Xmas 2012

Christmas, once again I made arrangements in advance for a quiet getaway again this year, last years attempt at that Swiss chalet didn't turn quite as planned when Mai Ling and Sandrine, the girls from that model agency in Milan turned up by surprise but it was great fun. This year I thought go for a complete change of scenery, a small beach residence in the Caymans, perhaps this I'll get a bit of time to myself to contemplate this special time of year. As you might expect thing didn't go according to plan again, went out diving yesterday for a few hours in the afternoon and got back to the cabin about four, who should I find there, you guessed it, honestly those crazy girls. Anyway, got a bit of hangover, the girls invited a party of Japanese tourists, high school girls from Osaka, over for a bit of bash, my first experience at Karaoke. It got really wild but it gave me a chance to learn some of the language, not exactly sure what Kimochi means but it seems you can have an entire conversation with just one word. The place is a bit of mess now but Sandrine and Mai Ling are busy tidying up as I'm writing this, the things Sandrine can do with a feather duster! In fact both the girls take their housework really seriously, you wouldn't think girls with such active modeling careers would bother such but they've brought their own maid's outfits and everything. Oh well, must dash Mai ling's asking for help with some thing, I'm not exactly sure where the cat is she's talking about, I haven't seen one here but I better get it sorted.

Merry Xmas

Cassandra 1.

1 Muzz

"Who is Cassandra Wheatfield?" This one was staying for breakfast, don't ask me why I brought her back to my place, Rule no.1 of The Casual Sexual Encounter Bible: Don't do it at home. It's a rule I've broken a few times and borne the regret for doing so more than once, She was too good a catch to pass up over concerns of the risk of provoking another stalker though. Well, too good a catch last night, considered in the dim light of our evening encounter and the urgings of my libido left unquenched by lengthy drought. She was doing the domestic thing, which was a source of surprise -- I haven't seen that for a while, I thought they'd had all that knocked out 'em. She started as soon she raised herself from her brief bought of slumber, folding my garments I hastily discarded the previous evening, well, she'd either folded them or I've acquired a laundry pixie over night because I found them neatly stacked on a chair when I awoke. I'd regarded the pile of folded garments with trepidation, it was a sign, a sight seemingly left deliberately to greet me as as I awoke, as explicit as a horse's head in its statement of intent. It was the ominous clatter from the kitchen that got me out of bed though.

"Bugger!" Sunday is the only day I bother with breakfast, it's my treat for the weekend, bacon, fried eggs, toast and marmalade if there's any bread left. My exclamation was uttered in concern that the previsions set aside for this weekly treat would be thoughtlessly denuded by my temporary companion. Hastily, I made a grab for the  pile of cloths as I got up but halted myself in favour of fresh ones from the wardrobe, though doing so it would take an extra minute or so to get the kitchen and ease my mounting concerns. I arrived there with a feigned nonchalant air even though I was still tucking my shirt as I did so. "Morning!"

"Oh hi" she smiled broadly as she spoke, briefly I recalled the labours of the previous
night, I'd had a good time too -- then, the light of day brought more prosaic considerations to the fore though. She was sitting at the table sipping black coffee from my mug and helping herself to the last of the bread that she'd toasted, rather too lightly for my taste, and lightly smeared with marmalade. I noted Saturday's mail and a second mug of coffee on the breakfast table as I sat opposite her, she had been a busy girl. That's when she posed her question, just as I was about to take my first sip.

"Cassandra Weatfield?" In all honesty, the name was lost on me within this incongruous context, so my puzzlement as I reiterated her question was genuine.

She handed me an envelope, "Looks official," she said, "has it been delivered by mistake, you think? By the way, there's bacon in the Fridge, I can fry some breakfast if you like?"

Oh dear, that's how it starts, I noted how she's said, some breakfast, not you breakfast, I resented the notion that she could share my hard earned bounty that this implied. I thought on me feet, "Er, yeah, I should throw that out I suppose, found the cat nibbling at it when I'd left it out the other day," I spoke as I examined the brown envelope. For a few moments I was confronted with a genuine mystery, then the light dawned, "Casandra Weatfiedl!" my exclamation was too loud and exited to go without comment by my guest even while she was apparently still reeling in disgust at my remark about the bacon.

"Someone who used to live here then?"

"Er -- no, it's nothing like that" I wiped the knife that lay on the table clean and made to open it.

"Should you do that?" she said with a note of reproach that had a ring familiarity about it that me want to shudder. Now I was really annoyed with her, she beginning to pester me, why the heck should I have to explain to her about Cassandra Wheatfield

"It's for me" I spoke as succinctly as I could and with the minimum explanation, given the constraints of the circumstance. I wanted to tell her to, get lost and mind her own business but I was wary of the peril of spawning post-coital regret.

"Do you have a cat then?" Oh dear, the cogs in my guest's mind where turning laboriously slowly as she now considered my lie about the bacon.

"It belongs to a neighbour," I said as I opened the envelope

"We used to have a cat..." my attention was fixed on the contents of the envelope but my guest's apparent unconcern for the possibility that I might want to read it undisturbed gave her licence to compete for my attention with her aimless recollections, "...Lucky, we called him, he was..."

"Dear Muzz Weatfield..." my inner monologue balked at the salutation, I couldn't recall the detail of Cassandra’s biography but I knew she'd addressed herself as a Miss.

"...he got sick after eating a bir..." she continued while my still sleep sodden eyes flickered over the wording of the letter.

"...Muzz Weatfield... your submission.. .rare insight... pointed commentary... successful... suitable for publication... arrange... at your soonest convenience..."

"...the vet said that she..."

"Yes!!" I shouted, my joyous exclamation prompted by my hasty scan of the contents of the letter was enough to halt my guest's compelling anecdote. Grateful for this cessation and anxious to expedite her departure, I decided it was time to exercise some discretion and ease some charm out of the tap. I used up a good smile on her while I placed the letter back in it's envelope and secured that within the relatively safe confines of my shirt breast pocket. "Oh right --- do you miss her?" I gleaned from the mention of the vet that her precious kitty was no longer with us.

"He!" she said "...it was a he" but my multitasking hadn't been up to the task of providing me with the unfortunate kitty's gender apparently. She greeted my smile with a knowing look, not the fatal look, the one say's you've been found out in your efforts to sneak under the radar. No, this one was the one tinged with suspicion but used to let you know you still have a chance at redeeming your efforts if you try hard enough. I wasn't in the mood for games though, neither did I have the time.

"I know, that's what I said: do you miss him" I lied starkly and batted her look back at her. The incident was trivial enough for her to accept my casual deceit so I took advantage of the opportunity and changed the subject hastily. "By the way, I've got a chance of some tickets to see John Cooper Clark, do you fancy coming?" I smiled as I equivocated glibly, I do have the opportunity of tickets to see Clark this evening but I've no intention of going or a taking her with me. [note: changed tense -- in this sentence] The look she giving me in reply to my query told me she had no Idea who I was talking about, "He's a poet, big a few a years ago, making a bit of a comeback," I prompted, still no light dawning so I tried a different tack, "if you don't like poets though..." that was enough.

"Oh I think I know who you mean, when..."

"Tonight" I Interrupted, "I'll have to pop out soon, pick up the threads from the cleaners."

"Are you dressing up for this?" she asked, "Will it be that kind of thing?"

"Dunno" I replied, "but I'm not turning up without a tie." I reached for my mobile, "Here, take my number and give us as a buzz about three ish, I'll let you let know what the situation with the tickets is." I said, making sure that she was fully aware of the provisional nature of our date. She took the phone in hand and didn't notice that it wasn't the one I was using last night. It was while she was manipulating the phone, something she accomplished quite deftly, I made my move regarding the issue of of her exit from my abode, "Call a cab while you're at it. Don't worry about the price of the tickets, it's my treat, we'll have time to get a meal before too, if you like."  I said, speculating that the prospect of future generosity would waylay any quibbling over the taxi fair. She obliged without protest and after some prompting from me on where to find the cab service number on the mobile she'd booked the cab.

Luckily the cab driver arrived promptly and within fifteen minutes she was out the house. I  walked her to the cab and and put on a faux show of affection for the diver, planting a kiss on her cheek as we parted, a perfectly executed exit I thought to myself, I couldn't help but let out a laugh as i made my way back indoors.

I should have known it couldn't last, things never go that smoothly without the terrier of bad fortune biting you back on the ankle, I'm just not that lucky.

Some truth -- some fiction

You know the novel you're trying to write? c'mon admit it, there isn't a blogger alive that's not writing a novel or written one or revising one or trying to get one published. So It'll be no surprise if I reveal that I'm also writing a novel -- sorry, trying to write a novel. Mine's on holiday at the moment, short of the minimum length by about a factor. Whether this pause in development becomes permanent is something I'm not too sure of. My enthusiasm for the project took a minor hit when I discovered my new and original story outline wasn't so new and original, in fact it turns out to be quite well trodden, oops, never mind, still worth a poke I thought. So maybe, I though I might change the format, make it an anthology, not a cobbled collection of old material mind you, a proper one with a central premise shared between the stories. So I calculated 7000 - 10,000 words for each segment that gives me about 5  or 6 stories for a train journey size work. While I'm going over my jottings and, making a few continuity notes, that kind of thing I come across a line that startled me, I'll quote it in fragment here:

"...he realized that whatever happened, from now on there would be a piece of his soul that always belonged to this girl who called herself Sandrine."

Phillipin-eck, Mills & Boon or what? Perhaps I should re-read, a little slower this time, I think to myself. Which I do and next I find:

"...she'd kindled the spark within him into a blaze..."

WHAT!!!! what the hell's going on here? That's not the end it, I find similar examples throughout. Somehow, I'm not quite sure exactly how, I find I've written a teen romance. That's not the end of it though, it gets worse -- it's unfinished see but by coincidence it ends at a natural break, where the cliffhanger would be. So I've finished reading and I'm wondering: what happens next? and with more than just a little anticipation. So I've written a romance story, read it, enjoyed it -- apparently and now I'm hungry for the next installment. I'm not feeling well, this is worse than the time I watched Cats. I've gotta buy some beer and go through a stack of Tarantino DVD's, I've got Rio Bravo around somewhere too. That'll be good, an evening, beer and the old time tough guys, Bogart, Tracey, Wayne, Gable. Yeah Clark Gable, fabulous actor, really great in Gone with the Wind, fantastic cinematography, outstanding wardrobe too, Vivian Leigh's dress, the one she's wearing on the stair, the green accessories looks so vivid in Technicol...


...AAAAAAAAAAAAAAArgh.

Inking examples

This is a response to Sharon Souter who mentioned she'd like to see some inking examples that I considered to be suitable for comic art. These are a couple of items from my portfolio that I think match that criteria. As you can see the line work is quite bold, bolder than is probably necessary with today's improved reprographics but I like the style that arose through the strictures imposed by reproduction methods, so i tend to stick with this kind of line weight, if i'm thinking comics. I think today, an artist has much more latitude if they want a finer line weight or they can even go into, fine halftone rather those coarse mechanical tints applied in the past.

These scans have been prepared for repo but it really would be more useful to Sharon to show some photos of the unprepared artwork too, so I may update this post when I can dig them out and snap them.

This one's been reduced to about 60% of the original, it was rendered in Indian on drafting film. The broad areas are applied with size a 3 brush, the finer lines with a size 0 that's had the kick on the tip removed by searing the point. Tipping the brush, gives a flatter, more constant line and eliminates flaming which is the tendency for strokes to end in a point. The downside being that you have less control for finer linework. One big advantage with applying ink with a brush is that it dries a lot faster than pen because less ink is applied, this is particularly true on hard surfaces and drafting film is 100% impermeable to ink.

This drawing is about 80% of original size on my monitor, it complements the other one nicely because it's executed in pen on drafting film. As you can see the character of the line work is much more vigorous, there's lots of scratching about, I don't like hatching, so much of my pen work tends to more spontaneous than the brush stuff, with less penciling in of where I'm going to but my strokes. As I mentioned, pen dries slower (a lot slower on drafting film) on all surfaces but the upside is that it needs less retouching, there's a more consistent film of ink applied.

On occasion portions of the work will need to be dried under a lamp before you can finish them. That's not such a bad thing in a working environment as you might think, there's always something to do while the ink is drying.

Comics -- a caveat for artists

As I mentioned in my last post, in my younger days I did put a toe in the water drawing comics on as an amateur. Most of my efforts were pretty abysmal  and unfit for any airing before being committed to the bin. I did however collaborate on a few occasions with aspiring writers and this was, I'm afraid, without fail, an exasperating experience. As you might imagine a certain degree of creative disagreement is always gonna arise with a collaborative project and for a few reasons this is especially true within an amateur context. One cause is that people are protective of their creative input, this plus the absence of a commercial imperative gives rise to unrealistic expectations and a lack discipline, I suppose what you could call an unprofessional attitude.

The major problem I encountered as an artist was inflexible scripts, writers would submit half a page of script repleat with all the trimmings, directions and descriptions and such like. The trouble was they had little appreciation of visual story telling, often these pages would have line after line of dialogue with nothing happening except the comic equivalent of noddy shots. So you'd have four pages of artwork dedicated to a conversation, between, two, in one room, great. You see what I mean by the absent commercial imperative? there's no way that could happen if you wanted to make money, you'd just run out paper and bore your customers rigid.

The other point, which is related, is that there's a problem when the guy doing the writing has no sense of economy, it's all very well describing a elaborate scene full of detail, it's something else to actually realize that scene on the page. So as an artist you could encounter huge demands on your skills with no input on how to realize a story more effectively visually, that's quite frustrating, especially when your collaborator is a bit naive.  In film and television where there a whole creative team, the producer actually has to find the money to make the script happen on screen, so there a check to counter excessive demands  in scripts.

That's it really, just a small warning to artists, who might encounter this post and are wanting to try their hand at a collaborative effort.

Drawing with ink, some tips

It's been a while but when I used to earn cash as an illustrator I preferred to used what even then was seen as as a traditional medium, that being, ink applied with a dip pen or brush. The reasons for this were practical really, It was the easiest way to get a consistent black for repo purposes and I'd spent a bit of time in my amateur comic days monkeying with different materials and I just didn't like the flat lines that newer types of inking implements gave. Now a lot of people who've tried inkwork are a little surprised at my choice, probably because they've struggled with pen and ink and got a bit frustrated, well I did too but once you've worked through the problems it turns out that they're not such a pain after all. The main thing is that you've got to be aware of the pitfalls, once accomplished this you'll find that even under the crush of tight deadline, ink applied with a pen or brush is very productive.

I'm a avid fan of good inkwork particularly when applied with a pen, I love the inky quality of illustrators like Ken Reid and his contemporaries and I'd like a see a resurgence of that kind of draftsmanship. So to enchourage this ends I've decided to document a few tips regarding this subject, I'm gonna cover four topics, pens, brushes, inks and surfaces.


Brushes
This one's pretty easy, you need a brush rather more slender and longer than you'd use to apply paint. The bad news is that brushes are expensive because they're made from sable, at least the ones suitable for inking are. The type of brush I used was the Windsor & Newton Series 3A Designers Sable, sizes 0 to 3. For god sake look after them, clean them immediately after you've used them, especially with indian ink. Don't let anyone else use them either, they'll ruin them. If you're working in a studio with other people, lock them away and then you won't suffer the problem I did when a particularly inconsiderate and arrogant colleague left an expensive brush ruined my in brush holder because she considered anything in the studio as communal property.

Pens
Gillott 404 pen with a William Mitchel No. 2 ink reservoir, the reservoir helps control the flow of ink as well as allowing you to load your pen with more ink. If the ink is getting a bit sticky, just open the reservoir up slightly. You can get a good variety of line with this pen, use it sideways for finer lines and normally for a thinker lines, you can apply a fair amount of pressure too to get broader lines, depending on the resilience of your surface. One thing you should be aware of when using pens, is that gravity is your friend so orientate your drawing board towards the flat and this should prevent any problems with ink flow.

Ink
I can recommend Winsor and Newton Indian Ink or Higgins Fountain Pen Ink too which is a non waterproof ink and can be easier to work with especially for a beginner. One problem with Indian ink is that is that it should really come with a sell by date because a lot of the stuff you get in the shops has been sitting around or years and its various constituents have settled out into two parts. A sticky goo that will gum up your pen and a anemic fluid that is quite translucent and useless for repo. You can buy huge bottles of W&N Indian and that's probably the best way to go, if you do, be sure to stop the bottle immediately you've decanted a quantity into a dip vessel, this will prevent evaporation which is a problem if you only buy small bottles of ink and you're working in the summer without  air conditioning. If you're indian ink is getting sticky, through evaporation, don't dilute it with tap water unless you're willing to throw the bottle away when you've finished your drawing. Indian that been diluted this way will solidify into a gel, usually overnight and will have to be thrown away. I have heard you can use de-ionised water to dilute it, this may be true, I don't know, I've never had to try it.

Surface
When I first took up inkwork the surface that was recommend to me was Frisk CS10, which was probably the cause of my initial problems, it's was awful, totally unsuitable for dip pen work, it had a toothed surface that was meant for mechanical Rotoring pens which does nothing but splatter ink everywhere with dip pens. You can use various grades of illustration board. Daler wash and line board takes ink quite nicely especially from a brush and it dries quite quickly, it's main disadvantage being that you can't apply too much pressure with a pen because it will tear up the surface. Anyone with professional experience would have told you that Letraset papers and boards where in class far superior to anything else that was produced, unfortunately they seem to have given up that part of their business, which is obvious of course, wouldn't that just have to happen? the best inking papers and boards disappear from the market, typical. Their 5000 line paper was a harder surface but it didn't take too long to dry either and you could erase small errors with a scalpel blade or sometimes a T20 eraser.

One surface that a lot of people don't consider is drafting film, drafting film is the hardest drawing surface and can take the most pressure from your pen. It's a polyester translucent material meant for use with mechanical pens again but the tooth is much finer and works well with dip pens. It's quite hard on pens though and will wear them out much quicker than other surfaces. It's main advantage is that you can trace straight off your pencil sketches and you can erase errors with relative ease with a T20 or, because it's plastic not paper, you can wipe whole drawings out with a suitable solvent for indian ink,  just water with water soluble inks. It's disadvantage is that, because it is totally impermeable, it takes an age to dry, especially with indian ink.

One point about all surfaces is that they need to be kept clean and the harder that surface the more important this becomes. When I say clean, what I mean is that they will acquire an oil film from your hands as you're working and this will be enough to cause the ink not take to the surface. To prevent this you can use a piece of paper to minimize skin contact with the surface but you will also probably need to clean the surface periodically with lighter fluid or a suitable studio solvent like Clean Art.

The Hard Road

"Nice performance" said Clive as James sat opposite him, James looked at him with a quizzical eye but did not speak while he acknowledged the fading applause. a few moments passed, the lights faded and the crowd's attention moved once again towards the dais at the end of the room.

"Performance!" James asked, feeling free to express his reproach now they were safely screened from close scrutiny.

"Sorry, was that a poor choice of words? I meant you were really impressive, held the crowds attention. I didn't mean to imply any insincerity."

"That's OK, it's just that I get so many snide remarks, it makes you a bit..." James paused and was grateful when Clive acknowledged his reluctance to explicitly voice any vulnerability to someone he barely knew with a silent nod. "Where're the others?" he asked, as he looked at the empty seats in the booth.

"Gone outside for a fag I think."

"Typical," he moaned with feigned exasperation.

"Look..." said Clive, James sat back in his seat, readying himself for yet another contemptuous opinion with weary resignation. Mindful of James's assumption and anxious not to cause offense Clive paused while he reconsidered his words, "I agree with you..." that's a good way to start he thought, "..,self determination, self will, freedom, personal responsibility, I like all those things."

"But it's all just Ayn Rand or The Life of Brian," James interjected, preempting what he thought was coming.

"No, I'm not saying that..." Clive paused again and took a swig of his dark coffee. He seemed to ponder for more than a few moments then spoke again, "There's a story I know..." he paused long enough to let James give roll his eyes and groan, "...once long ago there was man who lived in the desert, he was a kind of a hermit but not a recluse. He was a sort of visionary who lived in troubled times and the people considered him to be a prophet."

"That's a bit rich, an atheist raiding bible stories," James smiled sardonically as he goaded Clive.

"Who said I was an atheist? but yeah, well done for spotting John the Baptist." said Clive and shifted his attention back to drinking his coffee, seemingly giving up on his story telling.

A few moments passed before it was obvious to James that Clive wouldn't recommence his fable without prompting, "You gonna finish that story then?" he asked.

"I thought we were done? You're not really interested in what a nobody like me has to say are you?"

"I'll listen to what someone has to say before I decide they're a nobody," said James.

"OK then -- This guy, John, he had a lot to say about the times he lived in. He told the people that there was a better way, that they could live a better life and not have to live under the heel of fear or their masters. And the people liked what he had to say because that's how they'd lived till then and they wanted something different. Wanting something different isn't the same as making something different. You can point the way but travelling on the road is something else and that's what John couldn't do, It takes something more than he had. Then he met this guy, I think he was Mexican but he was ginger and had blue eyes. He'd traveled a great distance to learn form John and John taught him all he knew. When he left he decided to continue Johns work but instead of telling people, there was a better way, he said: 'I can take you to the better place, follow me there but there's a price. You will have to give up everything you own and sacrifice everything you are to reach it with me.'' That's how he changed the world, he knew that to reach your goal, you have to tread the hard road, and see your blood drain away in its gutters, there's no change without tears and sacrifice."

James's sardonic look returned, "Render unto Caesar...!".

"I said he changed the world, not that that he was right" James spoke just as the absentees returned and made their way to the booth. "I see a lot of people like John, someone new almost every week here, they're as common as the salt on this table. The other guy -- well they're as rare as Mexicans with blue eyes."

"Someone going to Mexico?" asked one of James's friend as they took their seats with them in the booth.

Naughty Boy Island

This isn't mine, it's something a friend wrote after a phone coversation, "I've got a fantastic idea for a children's book..." ah yes -- one of those conversations. "...wanna do the Illustrations?"

So I did a couple of scribbles and sent them to him after I received this, alas his creative font dried up after he got these few lines out of his system, which was a shame really, although I understand because he was under quite a bit of stress at the time. It's a shame because it was interesting project, something tangential to the norms of children's literature but like all such projects much more of it was committed to the aether than paper. No hope of picking up interest from a publisher of course but it might have prompted some creativity in the rejection notices.

One aspect that would cause consternation for publishers is kitty's predicament, in fact I think that would fatal as far as interest from that quarter, resulting in a swift transit of a manuscript to the bin. Of course I share those concerns but this issue highlights a interesting point for me, in that I think the obstacle represented by this aspect of the story is cultural specific. Not the animal abuse aspect, although I acknowledge that the UK along with most of the English speaking world, is more sensitive on such issues but the copycat concerns that it would prompt. You know, the same kind of thing that had people berating the producers of Batman in the sixties, although here I think such concerns are more likely to be reflected by reality than the faux perils represented by the moral panics that persist in relation to comic characters.

---

NAUGHTY BOY ISLAND

Maffew was a naughty boy. One of the naughtiest boys in town.

Sometimes he would put grapes down the loo.

“Maffew, stop putting those grapes down the loo!” his Mum would cry.

“No, shu’up!” said Maffew rudely, as he ran away.

Other times he would throw Kitty down the stairs.

“Catch!” shouted Maffew. But there was no-one there to catch his poor cat.

“Maffew, you mustn’t throw Kitty down the stairs,” his Mum said crossly.

“No, shu’ up!” said Maffew.

One day Maffew was in his garden and was pushing the lid down on a box where he had hidden Kitty.

An old lady was watching him over the garden wall.

“You mustn’t put your cat in a box like that, she said. “It doesn’t like it.”

“No shu’up!” cried Maffew, “I can do what I want!”

“We’ll see about that,” said the old lady and off she went. A short while later, over the din that Kitty was making, Maffew could hear the whirring blades of a helicopter.

It got closer and louder.

And closer and louder.

Until it was right above Maffew’s garden.

Suddenly a net dropped from underneath the helicopter and fell on top of Maffew.

“Hey!” he shouted “Hey, stop!”

The helicopter’s net scooped Maffew off the ground and lifted him into the air.

“Help!” he cried, “I can’t get out!”

But the helicopter pilot took no notice. The helicopter flew higher and higher. And higher and higher. And took Maffew further and further away.

Until they came to a place far away. A rock. In the middle of the sea.

The helicopter went down and down closer to the rock and then lowered Maffew in the net until it was almost touching the ground.

Then without warning the net opened and Maffew fell out onto the ground.

“OW!” he said.

The helicopter hovered above him for a moment and then it flew higher and higher. And further and further away.

“Come back!” shouted Maffew. But the helicopter didn’t come back. It just got further and further away until Maffew couldn’t see it or hear it any more.

“Who are you, big nose?” said a boy standing on a rock next to a tree.

“What’s it to you fatso?” said Maffew. “Where are we?”

“Don’t you know?” said the boy. “You’re on Naughty Boy Island”

---

I've no idea what should happen to, "Maffew" after he arrives the on the island, beyond maybe a few japes in the same mold as those that might appear between the pages of the Lion or Valiant. Maybe that's a bit mundane though, perhaps he deserves a more surreal treatment, just this side of James and the Giant Peach, I think.

The chaperon

There are a couple of notable paintings from the 15th century that usually spur a slightly quizzical or bemused response when they're first encountered. One of these would be Jan Van Eyke's Man in Red, considered to be a self portrait, the other, contemporary with that example, is attributed to Robert Campin. The cause of this puzzlement, usually expressed as: is he wearing a turban or why has he got a towel on his head?, is a quite extraordinary garment, the chaperon. The chaperon is of interest for a number of reasons, firstly it's an early example of a garment where we can examine it's appearance, construction and evolution, in reasonable detail and with some degree of assurance. The evolution of the garment is also of interest and throws valuable insight into the historical period in which it occurred. Then there's the period itself, the 15th century is, of course, a pivotal period in European history, marked both by, turmoil and strife but also by advancement, discovery and enlightenment in diverse fields of human endeavour. It's a period that is often thought of as the terminator between the medieval and modern eras, which is probably fair but occasionally slanders the earlier era. For instance there's a broad assumption about the prevalence of superstition that is consigned to the medieval period that doesn't really belong. The catastrophic abhorrence and follies of superstition, the witch burning, moral panic and strife actual belong more to this period, the 15th century, than the earlier period.

One of the major social changes that occurred in the 15th century is the emergence or advancement of a certain social class. There's a tendency today to assign social divisions solely by income and while it can useful to consider income, it's important not to ignore class culture and role within a social structure. You see, before this period, there's only one kind of person who enjoys the full privileges afforded by their social context, and that's the man with the army. That's right for the most part, status is extracted through the point of a sword, sure there's a degree of privilege and status conferred upon peripheral characters, the courtesans, the hangers on but that's appointed, gained through sufferance and strictly administered only to those who's faithful obeisance is assured.

So who're these newly influential people that form this emergent class, well I suppose they should be called middle class, although today that moniker is associated with an income bracket, the wealth and affluence of the people concerned here could often outstrip that of their ennobled contemporaries. They're merchants mostly, occasionally artisans but trade is the big winner in the 15th century, aided by the lifting of the economic burden imposed by the crusades. People like Giovanni Arnolfini, the Medicis, sure people like this were always around but now's the first time we start to learn about them, they're important, significant enough to appear in the art of the period.

So what's the significance of a piece of headgear, well something funny happens when the people getting rich don't go round threatening to slap you irons, cut your throat, rape your children, steal your livelihood and generally leave you destitute and broken if you don't cough up your taxes. When wealth is acquired through endeavour, rather than coerced through threat, those rich people tend to be, less, well, you know, psychopathic. That being the case, they have all social and emotional needs of their ordinary peers. They like nice food, art, social graces, cloths, ever notice the sartorial impoverishment of the notorious dictators, Mao, Stalin, Hitler,  their insistence of control over artistic expression or their constant expansion of those activities they categorize as vices? Most ordinary folk don't really care about those kind of things their preoccupations are more prosaic. They'll go along with the imposed social strictures either through convenience or a sense of responsibility but for the most part they just want a better mobile phone or if you're in the 15th century a fancier hat.

That's how the transformation of the chaperon came about, it started out as a utilitarian garment a short hooded cape, usually woollen, the kind thing you've seen in filmed depictions of the medieval period. Chaperon is the French term for such a garment, in English I believe it's just called a hood, chaperon being adopted from the French for it's later incarnations because there's not much evidence for them within an English context and it would seem incongruous to refer them as hoods at that stage of their evolution. This gives rise to a slight problem, in that when does a hood become a chaperon,  it's led some to adopt chaperon for both garments. The first stylistic enhancement to the hood was the tippet, this being the pointed summit of the hood, which is usually turned in on modern examples but was left external during medieval times. This was extended to become the liripipe, you've seen those too, a long extension of the summit that dangles, sometimes to the feet of the wearer. Of course having a this dangling around your feet could pose problems for practical use so people started to wrap this extension around their heads or necks. This in turn led to, you've guessed it, longer liripipes, that were intended to be worn solely in this manner. There were more stylistic enhancements, staggered hems, rosettes but the really big change came when some bright spark decided to put his hood on upside down. That is, place the hole intended fro their face atop their head with the rest of the garment either dangling dangling or wrapped decorously around the head instead of around the shoulders, the medieval equivalent of putting your baseball cap on backwards. It's been speculated that this occurred through practicality, you know the sort of thing, "Ooh it's hot I must put my hood on backwards so I feel cooler". Of course, no one really knows but I suspect, it was just some dick head who wanted to look special,"Ooh look at me I'm wearing my hood on backward, aren't I a trend setter".

By now we can say the hood has safely transformed into the chaperon and this when all the artifice and stylistic enhancements start to come thick and fast. Fine fabrics, vibrant dyes, patterns, variations in form and size of the brim,  It's no longer a utility, it's a personal expression of style and affluence, This is something the thug overlords of the previous era couldn't share, not because they're beyond expressions of affluence and power it's just that when style is dictated, it's bereft of variation and creative flair, creative flair is what marks the chaperon out as an item of interest. Yeah they'll spend fortunes on exotica beyond the pockets those beneath them, fancy armour, jewels, silk from the orient but investing in something as prosaic as a woollen hood would be incomprehensible.

The chaperon didn't last, it was far too flamboyant for the grim times ahead, by the 16th century it was deader than a duck under a steamroller. The affluence and influence of the trading classes diminished somewhat too, there's the been the occasional recovery, probably you could cite the late 18th to early 19th century and late 19th century to early 20th century as such periods but on the whole it's a process that continues to this day. To make that point I'll ask a question, how often do feel you're being treated fairly by the interests that exercise near monopolies, like the utilities, insurance and bankers. What's your thoughts on the government, do approve of the concept of policing the world, do you feel you're engaging in a free, mutually beneficial association or do you feel coerced, robbed and threatened? Interesting question isn't it? I wonder if Patrick McGoohan ever wore a chaperon, I doubt it, far too dour, it's a shame really it would have suited him.

Ignorance and want

First drawing I've done in a while, I've lost a bit confidence in my ability and shied away from it. I bit the bullet yesterday though and knocked out a sketch for a subject I've been meaning to tackle for a while. You never know I might get something finished for Christmas.

``Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask,'' said Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit's robe, ``but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw!'' ``It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it,'' was the Spirit's sorrowful reply. ``Look here.'' From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment. ``Oh, Man! look here. Look, look, down here!'' exclaimed the Ghost. They were a boy and girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread. Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude. ``Spirit! are they yours?'' Scrooge could say no more. ``They are Man's,'' said the Spirit, looking down upon them. ``And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it!'' cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. ``Slander those who tell it ye! Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse! And bide the end!'' ``Have they no refuge or resource?'' cried Scrooge. ``Are there no prisons?'' said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. ``Are there no workhouses?''

The Q -- the V (ammended draft 01)

---

About this: I know I mentioned that I don't approve of explanation, so forgive the inconsistency in attitude that this brief introduction represents. Writing this represented something of a personal revelation to me, which is good because it's garnered precious little appreciation from anyone else during its, I think, two prior airings. I don't really care to illuminate those revelations at the moment so I'll just mention that this story didn't end the way I'd intended. Yes it's a deliberate allegory, that's obvious I hope but from the reaction it's garnered I suspect my intention is more obtuse than is readily apparent. I have to admit that In my conceit I was rather pleased with this story and somewhat naively expected to instill instant recognition of the subject I was addressing. Alas no such recognition has been forthcoming, which was a disappointing but illuminating lesson to learn.

---

My CSA arrives today, well it's due today but I live in a Q status housing block, postage to Q addresses has least urgent priority so it's not certain it will arrive today. Still I've been listening impatiently for the postman since I had breakfast this morning. The scrambled eggs rest uneasily as the creeping tension torments my restless belly I feel like a cat is baiting a canary in there. I wonder about the others, the ones also waiting for the postman, the ones waiting to learn what road the rest of their lives will take. Q or V, for me it's a foregone conclusion all the males in my family are Qs yet I'm still here waiting, fist clenched, a sparrow clutching to twig in a gale. How must it be for those less certain, the marginals with an even chance of either a Q or V assignment? I know I'm a Q, it's in my blood, I walk, speak and think like a Q. Still I can't help wondering how it would be if my CSA had a V stamped all over it, I briefly visualize myself gliding down a vstat motorway express lane in my air conditioned vstat car on the way to my preferentially assigned vstat job. My idle fantasy is broken by a hand alighting gently on my shoulder, it's mother, “Here I've made you some tea” she says quietly, “Don't fret too much about it Mac, it's not the end of the world.” Her unguarded fatalism smarts like a knife in my side but I hide the torment with a forced smile.

Everyone gets their CSA, Culpability Status Assignment, on the September after their 19^th Birthday, it's supposed to be assigned after you attend a compulsory assessment tribunal. They're called tribunals but it's more of an exam, you see our education system primarily serves two purposes, asses your Culpability Status and inform students of the role of Culpability Status in our society. Indoctrination, that what my brother called the last part, he got his CSA three years ago today. It's not a day that my family remembers with any fondness and its legacy casts an uncomfortable shadow over today.

It's a day I remember well, David was reading as usual, some underground rag, not one on the forbidden list just one rated substantially incorrect and get a you a months mitigation credit cancelled if the authorities caught you in possession. His unconcerned demeanour had an unsettling effect on the family mood. Father hid his concern behind his weekend Truth Journal but he was already a third through his daily nicotine ration, the clicking of his inhaler the only sound to break the silence save the rustling of his and my brothers reading matter. The audible snap of the letter box did not stir David as his focus remained fixed on his rag. “David, I think its arrived,” Mother prompted gently.

David glanced at her with a feigned indifference but even my brother's reluctance couldn't stand up to my Mother's silent plea. He retrieved the manilla envelope from the doormat and walked unconcerned back into the room with it in his hand. Standing as he opened the letter, he read out a single syllable, “Q!” And that was end to it or so it seemed for a while, it wasn't till the afternoon when father's nicotine ration had expired and his withdrawal started to bite that the shouting started. I'd popped out to get some milk and stretch my legs, as I returned the I herd them rowing. “... I can look in the mirror dad, I know the colour of my eyes, how straight my teeth are, how many V’s do you see without a perfect smile? The Tribunal's a fraud, it's just dangling a carrot before a donkey.”

I saw father holding David's mitigation log “There are people who've done it, people who've applied them selves and followed best practice . You didn't even try, this, this is a disgrace” my father shook the log in David's face with his clenched fist.

“Best practice! What kind of aspiration is that? Here's a thought for you, ambition, initiative, hard work, how many have been assigned vstat on the back of those attributes? And how is it a disgrace to take their lies and spit the truth back at them, You're the disgrace, you know the truth, yet you eat up their lies as if it was bread and butter to you, you make me sick.”

“David” mother cried.

I could see the regret on my brothers face almost before he finished speaking but it was too late, the wound betrayed by my father's face could not be concealed, he placed David's log on the table and left the room when he returned with his coat and cap he spoke to mother, “I'm going out, I'm not sure what time I'll be back. Don't bother getting food for me, I'll get a sandwich in the pub.” Then he walked out of the front door which he closed behind him with incongruous care.

David broke the silence after father's departure “Mum I didn't mean it, I know he's putting our welfare before his pride”

“That's the kind of man he is,” mother replied.

“I know, it's just...” David slumped into a dinning char , his head tucked toward his chest “... it's just that sometimes a son, doesn't want to see his father that way, deferential, submissive. Sometimes a son would be willing to go hungry for a day or two just to see his father with some pride, not burning his flame in shaded lantern.” He sighed, then lifted his head sharply. staring beyond the walls of our flat he asked,“Why does he have to always wear that cap anyway, can't he just let the sunlight on his face for once?”

David, left home within a month, his work took him out of town. His official post was construction labourer but my brother had worked hard at a vocational out of hours school, that father had paid for. His engineering qualification saw that he'd never be swinging a pick but the blanks in his mitigation credit ensured that he'd be certain to be at the basic qstat employment rating. We see him when his work brings him to town or the occasional weekend. On his last visit the two of us went out for the evening, I don't leave the house much so my circle of friends is small but we visited one of David's old haunts where we met up with a few of his friends. There's no official segregation here and Qs and Vs do mix socially it's just that more often than not you find yourself socializing with your own kind, this place was like that. David and his friends where eager to catch up on each other's news so the conversation began with personal trivia, work, sex etcetera but after a while a more political tone arose. David's views it seemed were held in some esteem by his friends and although I admit my brother was articulate it was something of a revelation to witness them being treated seriously rather than the perfunctory dismissal they received at home. Before long there was a deeply earnest discussion taking place that I started to find rather tedious and repetitive, one of the crowd a man introduced as Jason seemed to be a particularly vociferous contributor. I was observing without any real interest when I notice the expression suddenly change on David's face, “You're a V!” he shouted at Jason,

Jason was taken aback at the ugly look of contempt and disgust on my brother's,face “I thought you knew.” The other members of the group fell silent for a moment, after eyeing Jason carefully it seemed obvious now that he was a V, his uniformly distressed attire the unblemished complexion should have made it obvious. Some of the group were trying to placate David, one of the girls seemed particularly perturbed by the turn of events.

Someone said, “Jason is a friend...” I didn't see who, maybe it was the girl. David stood abruptly and walked over to me.

“We're leaving,” he announced, then made his way toward the door without pausing. I followed like an obedient spaniel of course but not before looking back at the at group. They were all standing now, Jason the centre attention, except the girl who's eyes fixed upon David as he hurried towards the door. David left the following morning, he was gone before I got up, that was nine months ago.

I've retreated to my room, the sedate crawl of the hands of the clock has driven me from the living room, as I peer through the window at the lengthening September shadows in the street. I hear the rattle of the letter box. For the few seconds the gravity of the moment has me pinned, immobile I recall David's reluctance three years ago. I get up and move towards the door and open it with a creak, a sound which must echo like a flock of startled starling through our flat. I see my manilla envelope where it has fallen on the mat. As I retrieve it I'm overcome with the certainty that it's not mine and it's been delivered in error but as I check the address I can see that the postman rarely makes mistakes on this day, even to least urgent priority addresses. My parents are seated as I walk into the living room with my unopened envelope, I open it swiftly and read the contents to them.

No one laughs, no one cries, mother puts the kettle on and father gets up to put on his coat and cap. I go back to my room to look at the September shadows.

It's written on the wind

Alright I know this the second post in row with a music video but I promise I'm not gonna make a habit of poncing off other folk's Youtube efforts. It's just that I found this video again recently after a while of trying to find it. It's quite interesting, I suppose, from a music video perspective because it's a rare example of such, replete with symbolism and cinematic artifice, from an era when the art was though consist solely of the guys from the band playing on a rooftop.  I suppose you could carp on about the tin foil and wallpaper but for me the way it employs these cheap props enhances the appeal and a 405 line TV screen is very forgiving in that regard.

The song, Love is all around by the Troggs is probably better known for the cover performed by Wet Wet Wet, their version is a bit too teary and emotional for my taste, with that strangulated hernia sound so representative of that era. The Troggs themselves recorded three distinct arrangements of the song that I know of, this one is probably my favourite with its carefully measured vocal harmony. The Troggs are also famous or perhaps infamous for The Troggs Tapes, a recording of er -- colouful banter during a recording session. During the bickering, which sounds to me to be inspired by nicotine withdrawal, someone is heard exclaming, rather prophetically, something along the lines of: "We need to sprinkle some fairy dust on it and we could have a number one".

Another facet of this video that appeals to me is that The Troggs were my local band and although I can't be certain, I'm pretty sure that's the train I used to travel on many years ago. I always kept a watchful eye out but I never did bump into that girl.

Feeling stressed?

I'm not a really a fan of Ralph Bakshi or Duran Duran but I am a fan of Frank Frazetta. Bakshi's best work is a little known flick with a minor cult following called Wizards. Although Wizards is shamelessly plagiaristic, Vaughn Bode being the victim of Bakshi's aquisitive creative instinct in this instance, and a production that ran in to rather obvious funding issues, it does work rather well. Amongst the tell tales of the funding deficit are the frequent story board sequences and reprocessed live action footage segued, no sot seamlessly, into the edit.

Bakshi does deserve recognition for his perseverance though, he continued to produce animated features on a pittance and amongst these is an even lesser known flick called Fire and Ice. This time Backshi at least had the grace to hire Frank Frazetta, who's work inspired the film, for the production. This laudable shift in attitude doesn't really pay off though, the animation is rather blunt and stilted and only hints at Frazetta's sublime visual style.

There is however, a rather nice fan edit on Youtube, that I really like and it's probably got the best of the animation sequences from the film, The animators did seem to put extra effort depicting the alluring heroine of the plot, Princess Teegra, in all of her scantily attired, sumptuous, Frazettaesque - curvy glory, mmm why could that be I wonder?

Well here it is, so as the saying, ubiquitous in American eateries goes: enjoy!

Limerick

I bumped into this Limerick I'd forgotten about, while I was going through some old files a few weeks ago. I thought it was funny when I wrote it but the reception it garnered was -- er, cool. Since I rediscovered it I've tried it out on a friend who, not only got the context he seemed to rather appreciate it. So I thought it was worth a post.

We meet a young girl called Vespa
In bed, our hero did test her
Le Chiffre eyed his pair
said look, there’s this chair
let’s make bright rosso your testa

Encounter with a metrication pedant

About this: I lapsed into some fruity language here, so skip if it this one if you find that sort of thing distastful.

"Why have you specified the dimensions in imperial units?"

"Er -- no reason, that's just what I use."

"Eck!" he exhaled a glottal hiss then explicitly expressed his sense of disgust and self righteousness, "...why people like you persist in using archaic units, I'll never understand"

"What do you mean: 'archaic units'? If you've ever tried to buy bloody timber you wouldn't think they're archaic when you find you're three centimeters short cos they don't sell two meter lengths just some half wit bollocking metric conversion of six foot lengths that are three fucking centimeters too fucking short"

He rolled his eyes so far back in their sockets he could have inspected his optic nerve "Haven't you heard of SI units?" he spoke with all the pretense he could muster.

"What's the sum of the angles of a triangle?"

"Uh -- 180 degrees, they do still teach basic geometry you know."

"It's pi radians in SI units, arsehole, why are people like you so full of shit?"

Encounter with a policeman

"Can I ask why you're wearing such large boots?"

"It's a free country, you can ask what you like," I answered his question literally, there was a pause before the penny dropped, if it did drop, they're not that bright really.

"Why are you wearing such large boots?" he repeated his question.

"It's a free country," I said without a smile, "if you want, you can go around asking stupid questions, every one else is free to choose their footwear."

A day

My mood picked up just enough today for me to attempt some household tasks, I did the laundry and although i hung it out a bit late, it was quite a fine breezy day. So I decide to walk into town, on the way I pop into Billy's to get  a snack, there's a bit of a queue, some parents with their kids, you know the sort of thing. So the whole exercise takes a bit longer than it should and by the time I get out of the shop the I notice that, from out of nowhere, the sky has turned ominously cloudy, I decide it would be better to return to take down the washing, as I make my way back the weed blows more briskly and sky gets darker, 50 yds from home the sky opens up and all the shit starts to rain. I pull the laudry from the line as quickly as I can, destroying the pegs in the process -- it  rains harder, it took me about 20 seconds to pull the washing from the line during which it went from dampe to soaked.

I'm just so fed up with this shit.

The Patriot

You'd find it hard to imagine today but I used to be something of a patriot. When I recall the patriot I used to be I don't think of him as naive or blinkered by jingoism, far from it, in fact,I remember him as principled individual with respect for all culture. A funny thing happens when the foundation of secure nationhood rots away from beneath you feet though, you stop thinking of yourself as part of a collective entity, when that happens your individual well-being and ambition become your chief preoccupation. Ceasing to be a patriot must be a gradual process I suppose, in truth if I look back and examine events in detail I think that probably true for me but I chiefly cite one particular period for destroying the faith I had in my nation. That period being the Yugoslavian conflict and my nations concomitant role in that conflict.

One of the misconceptions about propaganda is that it's universally effective. This isn't true as I've tried to explain on several occasions, the latest being a comment to a YT video here, (look for knockoffnigei) only a minority ever fully buy into propaganda. That minority is usually some where below 20% of the general population, the weak-minded and easily lead, maybe that percentage will increase if the population is under unusual stress, desperation breeds weak minds but on whole most people can see though obvious rhetoric. The real strength of propaganda is exercised through its pervasiveness, if a doctrine can seed itself into the media and political life of a nation it has the effect of pacifying opposition, most people don't want to risk airing opinions that seem controversial. In extreme cases this is manifested as moral panic where opposition to a doctrine is suppressed through fear of being ostracised and the threat of concrete sanction.

Such was the case with the war in Yugoslavia, the case for war was almost universally promoted in the media, so much so that anyone examining the period through a historical perspective could be forgiven for assuming that the war received universal approval amongst the British public. This was not the case, whenever the subject was broached in conversation, which was infrequently, the majority of people would tentatively express grave trepidation and concern over the enterprise. Not only did they express opposition or scepticism about the case for war, there was a good deal of awareness of the issues and historical context of the conflict, the very same contextual material that was absent from the media at the time. Of course if anyone who supported the war overheard or was party to such a conversation, some sort of verbal confrontation was likely. Such a confrontation would likely be marked by an aggressive and vociferous attempt to shame dissenters into acquiescing. The weak minded are frequently emboldened by the assurance propaganda affords them, more often than not they're successful in muting opposition, the pacifying effect I mentioned earlier.

So the war continued apace and escalated way beyond anything foreseen by our foolish leaders, no act of hostility seemed beyond justification, the Chinese embassy bombing, the assassination attempt on TV journalists all dismissed with easy platitudes. That's when the patriot in me died, he couldn't take being the baddie, the guy in shiny boots and skull adorned cap. I don't think it was just me either, quite a few people left the country at the time, maybe some were so sick of the shame.

My days as a hypocrite

A few years ago someone I knew died. I went to the funeral service, saw his son his widow noted their grief, saw the unconvincing displays of those few over enthusiastic mourners that are present at most well attended funerals, puzzled at the unspoken animosity that saw his widow exclude his terminally ill mother from the chief mourners and delivered my softly spoken platitudes. I tried hard not to appear too sincere, I hated the man, not an unreasonable hatred either, he was totally despicable. His other 'son' -- adopted when he married his wife, delivered a genuinely tearful eulogy that would have moved me had it been for a worthy man, instead it made want to laugh. Today I think I would laugh, if I were to attend the funeral at all. My hypocrisy at the time was motivated by concerns that no longer apply, the person who's feelings I cared for died a year or so later.

I have occasionally encountered  his widow even though I avoid her, but I haven't done so for a while, I think the avoidance has become mutual. Which I'm glad about because, I don't have any affection for either her or her family. I don't like expressing my hatred to those it's directed at, I'm one of those people who're scrupulously polite to people they hate and quarrelsome with those they have affection for. I'm sure some would see that has hypocrisy too but I'm not attempting to deceive, it's just the way I deal with things. This way of expressing hostility does have implications for intimate relationships, women most often mistake a taciturn demeanour for gullibility. It's quite astonishing how, emboldened by this error, their deceit will descend to a level of credulity that would trouble a toddler, It's probably obvious by now that I'm single. Don't get me wrong there, I'm not a crazy misogynist who spurns women as perfidious harpies, I'm just realistic enough to understand that people lie -- quite a lot it seems and that, being male, intimate relations tend to centre around women. I think respect is more important for women where intimacy is concerned, if they think you're gullible respect is impossible and once it's gone there's no motive to temper deceit with any credibility. That's how relationships end, a spiral of mutual disdain, she despises me for my gullibility, I despise her as a hypocrite and liar.

My aversion to hypocricy probably stems from personal history, from an early age, people close to me have liberally exercised their deceit around me. I'm not blameless either, I acquiesced to their lies for my own personal convenience even though I justify it as concern for those I cared for. One regret I have is that I did not express my hatred for one individual more honestly, not with words mind you, with actions. I should have slit his throat while he sat eating supper at the table, now that would have been a good funeral but I think would have been unable to attend, being unavoidably detained elsewhere. Strangely my other chief regret concerns my reluctance to embrace hypocrisy rather than the regret of not expressing myself with honest vigour.

The conversation began innocuously enough even if the question was somewhat incongruous, "What's your religion?" Mina asked me.

"Roman Catholic," I replied, "what about you?"

"Muslim"

"What -- you're a terrorist?" I asked with a feigned ignorance, this was years before 9/11 so although it was still  mischievous it was not quite as fatal as would be today.

"No, we're not all the same," Mina's reply left me with my jaw on the floor, I half expected her to burst into tearful indignation. Instead she didn't bat an eye, just replied with the same tone she'd started the conversation, that impressed me. I continued to feign ignorance and Mina patiently proceeded to needlessly enlighten me. Something about the way she spoke and held my attention destroyed the irreverence I'd expressed earlier and I started to feel justifiably ashamed. That shame probably explains the diligence with which I answered her next questions, "Would you convert?"

"Er wha... er no, I don't think I would," If her first question had been incongruous then second was like a train crashing through the wall of building fifty miles from the nearest railway.

She acknowledged my answer with an impassive nod then asked, "Could you tell me why you wouldn't consider converting?"

At first I tried to use the historical reason, you know, the reason why they'd been killing each other across the water, which, to her credit, she seemed to have a good grasp of. She wasn't convinced though, neither was I, so I continued with the real reason. "Conviction," I said, "I don't believe in it, the bible, I think it's rubbish..." I tried my best to explain the significance of religion, how it's a badge for most people and while I'll submit to a label I was born with, I couldn't convert to anything because it would be the rankest hypocrisy.

"Yes, I understand," she nodded and the conversation ended.

I'm a bit thick I suppose and the significance of the conversation was lost on me, it wasn't until a friend who'd witnessed some of it came to me later and offered some clues to what had just gone on. Even then he was a bit vague so it didn't really sink in till some time later.

The worse kind of regret is the kind you feel for something you did or didn't do in the past but know that today, even with all the knowledge you've acquired since, you know you'd do the same thing. It's that way for me with Mina incident, she's the only girl I think of at night when I'm alone all these years later, yet I still wouldn't do the lie for her.

Atheism

As you might suspect of got a certain sympathy for atheistic thought although don't I count myself as an atheist. There's a question that's bothering me though, atheists, how the fuck they get so whiney? I saw a guy who made it clear that he considered himself oppressed for his lack of faith. I don't see it myself, it's as though atheism has become like one of those foreign countries, not intrinsically flawed it's just that you don't  want to go there because people inhabiting it are such arse-holes?

Football - the problem

You know when you take an unreasonable dislike to a public personality? Well it's that way with me with John Terry, it's a dislike that was founded for no particular rational reasons but stoked by apocrypha and rumour, circulated amongst football enthusiasts, surrounding his personal conduct off the pitch . So why does his persecution by the media, the law and the game's governing body bother me, after all I hate the guy. Well it comes down to principles, you know those things you have to defend even if doing so contradicts you own personal interests. There's no getting away from it really, if they can nail someone to the wall to make an example of them  then they can do the same to you. These affronts to civil liberty are invariably accompanied by calculated invocation of moral panic to quell any disquiet amongst reasonable people. Anyone daring to point out the irrational or unreasonable nature of the accusations gets immediately tarred with some label, you know: racist, paedo, communist, practitioner of witchcraft, same old story, same culprits.

Terry's predicament is similar in some ways to that of Glenn Hoddle, the unloved and deeply useless one-time England manager. Hoddle was ambushed by an unscrupulous journo who recycled material from Hoddle's known but relatively unpublicised barmy notions on reincarnation. The journalist claimed several damaging quotes regarding disabled people from an interview with Hoddle, ostensibly recorded shorthand, all mechanical recording devices being conveniently absent. Even though the journalist's claims were barely credible, especially amongst anyone with awareness of the habits of media professionals and robustly denied by Hoddle, the media circus embraced the story with a furious glee, lustfully relishing the opportunity to impale a personality on the rusty spike of Political Correctness. The comparison isn't perfect though because Terry actually is guilty of behaving unpleasantly, while Hoddle was more a victim of circumstance and perfidious journalism. It's just that behaving in an unpleasant manner is not a good reason to exercise your personal hatred or deluded sense of self righteousness by assaulting another person's personal liberty.

I've been to Salem, venue for the proverbial witch hunts and it's was interesting to see how the notoriety of that episode is celebrated locally more than vilified. I suppose revenue from the tourist trade might explain that but I can't help the niggling suspicion that as a culture we've regressed. The Salem trials quickly drew condemnation and horror at such hysteria and irrational behaviour. Of course we don't string people up by the neck, just ruin their careers and lives but no such moderating influences are to be witnessed in the contemporary equivalent of a witch hunt, not from folk of any influence at least, fear of having the finger of accusation pointed at you sees to that.

It's also interesting to compare Terry's treatment to that of Diane Abbott, I'm not sure I could say with any confidence from his outburst that Terry held any racist convictions. With Abbot's though, any reasonable person could safely assume her to be a committed racist but the difference in the manner in which they've been treated by authority contrasts as sharply as chalk on a blackboard. Which illustrates the principle that it's not what you say or do that counts, it's who you are and what status you hold. A beggar will be held to account for standing in plain sight a prince can get away with murder, is this where I mention Teddy Kennedy?

The Olympic games - the problem

I'm not that fond of the Olympics, I don't take my distaste for the games too far as I will watch some contests that hold interest for me. My problem with games revolves around two related issues and is mostly associated with athletics. The first is the way politics and prestige have both taken their toll on the game's integrity as a contest, one of the latest examples of which is the exclusion of the Greek triple jumper Voula Papachristou. See it's not enough to be excellent, you have to submit, to what? well that's irrelevant really, it's just whichever doctrine the bureaucrats foist on you at the time and no half hearted acquiescence will do either, you have to signal your endorsement with enthusiasm. Historically this was more of a problem associated with the recognised totalitarian regimes, you know the ones, the various flavours of Germany, the Soviets, et cetera. Then there's the numerous boycotts organised under various causes, you're racist, you've invaded Afganistan, you don't put vinegar on your chips.  All these are sponsored by state governments, which incidentally the various national Olympic committees are supposed to autonomous from according the Olympic charter.

The second reason is the nature of athletic contests, they're called The Olympic Games for a reason, they were conceived at a time when sport was supposed to fun. In fact the very monica sport has only been applied this to kind of activity recently to add gravity, previously it had been reserved for hunting, shooting and fishing. The problem with athletics is they're raw, the rules are perfunctory: wait for the gun, don't trip anyone up, run fast, that's about it really. So all things being equal, the guy who wins is going to be the naturally gifted athlete who's lucky on the day. All well and good when it's a game, just some fun enjoyed by amateurs but it's not a game anymore is it? It's about prestige and power conducted through proxies who've spent their lives dedicated to the goal of winning, who've had their bodies enhanced through rigorous diets, drugs and medical procedure. These people, at least the successful ones, rarely have a life outside their athletic ambitions. Sure they select suitable raw material to feed the sausage machine but these days winners are made not born. And this is where the points are related, winning has become too important to be left to natural talent, you have to have the right winner, the right look, the right complexion, the right views.

It's not absolute of course, talent will win through against the greatest challenge to frustrate people who'd have it all their own way. It's just that you don't find many such examples in the Olympics, there're not many real people's champions like: Alex Higgins, John McEnroe, George Best. The best example of an Olympian who was a people's champion, that I can think of, was Eddie the Eagle and what did they do? they changed the rules to exclude him.

Politics part 1 -- The me manifesto

I find it difficult to segue my political views into the conventional left/right spectrum and I've got serous reservations about the usefulness of that paradigm. It's obvious to me that the labels left and right are applied relatively and are dependant upon the context within which people express their political views and I don't see that view is seriously contestable. Yes I know that a lot of folk align themselves with collective entities, usually political institutions that seek to identify themselves as either left or right but that's by no means the majority and those who do, seem to me to be motivated more by a desire to seek out collective assurance than by personal conviction. Which is  why the most ardent and vociferous of political proponents tend to be young and naive, that's where the failings of older and smarter people, you know the ones who should know better are most apparent. I can forgive youngsters for being naive, I'm not so charitable with the dried up cynics who deceive them and exploit their youthful exuberance.

I hesitate to describe myself as a libertarian, not because I'm  shying away from the now greatly diminished stigma that is attached to that label but I do see a certain necessity in the collective principle. It's quite a limited necessity in my view though, I usually express it by referencing Pharaoh's dream. Yes that's right, I'm citing The Old Testament, the part where Joseph deciphers a dream about the seven fat and seven thin cows and interprets it as a portent of famine, as a result a policy of grain storage is implemented. Of course you can't store grain unless you overproduce it and luckily for us in the developed world, most of our leaders have retained some inkling of that wisdom seeing the necessity of deferring the commercial imperatives of the market place within the context of agriculture. Which is why we don't have a famine every decade, unfortunately without adequate restraint and discipline such an arrangement is open to abuse and corruption, which is why we suffer the appalling insanity of The Common Agricultural Policy.

So I'm not left or right or libertarian, what else aren't I or can I describe my political views in positive terms? How about Nazi or Fascist, well I do occasionally fantasize about sending certain folk a on one way trip to Lower Silesia, accompanied by their families and loved ones. I picture myself waving a hanky at them as the cattle trucks pull out of the railway siding: "Goodbye Mr. Cameron, goodbye Tony Blair, Gordon Brown, Piers Morgan, Jeremy Kyle. Ta ta Germaine enjoy the view, you should find a bucket in the corner if nature calls." As a general rule though I can't take those labels seriously and if I'm participating in a discussion where they're used outside their historical context I usually leave the room. I say usually because those terms although hackneyed are not totally redundant, for instance it can be useful to draw comparisons between the post 97 Super-Consumer era and the cronyistic policies of Italian fascism but such comparisons pass somewhat stratospherically over the heads of most who use those terms. So think of me of a kind of secular nihilist, if you've got a political doctrine -- I don't believe it. Doctrine is the product of collective reasoning, the  political entities resulting from such are organs of aggregated self interest which inspire that very reasoning, a nauseating merry-go-round of convenient self justification. Is this where I mention Feminism and Political Correctness?

Comming soon in: Politics part 2 Submission to collective will and how it relates to personal responsibility

Titus Morry

Titus Morry dug this hole

Better money than the dole

He lived his life as a mole

Just another greasy prole

Worked so hard keep to his wife

Never thought of his own life

Married to perpetual strife

Till he took that serrated knife

The final row in the kitchen

Here's a tool to stop that bitchin

Another hole lined with lichen

Wonder when she'll stop that twitchin

Tried to take the kids away

Found a way to make her pay

She'll never see another day

Whatever will the neighbours say?

Now's the time to call Police

Equivocate like Myrlin Rees

Wonders -- should I call my niece?

Who knew murder could be such bliss?

Oh dear that's a nasty Rhyme

Never could spare that much time

For a poem too sublime

Please forgive this heinous crime

Titus Morry lies so deftly

Life's so hard since she left me

I just thank god for young Daphne

Eyes his niece with breasts so hefty

The Stunt Poem

Warning this post uses language that may be offensive to some

My encounters with notoriety are brief and tenuous amongst them I number the promulgation of the phrase, spitting feathers, in relation to a fit of ineffectual anger another is the authorship of what I call, The Stunt Poem. Both these cause me a certain amount of amusement when I encounter them. it's something of a surprise to me that, spitting feathers, has worked it's way into respectable parlance seeing as the imagery evoked seems rather obvious. It was coined in reference to a senior colleague prone to panic and scapegoating those around him and it references an implied homosexual relationship with a junior staff member, feathers -- spitting -- geddit now? The Stunt Poem arouses amusement for a more subtle reason, I can't help recall the reaction of the first woman I recited it to. First lets show the original text of the poem then I'll explain:

Oh what a jolly stunt
to lick around your girlfriend's cunt
if you make her moan and cry
she'll suck your knob if she's not shy

Her response causes amusement because it was so naive and illustrated the enormous disparity between our perceptual models of the world. She said something along the lines of, "Using vulgar languages isn't funny, it would be better if you substituted a different rhyme." Er yes, I'm a Benny Hill fan too but that's not quite the effect I was looking for.

Incidentally a guy called Terry, who was vociferous lefty, piped up with another amusing response, he complained it, "Didn't scan!" amongst other pretentious claims.

"Oh really" I responded, "Terry, what does that mean exactly? You know --'scan' what does that mean when someone  says a poem doesn't scan." He went a red colour and tried to bullshit his way out of that one as was his habit when he found himself out of his depth --which was a frequently.

God

I've been ponerding the nature of the divine lately, specifically god's unique sense of humour. After careful consideration I've come to the conclusion that he's  most likely German. "Nickee tell me another poopee joke, look look this is so funny I'm farting... listen -- doesn't it make you laugh ja?"

Harry gingerly pressed the switch on the strange wand, it began to buzz eerily...

Just heard that the author JK Rowling is working on her first work intended for adults, the news caught my eye with the incongruous headline:

"Rowling to pen first adult novel"

Enough to inspire a raised eyebrow, someone at the BBC was awake enough to alter it later to:

"JK Rowling to pen first novel for adults"

Those morning copy deadlines are tough for journos still wiping the sleepy dust from their eyes aren't they?

Several years ago I listened to a radio interview of a guy who claimed to have reviewed her original submisson. He claimed that he knew that after reading the first page that he was on to a winner. This inspired me to check the page out while browsing in a bookshop, I admit I never finished the page. I think was half way through the second paragraph when I had to stop for fear of bursting into hysterical laughter in public. Ever since then I've struggled to get my head round the Rowling/Potter phenomenon.

Wrong side of the curtain

If your old enough you'll recall the days when British people used to regard the lot of those unfortunate enough to dwell outside these shores with more than a small degree of pity. Sure we weren't the wealthiest, most powerful of even the most content nation on earth but there was a certain degree of satisfaction to drawn from the knowledge that we were the least barmy and that, for the most part, enjoyed an unparallelled degree of personal liberty.

I recall many occasions from my adolescence when I'd witness news from abroad. Things like, civil unrest in the US, the antics of paramilitaries in France, food shortages in the Soviet Union or just the general petty injustices that foreigners seemed to endure, firm in my assurance that these things couldn't happen here.

Yes, that was a long time ago and in truth perhaps a rather a too rose tinted view of the past. But times have changes because, back then, we didn't put people away for saying the wrong thing or throw them out of work for their politics or impose summery fines or arbitrarily persecute motorists to raise revenue.

So when did the apple turn into a pear? Wish I could pin it down, things started to go wrong in 68 with the Irish thing but that was localised and had little impact on daily life in the rest of the country. How about The Common Market? as it was then called, well that certainly opened British culture up to the European method of non-de jure enforcement that we see in things like the way Customs an Excise enforce alcohol and tobacco limits, even though there aren't supposed to be any. In truth though, I don't think it's possible to pin it down to a particular event, it's more a case of the simmering frog. A liberty here an injustice there, chipped away in gradual process that we barely noticed. One thing I do know though, it's only going to get worse and no better.

It's not all bad though, remember those foreigners that we used to view with such pity? Yeah I know the US and Europe are in suicide mode but further afield things look more promising. The successor state to the Soviet Union, Russia, has been called The New America, the population already enjoys a greater degree of civil liberty than we do, now there's a sobering thought. China is the major prospect though the population is still relatively impoverished, largely because western economies are in dept to them for so much.

Personally I've given up trying to counter the ubiquitous disinformation and moral panics spawned by my culture's decline. Much better to just go with the flow and make best of it then perhaps I'll be able to retire abroad.

Ongo Bongo Island part 2

Draft of part two of a children's story, for part one of an unrevised draft go here:

The Ongo Bongos were very frightened by the news of the storm coming and hid in their huts.. The storm blew very hard, much harder than any storm any Ongo Bongo could remember. Some of them hid under their beds and some hid under their tables. Some hid under chairs and some hid in cupboards. The storm lasted all night but as the sun came up in the morning the storm went away. When the Ongo Bogons went of their huts they found that the storm had caused a lot of damage. Some huts had their windows broken and some had their roofs broken. Some of the huts had been blown away all together and all that was left was some very frightened Ongo Bongos sitting in a pile of broken wood.

Illustration – devastation people looking sad

Clive had built a very sturdy hut and it wasn’t damaged too badly so after he tidied up he decided to go to Ongo Bongo Bay and see if he could catch some fish. He found his boat where he had left and he was about to take the stones out of it when he saw something very strange.

Clive looked at the the shore where the bay should be and saw it wasn’t there. It had completely disappeared and In its place was a big pile of sand. “Oh dear” cried Clive, “the storm has blown all the sand here and now Ongo Bongo bay has disappeared.”

Illustration – Clive looking at a big pile of sand where bay should be

Clive went back to his hut and he their he met the Baker who’s name was Sarah. Clive told her what he had seen, Sarah gasped, “Ongo Bongo!” with great surprise and held her hands up to her face. When people around heard they looked at her to see why someone should shout “Ongo Bongo” in such a way.

Clive told the other people what they had seen and very soon a large crowd of people could be heard crying out “Ongo Bongo” and the news spread that something very strange had happened during the storm, even if most people weren’t quite sure what it was.

It wasn’t long before the Mayor arrived at Clive’s hut looking very concerned, when he saw the people talking to Clive he went over to him and said, “Ongo Bongo” in a very important way. Clive told the Mayor what had happened, “Ongo Bongo,” said the mayor as if he could believe his ears.

Illustration – Mayor, Clive, Baker, Crowd

“This is very Ongo Bongo” said the mayor “we must find the professor and Ongo Bongo him what he thinks we should Ongo Bongo about Ongo Bongo.”

When the the crowd that had gathered heard this they were not sure what the mayor was saying but they though finding the professor would be a good idea so they all nodded their heads and said “Ongo Bono”.

They mayor, Clive the fisherman, Sarah the baker and the crowd all went to the professors house. When they got there they found that his house was very badly damaged. It was completely destroyed. They found the professor sitting in the rubble, he looked very sad and distressed. What happened?” he said, “someone Ongo Bongoed that I should Ongo Bongo because of an Ongo Bongo.”

Clive and some other people helped the professor up and Clive told him about the storm. “There was an Ongo Bongo?” asked the professor, “that Ongo Bongoes why it was so windy”.

The mayor tried to tell the professor about Bay disappearing but although he said, “Ongo Bongo” as importantly and seriously as he could, the professor could not understand him. So Clive told the professor what had happened. 

 

At first the professor did not believe Clive and asked to be taken to Ongo Bongo Bay to see for himself. So all the people gathered followed Clive to the shore to see for themselves. When they got there they saw the huge pile of sand where the bay should. The professor shook his head in a very wise way, “This is very Ongo Bongo” he said, “I’ve been Ongo Bongoing something like this for Ongo Bongo time, I’m afraid this is something called – Island Shrinking.”

Illustration Crowd Professor center looking sagacious or professor in broken house