-absinthe group, but what was suppressed by the anti-absinthe lobby - it is said - was that he had also been drinking wine, brandy, beer and other spirits.
These were just two examples of evidence paraded to try to prove how pernicious and dangerous absinthe was. What other evidence was produced I don’t know, but in time absinthe production was declared illegal, and it wasn’t until the early Nineties that is was legal again to make the stuff.

And finally: please note that I have nowhere used the old cliched pun that ‘absinthe makes the heart grow fonder’. I don’t at all mind cliches unless they are so hackneyed and demand so much rewriting in order to be placed that the whole piece is wrecked. And if you have reached the end of this blog entry and are reading this, you will know that at no point might I have introduced that particular cliche without being horribly hamfisted.

What’s sauce for the goose, or how revenge is still the sweetest dish

I am about to recount a tale of an act of revenge which, unfortunately, has not yet been concluded and cannot so far be regarded as successful. But give it time, please give it time. It doesn’t involve violence or anything nasty, but I does involve me getting rather very irritated with another party’s high-handed behaviour and deciding to get my own back.
For many years, it must have been at least seven, I drove to work in London and parked my car for the time I was there directly beneath the Daily Mail in space reserved for I know not whom but certainly not for the poor bloody infantry. Perhaps those who arrived for work after seven were able to park there, but for everyone else doing so was not legal. Staff who were entitled to a car parking space were given permits to use a car park three-quarters of a mile away, and those on higher pay grades were given credit card to allow them to use the NCP car park opposite the Mail on the Young St. side. And at £25 a day, parking there is not cheap, so anyone the paper to whom the paper does grant that privilege must be reasonably valued. That car park, though, is on the other side of the street. I, on the other hand, was parked directly below the building, just a short five-storey lift ride away from my desk. How I got away with it for so long — and what I was doing was common knowledge on the features subs’ table — I really don’t know, but I did. I was able to get in because on Sundays when no civilians worked at the paper (admin, classified ad staff, researchers, that kind of thing), we were allowed to use the car park. I managed to park there for four days by driving in legitimately on Sunday mornings, but then not driving out agian until Wednesday evenings at 6pm when my shift ended.
But as it most certainly would in time, the arrangement came to an end eight months ago. I was rumbled by one of the security guards to whom one legitimate car park user had complained after he couldn’t find an empty space. The guard realised that at least one used was parking illegally and set about comparing the registration numbers of cars with the list of number belonging to legitimate users. It must have taken him some time, and he must be some boring fart even to bother, but bother he did and my game was up.
That lead to a problem: I had to find somewhere else to park which didn’t cost me an arm and a leg. Even better, I had to find somewhere reasonably close where I could park for free. Finding somewhere like that would be harder than finding a needle in a haystack, but eventually I did. One night, after my single Sunday shift, I took off driving ever further into West London, keeping my eyes open for a street not governed by residents’ parking permits. I finally was out as far as Acton Town when I found myself driving down a street where there were no parking restrictions of any kind. I started parking there, about five minutes walk from Acton Town underground station. (For anoraks who are into this kind of thing, it is quicker getting there by the Piccadilly Line than the Circle Line because although follow the same route, the Piccadilly Line stops at fewer stations. It was quite a coup finding somewhere where I could park for nothing, but the trouble was that getting there to pick up my car when I was about to drive home took about more than 45 minutes from leaving the office and getting into my car and was a pain in the arse. Then my brother Mark mentioned that, incredibly just around the corner from his flat in Earls Court was a small piece of land, rather hidden from the street, on which four cars could park comfortably. One space used to be used by one of those companies which hire out cars by the hour and which are becoming ever more popular and the rest seemed to be used by a firm of estate agents. So that is where I started parking my car on those occasions when I drove to London. Everything went well until last week. It would seem that the firm of estate agents had got a but narked that one of the spots was occupied, probably by my car, although I don’t know whether some other drivers had come across it. So they installed rather thick metal chains fastened by padlocks to seal off the small area. Thankfully on the day they did so, they ‘kindly’ did not seal off the area where my car was parked, allowing me to remove it. But last Sunday (I came up by train this week and I am writing this on my laptop with a view to uploading and posting it when I get home later tonight) I went to the spot — it is just three minutes walk from Mark’s flat — to see what had been done and saw that the estate agents have now completely sealed of the area. Had I turned up with my car — and I am due to drive up in two weeks’ time — I would not have been able to park and would have had to fuck off to Acton Town again.
That is what irritated me, or, to put it another way, what pissed me off. There is a very old sign lying around indicating that the small piece of land, which sits behind a 30ft long advertising hoarding, is the property of More O’Ferrall. But I would be very surprised indeed if the estate agents had come to some agreement to rent the land from More O’Ferrall to park its cars. It is far more likely that they are, like me, opportunistic squatters. So it is a bloody cheek to seal of the ground to make sure only they can use it.
What to do? I did consider going along (the estate agents have their office just around the corner opposite The Troubadour where Mark works) and simply appealing to their better nature and informing them that I now only drive up infrequently and could I also use the ground. Well, that’s a non-starter. First of all, who has ever heard of an estate agent with a better nature? Also
(note the image of a car above whose driver decided to do things by the book and rely on 'better nature') there is only room for four cars and I’m sure what with their staff commuting to work and coming and going to show clients around local flats, they would not be too inclined to give me a sympathetic hearing. Finally, if the ground is left open for me, it is highly likely that other drivers will also take advantage of it. That is when I gave up all hope of ever being able to park there again and decided that all I could do would be to take my revenge. If they could seal off the area with chains and padlocks to make it inaccessible to other drivers, well I could do the same. I might even argue that I have the same moral right. So I decided to buy padlocks and double seal off the area, making sure they couldn’t park there, either. I bought them yesterday and on my way to Marks added my two padlocks to theirs. That would do it, I thought. Well, it hasn’t yet quite. It seems that in the dark I had not applied the padlocks to anywhere where it might make it impossible to for them to remove the chains to let their own cars in. Oh, well. But I don’t think they noticed my padlocks, so next week I shall go back and make sure I get it right.
Am I being petty? Probably, but who cares. Bastards.

If you’re really bored, read on. And on. And on . . . Fuses, an insightful trip to Halfords and seafood medley beats the paté on toast.

I’m a great one for sneering at other people, even though as a well-brought up, middle-class sort of chap, more often than not I keep my thoughts to myself, or, at least, I try to, and people are very often none the wiser.
Would it be too, too snobbish of me, for example, to observe that visiting Asda is like shopping on a council estate? Yes, I think it probably would, so I shall keep schtum on that score and try to mitigate my apparent unpleasantness by admitting that if it is batteries you are after, or cheap DVDs, or any number of branded goods, Asda is no worse than any other store. For food I prefer to go elsewhere. I don’t really know why, but I do.
That was something of an unexpected diversion, so I shall get back to what I originally planned to say. Sneering is not nice, so by way of a penance I shall recount a very mundane incident today which culminated in my having an ineffably mundane insight. Were anyone else to have the same insight and go on to articulate it (which is what I did silently) then I would send them up rotten.
It started when I tried to get the DC power supply to my satnav going again. It has been out of operation for several months and I have been using a USB cable with the relevant DC cigarette lighter socket plug (which I bought at Asda for just a few pence. There, am I redeemed?) There was no particular reason why I should try to get it going again, but I decided to do so after my young son Wesley took apart another such DC power supply plug and discovered that once you unscrew the ‘top bit’, you find small fuse. ‘Ah-ha,’ I thought, ‘all I’ve got to do is to replace the fuse with one from another DC power supply I am not using, and I shall get it working again. QED.’ Except that I didn’t. I substituted the fuse, but when I stuck it in the socket, it still didn’t work. Oh, well, I thought, it must be something else.
About ten minutes later I realised that my car radio had stopped working. This is irritating because I have the radio on all the time when I am driving (Radio 4: I’m middle-class. See above). I decided that the radio fuse had gone and as I know where the fuses are in my British racing green Rover 45 (middle-class, again see above. And if that weren't enought, I am, by the way, writing this I am wearing a Guernsey sweater), I took a peek. To get at the fuses, you have to remove a kind of drawer just beneath the steering wheel, and on the back of this drawer is a diagram of all the different fuses and what amperage they are. There I discovered that the cigarette lighter and car radio both run off the same fuse. Even better, Rover supply a spare fuse for every amperage used. The trouble is that not only are they a bastard to get at, they are even more of a bastard to remove, especially when you are on your knees in an Asda car park, bent down almost double, craning your neck under the steering wheel and staring into a dark gloom with long sight. After a lot of pointless tugging with my fingers, I realised I needed the proper toold to do the job and decided to go to B&Q across the road to buy a pair of pliers. Then I realised that I could also get a new fuse at the branch of Halfords just down form B&Q. Outside Halfords, a staff member was wandering up and down having a fag, and I asked him whether the store sold pliers small enough to remove the fuse. Better than that, he told me, they have a special tool to do the job. Just ask in the store for Blake on Riptest (which is what it sounded like, but I don’t have a clue what he meant). In the store I could see nothing remotely like any department whose name might be interpreted as ‘Riptest’, but I told myself that I was grown up now and I would probably be able to find the pliers and replacement fuses with any assistance from Blake. Well, I couldn’t, and wandering around the almost deserted store — deserted is not a good sign for a Saturday early afternoon — I couldn’t at first find any member of staff until after a few minutes I came across three quietly gossiping in a corner. I explained what I wanted and one of them took me down to the fuses and also found me the ‘special tool’ for removing them. It is a small, plastic item, which probably cost no more than a tenth of a penny to make but is immensely useful. I bought it and my fuse (you get two in the packet), went outside and replaced the dead fuse. I then immediately blew it by plugging in the satnav lead with the substituted fuse (I trust all this talk of fuses isn’t confusing — I am talking about different types here). So I removed the blown new fuse I had popped in with the immensely useful plastic tool I had discovered, and popped in the second one.
And where is all this leading to? Well, to here: as I was walking out of Halfords with my packet of two fuses and a similar packet containing the plastic removal tool, I reflected: ‘Isn’t it strange how you seem to learn something new every day?’ My point is, dear reader, that if someone else has said that, I would have mocked them without mercy. Ah, but I said it. Mundane or what?
If you’ve been with me this far, here’s something to look forward to: an account of why I had a seafood medley with vinaigrette for lunch yesterday rather than paté on toast as I had planned. If you have stayed with me thus far, you’ll find it a riveting read. And yes, it is still Saturday afternoon.

Am I retired? No, not yet, but as you can see I’m slowly, gently cruising into an early dotage.

All things to all men: philosophy, Darfur, self-help and why meaning is not so important

The website which religiously informs me of these things has reported that this blog has again been sought out by the guy (or gal) attracted to it using the buzzword ‘philosophy’. And yet again he (or she) will have been disappointed with what they came across had they lingered and read on a little. If I remember, I was in a rather bad mood and used extremely coarse language to slag off several people. Well, perhaps I should try to keep them here a little longer when they next turn up and put my skates on to write something about philosophy, but the trouble is I have absolutely nothing original to say. What I can do, though, is to outline what any would-be philosopher will not find here.
I pointed out a few entries ago that because of the nature of the course I took at Dundee University all those years ago, my slender knowledge of philosophy is further constrained by the fact that the department there was solely interested in what is generally known as ‘Oxford philosophy’. That it offered — and I took — a course in Existentialism which dealt with (naturally) Jean-Paul Sartre, Kierkegaard, Jaspers and Heidigger (and regular readers will already have cottoned on that those are the only four existentialist philosophers I know, which is why I am obliged to repeat the names) must be put down to an innate British courtesy, rather as we might acknowledge that the French and Italians also like to cook. But generally if a school of philosophy’s ideas did not meet the rigourous standards laid down by the Oxford school, it was a little difficult to take them all that seriously.
So the searcher after truth tracking me down to this blog must take that into account.
He or she should also realise that I am not in the slightest interested in trying to understand ‘what life is all about’ or ‘what the meaning of life might be’. In a nutshell, my view is that life, whether human, animal or plant, simply evolved and that it is intrinsically without meaning. That is, however, not to say, that our individual and communal lives have no meaning. It is merely to say that whatever meaning there is for us (and were I a little slicker, I might try to introduce obliquely Kierkegaard’s notion of subjective truth, but unfortunately I am as slick as a coarse metal file) is wholly artificial (in a rather obscure sense of the word, but I can’t, at this point, be arsed trying to find the right one). It boils down to this: life is. What it is, how it evolved, where it is going to, I really do not know, but more to the point, I have no interest in speculating. I don’t intend spending my time beating my head against a brick wall.
It is worth pointing out, of course, that we are most interested in ‘understanding what life is about’ or searching for the meaning of life’ when we are in our post-pubescent years and ‘life’ as we see it all around us is often something of a mystery, if not sometimes a little unsettling. The other time we find ourselves casting about for ‘meaning’ is when, for one reason or another, we are unhappy. (And we are sometimes unhappy without realising it. Regular drinking can often mask an underlying unhappiness. Just out of interest, spend an evening with friends in a bar, but stick to soft drinks while they are getting rat-arsed. You will find yourself wondering just what is so funny about all the things they are laughing at — and it is not you who is being po-faced. One suspect that life wouldn't be so much of a breeze if they had less booze in them.) Of course, none of that is to say that we would otherwise not be interested in the ‘meaning of life’. It’s just that most of us have an unlimited capacity for bullshitting ourselves and if we really were interested in that kind of thing, we would spend a great deal more time and effort pursuing that interest. As it is, all we really want is a few headline facts, a couple of quotable quotes and something to keep up going until Emmerdale or EastEnders starts, or Days Of Our Lives or Neighbours, or whatever soap is now the most popular.
I often, rather glibly, wonder aloud just how interested refugees in, say, Darfur are in ‘the meaning of life’. I should think their more immediate concern is simply with remaining alive by finding food and drink and avoiding violence. Speculating on the ‘meaning of life’ is all too often a pastime indulged in by the leisured classes. That is not, however, to say that the hopes and wishes and aspirations of such refugees are not identical to yours and mine. Last night I heard a news report from a refugee camp in Darfur which has been so longstanding that there are several well-established schools there with pupils keen to learn. There’s little difference between them and us, except that we can be reasonably certain where our next meal is coming from and need not live in fear of being killed. (Incidentally, it is notable that, for example, something like education is most valued by those who have least access to it. One of the lessons I am trying to drum into my two children is to understand that ‘easy come, easy go’, that to achieve what is usually most worthwhile and rewarding in life usually take rather more effort. It is something I wish I had been taught when I was a child, but I don’t think I ever was.)
Musing on the ‘meaning of life’, I should like to mention a cartoon strip I once regularly read in a newspaper. It was a cartoon strip called Hagar the Horrible, which appeared for many years on the back page of The Sun. In the strip I particularly remember (and to be honest I remember no others), Hagar is sitting at a bar staring morosely into his beer. The barman notices his sombre mood and asks him what the matter is.
‘Sometimes,’ says Hagar gloomily, ‘I wonder why we’re all here.’
‘Well,’ says the barman, ‘I’m the barman. I’m here to serve drinks.’
Quite. It’s not exactly deep, but that joke contains a rather important truth. For me at least. Tackled from a different angle, I shall pass on an Icelandic fisherman’s saying I once came across and which I always find reassuring: ‘When in the storm,’ it urges, ‘pray to God. But keep rowing.’
The searcher after truth will also not find here any of the usual gunge which masquerades as philosophy in any number of middle-brow self-help books. If they are intent on going on a ‘journey’ to discover their ‘inner self’ or ‘the child within’ or anything of that kind, good luck to them. But they will find no practical help in this blog. I have not doubt that such books, which I gather sell by the lorry-load all over the world, can provide a temporary respite from whatever ails those who buy them, but the ones I have flicked through in bookshops have been 24 carat crap. The make very little sense at all and remind me all too easily of those ads claiming that they will reveal to you THE secret of losing weight, or of getting rid of that flabby belly, or making a million dollars in three months or of 1,001 other things which concern us. They invariably go on and on and on and on about what they promise they are going to do for you, but never actually get to the point. Ever. Because, of course, by the time you have bought the book, you are of now more interest to the author.
It would be only fair to add here that I did once by a self-help book, but this one was of practical advice and there was not an airy-fairy notion in it. I bought it in the spring of 1990 when I was in the depths of a reasonably severe bout of clinical depression and it was along the lines of explaining what, physically, depression was, and counselling that depressive attacks are self-limiting. It was by a Dorothy Rowe, a respected British psychologist and is full of very good, practical advice. I have never, however, bought a book hoping to become a ‘better me’ or anything of that kind, although I have toyed (and, to tell the truth, am still toying) with the idea of writing one called A Cynic’s Guide To A Happier You, which would consist solely of good advice along the lines of don’t overspend, don’t drink or eat too much, don’t expect everything always to be perfect, always be honest with yourself even if you can’t always be honest with others, avoid telling lies and don’t burn the candle at both ends.
Which is all a long, long way from ‘philosophy’ even if not of the Oxford school. But as I have waffled on for quite a while now, I must pull myself up short and resume these inconsequential musings another time.
By the way, I am writing this sitting on the train on my iBook and shall upload it later. The reason I mention that is that the particular word-processing software I am using is called Bean and it is the most useful I have come across, not least because right at the bottom of the screen is a word count which updates with every word I write. I have now, it tells me written 1,545 with this word, and I feel I should go on to see whether I can’t hit 2,000. However, I doubt that anything I write will be any more interesting — or rather any less dull — than what I have written so far, and the chances are that given that I would merely be padding out a piece of writing simply to hit 2,000 words, it might well be pretty boring stuff. And with that I have still only made 1,621, so I really shall call it a day.
PS As, as usual, I have gone through this a day later to iron out infelicities and spelling mistakes (despite knowing better, I still tend to write ‘to’ when I should be writing ‘too’) so the figures given of how many words I have written are wrong, though I doubt whether any reader has been bored enough to count the words just to check whether I am telling the truth.