April 2015 - Hosts of Golden Daffodils

My last letter got a mixed reaction, for which I was grateful; all of it. Thanks for your comments. Some dismissed it as a rant although I intended it as more than that. It was meant as observations on life. And yet the criticisms were valid in that it was too serious. It should have been lighter.

I was disappointed at the lack of comments on the accuracy or otherwise of the points made. A few responded and I was heartened by those who looked beneath the surface of the words. Some thought it was insightful, expressing views shared by many but which they’re slow to air in public. Some didn’t agree with my view not to vote but couldn’t disagree that you can’t trust politicians. So the question remains, why vote for people we don’t trust? With one friend, we tried to name trustworthy MPs and came up with two; one of whom is dead.

Another view was that ‘It’s good to share opinions’; indeed it is. I value views I hadn’t considered when I hear opinions that don’t accord with mine. I welcome them. We all have opinions although many are unwilling to feel the wash of dragon breath that results from expressing a view that exposes the herd mentality and commonplace acceptance of the paradigms given to us by political and religious leaders. In other words, the great majority like being told what to think and do.

Individuality is applauded and thereby claimed – until you’re asked to stand up and be counted. Then there is a rush for the shadows.

If any of my views offended – that’s life. It’s my hippy nature to prefer revolution to evolution. Yes, I lean towards the villainous Ché Guevara rather than that sweet and cuddly Roy Wood of Wizard. Should my words offended enough, you can always ask to be taken off the 'Letters' Dist List. These letters are not compulsory and it is inevitable that from time to time I’ll express observations in terms that unsettle. You choose. I try to make them light if the topic permits but life brings all sorts of experiences – some warrant closer examination that might in turn not fare well in the spotlight. We get what we get.

Following that letter, I developed those views on voting and the democracy into a 1200 word essay that went to the Times, the Telegraph, Private Eye, the Electoral Reform Society and three departments of the BBC – after a draft was tried out on the more politically-minded of my Dist Lists. And there it rests. I got my frustrations off my chest and was for the most part ignored; situation normal.

An unexpected benefit was that I got introduced to a new author – José Saramago. Amongst his writings are a couple of novels that represent the concept of a electorally-disenchanted public where their disinterest manifests (in metaphor) as blindness. Instead of apathy, as disenchantment  grows, blindness spreads in its place. If that were to happen, what would the effect be on everyday life and how would that society survive? Still reading the story so can’t tell you if the butler did it.

 A friend sent me an email with a YouTube link https://youtu.be/egX9N8yOgaU to ‘Goodnight Sweetheart’ by The Spaniels. Schoolmates may remember this from the 50s. A captivating a cappella version is available at  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1VSBJHH2-Y.  From this link, you’ll find other a cappella songs if you enjoy this style.

That got me thinking about a song called “I Bid You Goodnight” - one of my favourite numbers - by Aaron Neville. At https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=81vWrOAE1vA  you will hear this song which is destined to feature at my funeral when the curtains close behind me as I go down the chute. Sorry to drift into such a morbid arena but I would like to choose the music at my funeral. You’ll be arriving to several versions of Nivram by Hank Marvin with various of his friends. Make yourself comfortable, I have at least four versions and find it difficult to choose between them so you may get them all. Depends on how many turn up and how long it takes to get you seated. That’s the start and Aaron Neville will sing ‘I Bid You Goodnight’ at the end. Just need one or two for the middle to illustrate my attitude to life. You know me well - any suggestions?

I’ve been taking a lot of photos of everyday things; work in the garden, ducks on the golf course, the golf course itself, and the weather. This is a composite landscape of four photos – a view of the first fairway to the car park - from the putting green, when dark clouds came over as I was practicing. Two minutes later the Heavens opened but I was in the car – happy ending.

 

The arrival of kinder weather masquerading as Spring brought a growth spurt. Trees and bushes expressed their joy by growing like Triffids chugging Baby Bio. Frankly, Nature is shameless when it’s in a good mood, causing a bit of a nuisance. Luckily, the electric hedge trimmer is a powerful ally and I became Edward Scissorhands. It’s been a while since I’ve been compared to Johnny Depp.

My old and dear friend Lynn doesn’t like me climbing ladders at my age. Having known me for 45 years, she thinks, rather unkindly I feel, that I'm an old man, Consequently, I mention it now that it’s over and I haven’t broken anything. This was the two trees before I lopped the tops and then the ‘after’ condition, plus the debris. Twelve sacks went to the tip and there’s plenty still laying around for my collection of bugs to nest in.

 

 The ever-informative, all-knowing radio wisdom that is Gardeners’ World advises that there should be no bare ground in your garden. Apparently, you should shred twigs and leaves and use that pre-compost to cover bare areas. Some favour bark chippings but garden waste is recommended. That way you (a) feed the garden via the Circle of Life and (b) create small bug communities.

The birds have wised up to this leaving it a while for the communities to get established with lots of tiny creatures scurrying around, and then come in for raids of fresh food; a sort of Tesco Live.

It was a nice day. There I was, 20’ up a ladder, happily lopping off branches with the secateurs, concentrating on not including fingers in the harvest, a light breeze playing around my face bringing a degree of comfort in the sunshine, until the breeze decided it wanted to try its hand at being a grown up wind. In this endeavour it was moderately successful and after a while rather than give up and go in for a cup of tea, it seemed a good idea (?) to carry on - clinging to the tree with one hand while trying to hack at it with the secateurs in the other. Ironic eh? Biting the hand that feeds you - but the red-leaved tree was kind and supported me generously and gamely till I had finished, despite my decimation of its upper new growth which was adopting S Club 7's advice to 'Reach for the Stars' and making a pretty good fist of it.

The green-leaved tree being of softer wood, was another matter entirely. Cunningly, it took the aluminium ladder’s weight deceptively, giving no indication that me on the ladder as well would be too much for it. Waiting till I was about 6’ off the ground, the branch against which the ladder was resting, snapped without warning and fell into the tree causing the ladder to drop about 4’. Being the graceful athlete that you know me to be, I jumped off landing safely – ankles together, knees slightly bent, arms extended in the classic dismount favoured by Olympic gymnasts. You could almost hear the drum roll plus “Tah Dah!” Nothing broken, happy ending again.

For Lynn and any others who worry about these garden antics, let’s keep it in perspective - I fell 4’ while still on the ladder - and jumped all of two feet. I suppose a tuck and roll might have got me extra marks but it all happened too fast.

There hasn’t been much watching of TV since the last letter. Life has brimmed with nothing of consequence. This seems to be how I pass most days. Each day flies by filled with the unremarkable  – and yet there is no tedium, just entertainment and fascination everywhere. Since the last letter, the daffs have budded, blossomed and died. Below, are scenes that I pass every day. Fields were awash with daffs in March and April then Rape seed in April and May. 



The pond on the 13th.

Donovan sang in celebration of Mellow Yellow. This is the colour of Lincs in March and April. Our roadsides are lined with daffs. Many more photos to follow next year, celebrating String's Fields of Gold.

 

 

 

Camera Club wants to attract new members. As part of the push to publicise our work, I asked the golf club management if they would have some of our photos on the walls of the restaurant and clubhouse. In that discussion, Chris, the senior pro, asked if I would take some photos of the course. Here are a couple. This is a view from the patio. The other is a 200 yard Par 3.

 

Well, there is it. Lots of nothing much. This is my life. And yet, in amongst all of this quiet solitude there is company, affection and occasionally, intrigue. Friends here and in Essex get in touch now and then by email and phone. I return to the Mothership that is Basildon every few months for a week of lunches and dinners and many of you kindly make yourselves available for yet another reunion.

Separately, in my daily life, the News is awash with sex scandals involving clergy that are not just the Catholics, Cancer cures, MPs still promising Jam Tomorrow and only just beginning to realise that they are universally disliked and mistrusted, and now FIFA wants a bit of the spotlight. We are spoiled for entertainment. “In my humble opinion, Claude, Life is too serious a business to be taken seriously.” – Rumpole of the Bailey.

I hope I have made this easier reading than the last letter. It is not hard to find the humour in most situations. But you have to go in with that attitude.

Let’s close with something from the news. Although I don’t watch too much TV now due to bounteous other distractions, I still like to watch a lot of BBC News which includes The Film Review with Mark Kermode where he tells you about the latest releases.

This week, he recommended a new film called ‘Tomorrowland – A World Beyond’, where a teenage girl finds a button that, when she touches it, transports her to an alternative universe. Intriguing, eh? I suspect many of you will be rushing to get the DVD.

March 2015 - Collective Nouns

It’s been a while since I last wrote so you cannot be surprised that plenty has happened to fill my life and prompt the usual tide of thoughts about the wonder that is our world. For instance Collective Nouns – what Mad Hatter invented that? There is no rhyme nor reason to a Murder of Crows, a Parliament of Owls, a Clutter of Starlings or a Congress of Baboons. Well - OK, this last one has legs if you think of MPs - but the others don’t give any a clue as to the subject.

Modern day Collective Nouns are more graphic, provoking imagery that relates to the principal matter. With a Billow of Smokers and a Pomposity of Professor – a picture forms, but the older, more conventional ones are perplexing beyond the telling.

Anyone fancy a small contest? You’ll win a virtual certificate – a Brenny to applaud your imagination and wit. I know you’re already intrigued. Come up with a collective noun for MPs, Managers, Men and Women - where the ‘collective’ part allows you to visualise the group. The LOL ones will be declared winners. No bad language please.

My entries are: a Kindergarten of Managers, a Corruption of MPs, a Waist of Men, a Trouser of Women. When was the last time you saw a woman in a dress? This used to happen. I have photos.

It seems that Samsung’s new smart TVs spy on you, as do your phones and tablets. They listen to your utterances and record them on a remote server so that a Big Brother-style organisation can know what you’re up to. Why is anyone surprised? We live in a digital age.

Two points, (i) when data can be recorded in a series of ones and zeros, how difficult is it to access? Yes it can be encrypted but this is a comfort only to those ignorant of computers and hackers. As the news shows every day, encryptions are broken as fast as they are developed. Nothing is safe.

Before PCs, in the early-80s, we learned as Internal Auditors in Ford that where there is a system to protect something there will be three groups that can defeat that protection. The people who are authorised to use it can make mistakes or just misuse it. Secondly, there are the people who want to beat it for personal gain. And lastly, the people who want to beat it just to show how clever they are. It is constant Ping Pong between Dastardly and Muttley.

Apparently these devices listen in on you because… The Samsung TVs obey voice commands and therefore recognise what you say. Isn’t that a great new toy? Offering an even lazier way of changing channels (because using the remote is such a hardship). But - this means that they are always listening. The interesting part is that when you buy such a TV (or a phone or a tablet) that uses voice commands, you sign up to the idea that any data being collected in the use of the product is passed onto third parties to provide the services of which you are taking advantage. They then can do what they want with it.

That is offensive enough but also consider: (i) it is still listening (recording) when you are not talking to it but when you are talking to your friends or family (or lover), and (ii) if you’ve switched that feature off, it can switch itself on. It doesn’t need your permission to listen. So for all of you who love your new toys, be aware that your privacy is – oh what’s the word…? Non-existent.

This is not new though. We had phone-tapping soon after phones were invented. And today, as the papers report on a slow news day when they want to scare us, GCHQ monitor our every word. Who cares? Industrial espionage, CCTV everywhere, phone-taps, email accounts and voice mail accounts being hacked by journalists - this is life today and has been for a long while.

Had a fabulous day yesterday; I sorted out two boxes of cables. The ladies amongst you will know that your men will have such collections. We don’t like to bother you with these technical hoards of what to the untrained eye may seem like toot, but it’s important we keep them in case one is ever needed. While I agree, this has never actually happened, it might. Our loins must be girded against all eventualities. Life brings enough regret without encouragement through the casual discarding of seemingly-unnecessary obsolete cables.

While it would be ungracious to invoke the label - ‘Hoarder’, I declare two such boxes of these cornerstones of home maintenance. I admit it took some time to remember what some of the cables were for and three had to be ditched when I realised I no longer had the equipment that they fitted. For the most part though, the remainder are now filed in two key repositories entitled “Current Cables” and “Spare Cables”. It was a satisfying day to bring order to the world and contain it in two clearly-labelled boxes.

There are also a few spreadsheets listing where things are held, called inspirationally – “Where It Is” or some variation of this idea. As well as CDs and books, these spreadsheets list infrequently-used objects from everyday life such as my ‘Camera to PC’ cables and occasionally used items like the satnav, binoculars, wrapping paper, software, instruction manuals, that sort of thing. Then you have the tedious filing that is essential to home admin: bank and insurance docs, details of Royal Horticultural Society membership, National Trust, English Heritage, and so on.

Lastly, Mum’s things (Mumorabilia) and Dad’s things, including Parker pens, lighters from the days when smoking made you James Bond and not a leper, plus Dad’s tools from the 40s, gauged in Imperial rather than Metric, that I will get rid of on eBay – one day.

With this organisation of life’s minutiae safely ensconced in one spreadsheet or another, I can sleep in peace. Anything I need to find, I turn smugly to a spreadsheet. One small snag, I have to remember which spreadsheet it was - and then what I called it when I recorded it.

Ever tried meditation? How hard is that?! Emptying your mind for an extended period is the hardest thing I’ve ever attempted - and I’ve attempted it many times. I can manage it for all of about ten seconds, then the world intrudes. The pace of today’s life brings a churning brain which doesn’t accommodate mystics. BUT, there are Halfway Houses. I managed it to some extent today when I was retrieving my photos from Camera Club competition entries. Bit of background here…
The prints for these competitions are 10” x 15”(almost A3),and mounted on card with a window. The mount board is 20” x 16”; industry standard in camera clubs. You hold them in place with lashings of paper tape. Once the comp is over, what do you do with the entries?  It’s easy to accumulate an ever-growing pile of mount boards embedded with your favourite photos. So I started retrieving/ dismounting those photos.

This is where the meditation came in, with iTunes playing a recent purchase (Little Big Town), my mind got to  as close to empty as it has been in ages, concentration being directed at nothing more than removing a bit of masking tape as delicately as poss. from the back of a board.

Linked with this, I found on Amazon an A3 folder with 20 clear plastic inserts (less than a fiver), for storing the salvaged photos. I can now look at my 10” x 15” favourites in a book. Result! And I managed to empty my mind for a while from the kaleidoscope that is its normal state.

Talking of the swarms of bees that is my default mental condition, we have a General election coming up. Anyone given that any thought or will you just be voting as you always have? I’ve never understood that as a reason to vote for a party – “I’ve always vote Labour/Tory/’Don’t Know’ (a.k.a. Liberal Democrat).” – makes no sense. Just because you’ve always voted that way, what has that got to do with what’s on offer today? Seems ludicrous to go with ‘habit’ as a justification.

I won’t be voting – and before you say “Well then you don’t have the right to complain afterwards” – what nonsense. Who made that rule and when did I agree to it? I won’t vote and I will moan about the next govt. Count on it. Firstly, there is no such thing as rights. They are just the theoretical fantasy of people who want something for nothing. Rights are what the people around you allow you to have at that point in time.

Let’s look at the four main ones that get bandied about; the Right To Life, Liberty, Justice and Freedom of Speech. Realistically, no one has ANY of these. If someone comes up to you, sticks a gun in your face and pulls the trigger, what good did your Right To Life do you? Pretty ineffective ‘Right’, huh?

Your Right To Liberty – does it keep you out of jail if you break a law or even if someone mistakenly thinks you have broken a law. The law aside, does it stop you getting kidnapped?

The Right To Justice is as weak as the first two in that the justice system is not about justice but which lawyer is better at arguing. Laws are made poorly so that they can be exploited and keep lawyers in business. Tell me, in what other walk of life do you see the words ‘loophole’ and 'technicality' used so freely? Look at the people currently complaining about Savile, the Hillsborough Disaster and police cover ups of sexual abuse of children around the country by people in privileged positions. What good did their Right To Justice do them? Apart from a few ageing has-been ex-celebs, I haven’t seen anyone prosecuted yet and when we do get a few, how many people of power will be allowed to remain in the shadows because of friendships and influence? So much for a Right To Justice.

Lastly, how does your Right To Freedom of Speech stop me talking across you till you give up? Link this with the above para and the fake D notices that were employed by the police to obstruct people from investigating parliamentarians in the child abuse scandals of the 70s and 80s? As you see, ‘Rights’ are a nice theory but as substantial as mist on a Yorkshire moor.

This started with me telling you why I won’t be voting… What are my choices in a two-party system? - and it is. Don’t kid yourself that the Liberals or UKIP can form a government. The Liberals are dithering Do-Gooders and while UKIP are very clear on immigration, I am yet to discover what their policy is on Health, Education, Defence or the Economy.

Labour have shown they have no idea how to run a country. The last govt. borrowed so irresponsibly, borrowing to repay previous borrowing, that we need Austerity to reduce public spending and avoid a slide into bankruptcy. Vote Labour - Go Bankrupt, how humiliating for what was once the head of an Empire.

Greeks think they can avoid bankruptcy and yet reject Austerity. But, they haven’t fixed the basic flaw in the way they operate. i.e. more money goes out in public spending than comes into the Treasury. They will be bankrupt soon – with the anarchy that will follow when they can’t pay the police and the army. If they’re not being paid, why should they turn up for work? Europe can’t keep ‘lending’ money to a black hole. Sooner or later the ECB will realise that (i) they’ll never get their money back and (ii) the Germans are paying taxes so that the Greeks don’t have to.

With that in mind, I won’t be voting Labour as that is a vote for more irresponsible borrowing that will lead to Austerity again in ten years. They simply can’t manage the economy. They don’t have the talent. They demonstrated that at their last time in office. Why would anyone vote for their promised short term panaceas? You know from your own experience of life that you can’t spend your way out of debt – which is what they’re offering.

Separately they are so negative. Do you ever watch their interviews on TV? Appalling. Look at their Leading Lights’ speeches; Milburn, Balls, Miliband, Umunna etc., 5% is generalising about what they will do if elected and 95% is dedicated to rubbishing the Tories – effectively, just the old, tired approach; predictable, negative, childish. Like UKIP, they haven’t really got a plan on how to govern.

Talking of Austerity, have you been out on a Saturday night lately? If so, you could be forgiven for asking “What Austerity?” Pubs and restaurants are as busy as ever. In the various sales that went on in the run-up to Christmas, e.g. Black Monday, working class shoppers were fighting over big-screen TVs because that’s such an essential for day-to-day, head-above-water survival. How many houses have multiple TV around the house and two or three cars outside? In short, look around. The spending patterns of the masses have barely changed. There is an end-of-terrace house in Cherrydown in Basildon that has three cars on the forecourt, one of which is a newish Mercedes Sport. That’s Austerity for you.

Yes there are poor people - but this is not a new phenomenon. There has always been poverty and resultant suffering in this country – and this will continue to be true. It is life. What’s different now is that the media makes a song and dance about it and the gullible think it’s new because it’s got a new dramatic label – Austerity. Yes, benefits are reducing. Isn’t that a good thing? We should help those who can’t help themselves but don’t extend that to those who won’t help themselves.

 While the Tories have halved the borrowing levels, cut unemployment and grown GDP, they still look after their mates and turn a blind eye to a weak taxation system that leaks national revenue like a sieve. When Stephen Green led an HSBC bank to help people evade U.K. tax, Cameron wouldn’t talk about sending lawbreakers to jail preferring to assert what a great job he did as a Trade Minister.

That cost the Tory Party my vote. They are the party of burying their heads in the sand. What HSBC did doesn’t seem right. I can’t understand why Stephen Green and his board didn’t go to jail, other than the law is indistinct allowing wriggle room - and friends are looking after one of their own. Now we find ourselves back to - there is no Right to Justice.

So, I won’t be voting Tory either. What else is there with a viable prospect of governing?

The real mystery is why would anyone vote in the first place. What are we voting for? It seems to me that it’s people that we openly declare we don’t trust. How dumb is that? “I don’t trust any one of you but I’m going to vote for you to run the country for the next five years.”

Really, it doesn’t matter if we have a Tory or a Labour govt in office. Since Blair’s New Labour and Major’s govt before that - any government we’ve had has only been Thatcher Lite. When have you seen Old Labour socialism like we had in the 70s? Today it’s all Capitalism-based.

However, my main reason for not voting is that we don’t have democracy in this country. We’re told we do and disappointingly, no one questions it. Democracy as I understand it, is a system of govt. using elected representatives – elected to represent the people.  Well, we certainly elect ‘representatives’, but once elected, by their subsequent actions, do they represent us? Not really. When has an MP asked his constituents how they want him to vote in an upcoming vote? There is no mechanism for this, although in this digital age, it would be easy to set up via phones and TV remotes. Can’t have that though. It would be too much like a referendum and therefore, proper democracy. So, the ‘elected representative’ does what the Whips instruct and we have government by a Star Chamber, i.e. the Cabinet – not democracy.

Well, there you have it - my reasons for not voting. I would be voting for people I have declared long and loud that I distrust and who have proved by their behaviour in the matter of Expenses and bribes for influence in the House that they are not to be trusted. Then, having voted them into office, they do what their masters tell them and don’t ask me – as my elected representative – how I want them to vote. What’s the point? Your vote is worthless in the current system.

For those of you who love old people's music, there is a fabulous video clip of a show to celebrate the music of the Beatles  https://www.youtube.com/embed/RL76v3qoEeI

I sent this around to the people on my ‘Jokes, PowerPoint shows’ etc. Dist List. If you saw that, this is only the same thing but people on the Dist List who get a preview of these ‘Letters’, differ from the Dist List of people who get the jokes, photos and video clips.

I am binge-watching Breaking Bad at the moment. Just about to start Series Four. It got great reviews in the press and deservedly so. Doesn’t do my Parkinson’s any good at all. With all the excitement and drama, I shake like ball bearings in a blender.

Do you binge-watch? It seems to have become a new way of watching TV now that we have DVD series and hard disks to record what we don’t have time to watch when it’s actually on. I still have the whole of The Missing, all of the new series of Mr Selfridge, same for Indian Summers, about 50 films, and a load of comedy including about 50 episodes of early Big Bang Theory. While I saw them when they first came out, that was so long ago that I am seeing them for the first time (again).

Trouble is - summer's coming and as the weather eases TV (a winter sport), will fall by the wayside and golf will feature more. Then from April, the stately homes and garden of the National Trust and English Heritage will beckon. Life is too full of opportunity.

It seems that fat is now good for you again and there is an App for mobile phones that lets parents know where their kids are. Safety versus privacy – what a dilemma. Should school-age kids have privacy? Which leads nicely into the three girls that slid off to Syria to join IS. At the time there was a lot of noise saying that the police should have told their parents when they first became aware as they are only gullible, easily-led 15 year-old kids and need protecting.

Separately, Alex Salmond gave 16 year-olds the chance to vote in the Independence Vote. That was such a success that there is talk of bringing the voting age down to 16. So which is it? Are they old enough to make reasoned judgements about the government of a country or are they kids that need protecting? There’s only one year in it. Do they suddenly acquire wisdom overnight on their birthday? And there you see the flaw in a one-size-fits-all policy.

Well, there you see the sort of things that occupy my day here in Lincs. It’s been cold, still is, and the house is warm so I stay in watch TV News and mull over the ramifications of news stories. I do get out to Camera Club and play a bit of golf but there is just so much you can say about games of golf. They tend to have a steady conformity of demeanour, which doesn’t lend itself to witty anecdotes.

Until the weather improves to let me out of the house more, the news will provide most of my entertainment and pondering the fascination that is the wonder of Collective Nouns.

 

Feb 2015 - Nine Lives?

You will have noticed that I use these letters to let off steam. The last one expounded on the dangers of giving religious offence under the guise of Freedom of Speech, and the accusations of avoidance surrounding the TV debate in the run-up to the May election. A debate that will expand hopefully, to include more parties than the existing elite. Then there was an earlier piece about the call for devolution to spread around the English regions following its popularity in Scotland. Is this just letting off steam or am I predicting the future like Mystic Meg - with less alarming hair?

 

Today’s news (Jan 23), showed the pre-election debate has expanded to three debates that will include all parties - except the Ulster MPs. They are now complaining - and rightly so - as they have more members than the Scots and the Welsh put together who, BTW, are invited. Personally, I think they’re being excluded as no one will understand them, the accent being like a bastard file drawn across concrete. For those of a genteel nature, ‘Bastard File’ is a genuine term from carpentry. It is a file with extremely rough teeth. We learnt this in Woodwork as 11 year-olds. Imagine the sniggers when the teacher introduced that word.

Three days after I wrote the piece about the dangers of giving religious offence and getting a violent reaction in response, the Pope said exactly the same, making the front page of The Times. He  promised to punch the lights out of a cardinal if he insulted his mum, bucking the sycophantic trend to align himself with popular opinion - Je ne suis pas Charlie, more Je suis Ray Winstone.

Today’s news saw Manchester schoolgirls in conversation, Muslims and Jews, explaining and then comparing their views of God. Turned out they were identical; one God, all-powerful, Creator of the World (and us), eternal etc., just the name (and ownership) that differed.

A few months back I criticised PMQs as a waste of time, seeing it as nothing more than two blokes having a pop at each other, trying to be smart at the other’s expense, pretending it was about democracy and accountability but really just using that pretence to score cheap points. Last week, Nick Clegg described it as ‘a waste of time’ and today’s Times has an article about Ed Miliband describing it as ‘two men shouting at each other’ - time in his life that he ‘won’t get back’.

Also, I referred to UKIP as the party for bigotry. Today (Sunday 25th). The front page of The Times has an article about the PR chief of UKIP, where he claims that title proudly.

And that’s me for - One hundred and eigh-ty! So, just ‘letting off steam’ eh? Only got to get the ‘Home Rule for the Kingdom of Essex’ right and you’ll be asking me for Lottery numbers.

These letters started out about life here but have migrated into the conversations we might have if we met in a pub for lunch or dinner. Topics here result from conversations in your calls and emails after the last letter. Effectively, these letters are inspired by you.

Separately, some of you tell me of your own lives. What moves you - makes you laugh, makes you cry, people you’d like to kill, befriend, stalk, enslave etc., your music, hobbies, travels, kids… I’m glad I started these letters with that original naive intent of keeping in touch - as it’s brought unforeseen benefits. I now know you better than when we were in each other’s lives.

Which makes me think, how well do you know me? Really, probably not that well. My fault of course. I allow the public image to represent me. I doubt I have ever had a serious discussion with most of you. The things that really matter, my views and values, are generally kept to myself. Even what you get here is dressed down, then dressed up to close with something to bring a smile, clouding the serious content with an attempt to get a laugh.

In the early 90s, I met a woman who knew me intuitively. She was a soulmate. We talked a lot – several times a day, every day – also when we woke in the middle of the night. Exchanging thoughts was our joy. From the first date, she knew me better than anyone I’ve known. She saw beneath the surface. Apart from her and one or two others, most of you know the person on the surface and not too much about the Man in the Middle (to corrupt a Michael Jackson song). With that in mind, let me fill in a few gaps. They will only be ‘a few’ as I’ve lived a full 66 years and the stories this life has brought are like the aerial display of rooks at dusk, about to roost.

Let’s start with the times I’ve nearly died. Like a cat, I have dodged the Grim Reaper more than once. He’ll get me eventually of course - that’s a train coming, in a tunnel, with no alcoves. For now, here are a few of his botched attempts, more or less in chronological order.

When I was about 12, we left Basildon and lived in Shoreditch for just over a year. I went to Cardinal Pole Catholic school in Islington where a close friend, Fenelli Pasquale, introduced me to science. A growing interest led to me blowing the fuses in our flat with a magnificent bang after tampering with a light switch, shorting the power with a couple of bits of wire and a torch bulb, which, as it turned out, could take 240 volts, for a while. The subsequent court of inquiry led to a shift in interest to chemistry. Mum & Dad thought that might be safer. How wrong can you be?

At nearby Dalston Junction, there was a chemist shop selling all manner of chemicals freely (it was 1960) and I soon acquired a fine stock based mainly on colour. Sulphur – yellow, Potassium Permanganate - neon blue, with green, red and orange chemicals amongst my favourites. They were also happy to sell 12 year old me small quantities of Sulphuric and Hydrochloric acid. Imagine that today.

I’d been told not to breathe in the fumes of burning sulphur so naturally, being a curious 12 year-old who tradition demands, can’t be told, I set fire to a small pile in my bedroom, placed my face over it and breathed in. How bad could it be? Well, pretty bad as it turned out. I stopped breathing. My chest froze – it just locked up. I couldn’t breathe in nor out. Sticking my head out the window had no effect at all; surprising really what with all that fresh air out there. Time passed and stuck for ideas of what to do next, before I collapsed, breath found its way back into my lungs. This is the formula I developed: youthful curiosity + tiny error of judgement = narrow squeak + big lesson.

Between 15 and 19, I was in a group – The Sabres. This is us.

In ’64 or thereabouts, we were playing at a youth club in Stanford-le-Hope. The school stages of that time had tall mid-stage curtains made of thick velvet. By tall, I mean about 30’ or so, suspended from metal poles like scaffolding poles, all-in-all a pretty heavy combo. They could be dragged about in any direction to offer a selection of formations behind the main curtains.

Whilst on the stage, tuning up, doing our sound checks, a few helpers were pulling these half a dozen mini-curtains here and there to clear them from the centre with the noble intent of giving us space. Standing there, minding my own business, a curtain in mid-tug fell down. Due to its weight, it came down at speed, the scaffolding pole giving the top of the Fender Precision bass around my neck, a good clunk, bending one of the machine heads (tuning pegs). The crash made the strings vibrate madly and the roar generated through the pickups made everyone look around in fright. More alarmingly, the pole just brushed my fringe and landed at my feet. I was unhurt. Six inches further back and it would have crushed my skull easily.

Being a cool teenager, I was unmoved. The reality was - it took a moment to sink in otherwise I’d have been screaming and dancing about like a Big Girl’s Blouse. By the time I realised what had happened it was too late to make a fuss. I had to opt for the James Bond martini look; shaken, not stirred.

A couple of years later, we turned professional and became the resident band playing six nights a week at the Narracott Grand Hotel in Woolacombe, a holiday resort in North Devon, for the summer of ’66. Our days were spent rising at noon, going into Ilfracombe for breakfast (lunch for everyone else), then into Woolacombe to learn the latest songs or mess about on the beach with the other teenagers who were between shifts as waiters, porters, waitresses, and chambermaids. This was before the days of disco or Radio One -  live music was the norm. Every other hotel in Woolacombe had Light Orchestras. The Narracott was the only one with pop music. DJs were just starting up. The first ‘Pop’ DJs were still outlaws - at sea on Radio Caroline - whilst legitimate DJs broadcast Mantovani, Ted Heath, Billy Cotton and Joe Loss on the BBC Light Programme.

The hotel bar was packed night after night as we were the only game in town for teenagers, most music being geared to our parents’ tastes. On a Saturday, kids came by bus from as far away as Barnstaple, few our age being able to afford cars. Towards the end of the summer, the hotel booked big names from ‘that there Lun-durn’ to feature in the middle of the evening. We were the warm up for Billy J Kramer & The Dakotas, The Moody Blues, Brian Poole & The Tremeloes and The Swinging Blue Jeans, most of whom, although celebrities, were unpretentious and friendly - apart from the Swinging Blue Jeans who returned to London straight after the gig.

Woolacombe was a surfer’s town offering the best surf on that coastline.
One afternoon whilst on the beach after kicking a ball around with the surfers, some of us went in for a dip. The surf was low. You may know I cannot swim so splashed around in chest high water that allowed me to stand up when necessary. Cooled down, I waded out.

Woolacombe has a shallow beach making it a slow, easy stroll through warm treacle. Heading towards the beach I caught a playful but hearty slap on the back from a particularly big wave that had lurked out to sea till I wasn’t looking, sending me under. The natural reaction being to gasp, I swallowed a plop of sea water that stuck in my windpipe. As with Shoreditch, I couldn’t breathe in nor out and had to wait. Whilst a punch in the stomach or something emulating the Heimlich Manoeuvre might have done the trick there was no one around to offer such help. Eventually, it cleared. The wait seemed like an eternity, though was probably less than a minute. Like the Shoreditch Sulphur moment, I had no idea what to do.

Around 1978 I was returning from Basildon at 2:30 in the morning after having dropped a mate off after a night at TOTS. I was newly-divorced and part of the club that was ‘Over 25s Night’ serving the divorced, separated and Looking for a Bit On The Side (BOTS) community that was its Wednesday night clientele – BOTS at TOTS.

I’d been working 7 day weeks at Tractors and was burning the candle at both ends. No surprise then that I was exhausted – yet still driving, just four miles from home. A bit unwise but I believe the extent of my wisdom has already been established. The consequence was that on the long right-hand bend on the A127 just before the Rayleigh Weir, I fell asleep. This was the days before crash barriers had been erected on the grass verge between the carriageways. The “BANG!” of a wheel hitting the kerb as I mounted the verge woke me and I found a lamppost heading toward me at speed. My legendary cat-like instincts (a.k.a. panic), led me to pull the wheel to the right into the oncoming fast lane to try and avoid the lamppost. Unfortunately, the steering mechanism had been damaged and it was steering with just one wheel. Though moderately successful, the lamppost remained in play taking out a wing and realigning the previously-sleek aesthetics of the passenger door. The bright spot was that there was nothing coming the other way, a head-on was avoided and I live to tell the tale.

In Zurich 1980, on my first assignment aboard for Internal Audit, I hesitated to check for traffic before stepping off the kerb of busy Zurich High Street. As I stepped into the road, a huge Mercedes swept past me from behind. This was my first trip abroad for many years and while I checked for traffic, I looked right - as I would have done in the UK. As they drive on the other side, the Merc swooshed past from the left. The hesitation saved my life. That’s five escapes. There are more but essentially much the same. Clearly, I’m being saved for a greater purpose.

I mentioned my ghost in the last letter. Before we get much further, we should say what I think a ghost is. I don’t see them as the spirits of the dead. If that’s the case, I’ll have a great time when I go. Those of you who survive me can expect a visit. I already return to Essex frequently to visit you in this life. It’ll just be carrying on the tradition. I think I’d like to haunt in the style of Jacob Marley. If in the middle of the night you hear the plaintive strains of Tiny Tim singing “No Woman, No Cry”; that’ll be me. This is one of the joys of getting old, excusable confusion. Things get mixed up. That’s life.

Anyway, ghosts. I’m sure they exist but not as dead people. Do you think there could be other life forms occupying the same dimension in space and time as us? Today, my ghost is a cat. Don’t know why. It hasn’t always been - but it is now. I’m not a big cat fan but glimpsed a silver and white Siamese last week as I opened the front door. Made me jump. Intriguingly, the direction in which it ran was not possible as it ran into and thereby through, a wall of the house. A questionable sighting yet that’s the way it’s been since its unnerving debut in Keysland; a fleeting movement in the corner of my eye.

He’s a helpful fellow in that things I fret about having lost, turn up; unexpectedly, in a place I’ve checked many times before. More importantly, he assists with the growing forgetfulness, reminding me of birthdays via Facebook notifications, or dental appointments prompting the dentist to write to me a week earlier to confirm the date, that sort of thing. The most useful help is the shopping lists I find in the kitchen. Don’t know how they got there - but there they are. Time for my meds.

I suppose it won’t hurt to close with a bit about life here. You know I like to cook and a key factor in preparation is a sharp knife. At my sister’s at Christmas I cooked a bit and before starting, asked for a knife sharpener. She pointed to her electric can opener. As I puzzled over its obvious ‘can opener’ aspect, she indicated the slots at the top for sharpening knives. How cunning.

Until now, here at home I have used an old ‘wet & dry’ stone that Dad introduced me to as a kid. It works a treat – eventually, requiring no little elbow grease, technique and patience. Here was my sister showing me a better, easier way. When I got home, I disappeared into Amazon and for less than £15 found a fabulous device that looks like a toaster and purrs like a cat, sharpening to a scalpel-like finish. Cooking is so much easier when assisted by the culinary equivalent of Stanley knives during prep. The kitchen is enhanced.

That’s it; childhood, teenage and thirty-something memories of near-death experiences, a helpful ghost and my ‘letting off steam’ or ‘predictive abilities’? The next letter will include more memories accumulated in a kind and generous life. Travels have brought me a wealth of experiences, many captured in film and digital still photos. Let’s see if I can find a few more memories to entertain you. In the meantime, if you have something to share, I’d love to hear from you, imprisoned as I am in this Arctic waste that is Lincolnshire. (I must’ve told you a million times, I don’t exaggerate).

Jan 15 2015 - Committing Murder for the Greater Good

Socialising with some of you at the start of December, Christmas, a bit of illness, plus being snowed in for a while, has kept me housebound for most of the time since the last letter or otherwise limited my scope for material to write about. Being stuck in the house doesn’t bring many experiences but it does offer plenty of time to think. As a result, this letter is a reflection of thoughts as, apart from daydreaming, there wasn’t anything else to do.

Winter has arrived. I returned to Lincs from a lazy, indulgent family Christmas with my kind hostess of a sister, Michelle and my elder son Steve, to find snow when I got to Spalding. This was the snow that knocked out Yorkshire at the end of the year. We must have been on the Southern edge of that snowline. There wasn’t much, just enough of a sprinkling to make the fields look pretty.

I have mentioned before that while I’m only 120 miles North of you, here at the start of the East Midlands, about level with the Wash, it is generally about five degrees colder than Essex. In the week that followed the snow, the temp stuck around freezing so everything remained peacefully white, including the golf course which had to be closed.

With plenty of food in the house, I hibernated and took the opportunity to update my golf web site for the photos from last September’s tour. As there were over 300, it took a while; pretty courses and old men behaving like children, such is our week away. This was our 40^th year.

You know I like playing with software and Dreamweaver makes putting up web pages easy. Consequently, it was no hardship to be stuck in a warm study, playing with this toy till the weather softened. Today, the backlog of photos is cleared and other dragons line up for slaying.

The first that presents itself naturally at this time of year is ‘What New Year’s Resolutions…?’ Last year, the principal one was to write more of my novel. I failed - spectacularly, comprehensively, resoundingly. I wrote a bit but not nearly enough to claim a gold star. The novel has progressed - at a snail’s pace and remains at the ‘setting the scene’ stage.  Principal characters are in place, threads of threats, spectres of sub-plots and glimpses of intrigue have been spotted - but I am reluctant to claim any sort of real progress. The story itself remains steadfastly in my head. Let’s see if this year brings more joy.

Talking of novels, I’ve just finished a great book. It is called The Humans - by Matt Haig. It’s about an alien from an infinitely superior species who maintain harmony in the Universe. The alien kills and then assumes the body of a maths professor who has made a discovery that will allow humans to make great advances in technology. However, the aliens see humans as immature and not yet ready for this technological jump so they send one of their kind to assume his identity and kill anyone that he may have told about the discovery, keeping this advance for a time when humans are more civilised. Being a much older race, they have infinitely superior technology and abilities including mind control so all these killings can be made to look like accidents or suicide.

While initially, the alien agrees with the assessment of how backward the human race is; our preoccupation with sex, possessions and the folly that appearances matter, he discovers our other dimensions like the feelings that are stirred by music, stroking animals, love, poetry, appreciation of sunsets and the myriad other nuances that take your breath away when you see them for their emotional contribution. These subtleties had been left behind thousands of years ago by the ‘superior’ race who exist for mathematics and pure, unemotional logic, rather like the Vulcans of Star Trek stories.

The book is a very readable story conveying its social observations easily in criticism and in praise of the human race. Expressed in simple terms, it shows us in a poor light - but then as Eleanor Roosevelt said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your own concurrence.” It was not hard to agree with the criticisms of the behaviour and attitudes of the masses.

The illustrations of our shallowness, hypocrisy and double standards are hard to ignore as they are so simply put. For instance, magazines that are devoted to the many ways to achieve orgasm and the adoration of unknown celebrities. We justify taking life via wars, trying to make them about freedom, liberation and democracy - when they’re really about killing for power and wealth. We race towards the next transient fashion or electronic gadgetry without questioning if it improves our lives or complicates it - without assessing the benefit. In short, few people look beneath the surface of any behaviour, accepting the story offered by the media, church or government.

At the same time, our sensitivity, basic goodness and caring side is also described eloquently. The book is a wonderful reminder of our finer qualities; qualities that are overlooked, taken for granted or mocked in an age where ‘cool’ is valued more than decency, honesty and sensitivity. If you like a well-written story that will make you examine how we live today, I recommend it.

On the subject of our shallowness, the recent Charlie Hebdo incident raises a number of aspects of the human race that is so roundly-scorned by the alien race mentioned above. The day it happened, I saw Martin Rowson (cartoonist with the Guardian), arguing indignantly that he is ‘licensed to give offence’. No he’s not. This is a delusional, self-awarded licence. In that same interview, he ‘found it offensive’ that people responded with violence to cartoonists who have mocked their beliefs. That seems pretty strange. Apparently, he can give offence but should be immune from being given offence - and should be allowed to dictate the manner of a response to his mocking.

This week, a member of the Oxford (football club), board was threatened with the rape of his daughter if they sign Ched Evans. Nine years ago, Swedish referee Anders Frisk gave up refereeing due to the death threats he got from Chelsea fans for sending off Didier Drogba. Trolling, threats of violence and death threats, are a natural, everyday reaction in the 21st century – to something you don’t agree with. This is the way of today’s world.

Journalists and members of the public are arguing for ‘the freedom of the press’. Wouldn’t it be nice if that were a fact of life? But it’s unrealistic. Julian Assange and Edward Snowden don’t seem to have achieved it. I understand that national security needs to be protected but how are we to know when such censorship is for a sensible, practical reason or when it is to hide the mistake or illegal behaviour of a politician, civil servant or government depart?

Freedom of speech is an admirable aspiration but it doesn’t exist. How many times do you hear sheep bleating “Ooh! You can’t say that!” as if they have spotted something you hadn’t realised before you (deliberately) made a contentious remark?

The Klu Klux Klan would love to have the freedom to use the “N” word to give offence. Eastern European football supporters would love to be able to throw bananas at the black players of visiting opponents - who they see as inferior beings. The Far Right would love to enjoy unrestricted licence to air their views on anti-Semitism, white supremacy and immigration.

Political Correctness forbids freedom of speech. That is the law. ‘Isms’ thwart free expression. Sex, Age and Race take the podium positions but anything you don’t like the sound of – stick a label on it, add an ‘ism’ suffix - and you successfully block freedom of speech. Freedom of Speech versus Political Correctness; I watch this Clash of Titans with interest.

Taking it in the context of today’s news, while it is good to see so much public support for freedom of the press, freedom to mock another’s God without consequence will never fly. It’ll always be resented however civilised the listener pretends to be. It’s human nature. And when the person you’ve offended carries a gun, you can’t expect a civilised debate by way of a response. The idea that you can mock without consequence, is to ignore how strongly people feel when you ridicule their values. You’re saying that their judgement is flawed.

It was unrealistic of Rowson and the other journalists arguing for the carefully-vague ‘Freedom of Speech’, to expect to dictate the terms of the response they may expect. That’s just not human behaviour, especially in the matter of religious offence.

Look at history: Catholics killed and tortured freely during the Inquisition. Henry VIII and Elizabeth I killed and tortured Catholics when establishing the Anglican Church. Elizabeth’s older sister Mary and her cousin Mary Queen of Scots killed Protestants when they could, to re-establish the Catholic faith. In India in the run-up to Partition, Muslims and Hindus killed each other in the name of their religions. History is littered with the practice of killing people who don’t share your view of God. And of course, it still goes on today. Within living memory, Catholics and Protestants killed each other in Northern Ireland and violence still erupts when the route of a faith-based march is planned - principally to rub the noses of the other party in it.

Humans are gregarious animals. Yes, there are a few mavericks who walk alone - but in the main, most like to feel part of a herd whether it be a nation, a religion or a football team. When people attack your herd, the response is ‘a strong reaction’, in this day and age, more than likely a violent one especially when it’s a matter of mocking beliefs and the icons on which they’re founded.

I continue to watch this debate and marvel at how naive people can be to believe they can deride another’s beliefs and expect to dictate the manner of the response. One last point - I have heard journalists claim that their mockery is not directed solely at Muslims but they have mocked other religions too. Now that is dumb.

My understanding of these matters is that for the majority of religions (apart from the Hindus) there is one God and your view of that entity, will change according to whatever religion you follow. Effectively – most religions agree - there is ONE GOD, just several (man-made) interpretations. Having worked in Accounting for close to 50 years, numbers impress me so it seems likely that one of these interpretations may be right. Therefore, insulting all the shades of God that are on offer, sooner or later you must insult the one that matters, the real one.

When that happens, if I were Him, there would be some smiting going on by way of My response. Take the piss out of Almighty Me and I’ll make you suffer in ways that would make Quentin Tarantino wince. If I can create the Universe with all its complexity and mystery – our galaxy with its estimated 200 billion stars and then 100 billion other galaxies, dark matter, anti-matter, black holes, alternative universes, strings, quarks and quacks that don’t echo… If I can dream up all of that and then make it happen without breaking sweat, be prepared to suffer for all Eternity - and that’s just for starters. As you see, I don’t subscribe to the notion that God is all about forgiveness. While that would be nice if it were true, not sure I’d want to bet the farm on it. He has form for doing a fair bit of smiting, sending floods and plagues of locusts. Not sure I'd want to cross anyone who shows this much imagination in the matter of retribution.

Another good laugh on the news at the moment is David Cameron trying to dodge a party leaders’ debate. How transparent is that? Thinking that anyone will fall for his excuse is as arrogant as Andrew Mitchell’s outburst at the gates of Downing Street. Cameron is a poor speaker and not that bright. His tight-lipped earnestness is guaranteed to bring a smile in its kindergarten attempt to convince the cameras of how serious he is. Only a politician would not see how silly he looks.

Osborne, Gove and Hague, while eminently dislikeable for more reasons that you will find in The Big Book of Reasons For Disliking People, regularly outperform him but he still insists on speaking in public as if he’s a leader. Yes, he has the job – but beyond that – what is there?

None of this matters of course, what’s really important is that as with the above piece about the Charlie Hebdo incident, where acts of terrorism have unwittingly and unpredictably precipitated a clash between Political Correctness and Freedom of Speech, in this case the informal political Premiership of Labour, Tories and Lib Dems now seems destined to fold. Who saw that coming?

While Cameron holds his ground to insist on the Greens inclusion, knowing full well that’ll bring headaches for the TV companies, the other parties want to go ahead with the debate – with an empty podium to remember absent friends. Or, if having included the one Green and two UKIP MPs, as they have more MPs, they’ll have to bring in the 13 Northern Irish, six SNP and three Welsh MPs as well. So a bit of chicanery by Cameron is about to end the three party Old Boys’ Club. Once the genie is out of the bottle, good luck getting that one back in.

Without much effort, this has been three pages of Much Ado about Nothing. I touched on New Year’s resolutions and got as far as Number One.

That was followed by aimless ramblings about two of today’s news items. I suppose a NY Resolution could be to get to the point - but why? I’ve never seen the merit in this. What’s the rush? We’re only heading towards death. Do we want to charge towards it? Let’s slow the journey and enjoy the view.

I do however, have a second resolution - which is to take journalists’ advice to mock and ridicule a bit more. I’ve just been watching a video of my hero Frankie Boyle. He and Jimmy Carr and amongst my favourite comedians as they seem to have no boundaries and are not intimidated by the conventions favoured by the masses. And while these two are heroes, I prefer to be less direct.

When I wrote the newsletter for the Lisbon Casuals, I avoided toilet humour because of its crudeness. That standard endures. I’m not in favour of bad language in these letters and that will not change. I’m not claiming I don’t swear. Those of you who have spent time with me in a bar will know that although drink clearly doesn’t affect me, the Basildon Boy rises like a phoenix from the ashes and colourful speech trips off the tongue more naturally as the evening progresses. This is a by-product of my upbringing where I am now slow to notice such slips. My point is more that I will try to be irreverent by implication rather than ‘in yer face’, which I regard as clumsy and frankly lazy penmanship. Hopefully, you will take a moment to realise the humour in my remarks, presented drily as ostensibly serious comment. Those who know me will spot this. Those who think I am making a serious remark will be disappointed in me; a cross I must bear.

I have little time for people who are pedantic and who see words literally. I think in terms of concepts and speak figuratively; always have. I look beneath the surface and not at any situation at its face value. The chances of that changing now vary from zero to Nil.

I also like to lie. A great man once said “Frankly Claude, life is too serious a business to be taken seriously.” That was Rumpole of the Bailey. While a fictional character, wise beyond his already substantial years. This is a worthy mantra.

Take a series of irreverent comments, presented drily, wrapped in lies and you have the template for future Letter From Lincs. In the next letter, I will tell you about my ghost. I share this bungalow with someone/something? It’s not nasty or scary, quite helpful in fact. Doesn’t make the tea or anything but helps me find lost items, that sort of thing. Occasionally playful - but not on the tenancy agreement. I hope the Letting agency don’t find out about it. They may charge more. I’ve wondered whether to mention it for a while. It started in Keysland and seems to have followed me here. Do they do that? I’m not sure of the rules. Anyway, more in the next letter.