Dec 20 - The Fragile Basis of Reality

This is the Last Letter from Lincs - and for some of you, literally the last one. Recent conversations have revealed that for some, because of your busy lives, these letters are a drudge to read. One reaction was - “Oh no! Another four pages”. That should not be. It was never my intention to send you letters that are a nuisance. Happily, there are also those amongst you who find them amusing and engaging - and who write to me to tell me so. Thanks for that but there are those who don’t see them that way. So, the answer is - stop sending them to everyone on the main dist. lists - instead, just to those who ask. I will create a new list solely for that small band.

It was a puzzle though, how can the same document bring delight to some and tedium to others? The best explanation I could come up with is that it’s how much you like to read; plus, how you read, literally or with imagination. If you lean towards the literal rather than the imaginative, these letters are unlikely to suit you. I live in a dream world where the reality seen by the masses is ignored in favour of a different perspective. Considering that I believe in Magic, Angels and Santa, you're not likely to find much in these letters that might be mistaken for 'sensible'.

If you’re not inclined towards reading as a pleasurable pastime, perhaps being used to business papers bristling with facts and information, these are definitely not for you. One friend said that she skim reads them. I can’t see the point of that. These letters are written and rewritten several times to make them prosaic and lyrical. Words are swapped for other words to change the drift subtly to improve balance and nuance. Every word makes a contribution. Skim reading ignores that polishing, misses the changes in emphasis, and loses the sub-conscious effect - by searching for facts, a Fool’s Errand. There are nearly no facts in these letters.

I don’t write in the style - “This happened, then that happened… My sister is fine, Steve is fine…” That style of writing makes me cringe. I dress up ordinary incidents, I make up stuff, I introduce provocative, abstruse views of politics and current affairs, football, celebrity behaviour and similar distractions hoping to make you think and maybe smile. If you’re looking for the standard letter we were taught to write as kids, you’ll be disappointed. I want to disturb the Status Quo, to challenge the comfortable assumptions on which so many rely. If you prefer the predictable, the conventional and the obvious, these letters will be hard work, hence they must stop.

These letters aspire to be lyrical prose, containing next to no useful information. They strive to create images, not to inform drily of life here in Lincs - despite the title. That’s the furthest thing from their raison d’être. If at all present, factual content is light. I embellish events to make them amusing or interesting. My aim is to entertain- not to inform. Consequently, if they are not entertaining, they are best stopped.

 I recognise that some of you are voracious readers - and some reluctant readers. My solution strives to acknowledge this dichotomy. Unless you write to me to ask for these to continue, you will be removed from the dist. lists - just for these letters. Jokes, video clips, PowerPoint shows, commentaries on current affairs and sporting shenanigans will probably continue, it’s the Letters from Lincs that will end. This way they’ll find the right audience.

2013 brought a kaleidoscope of experiences, starting with the loss of dear friends Jim Carville and Ron Mulrenan and finishing with my first ever visit to Santa’s Grotto (at 65). There were problems with tenants at Keysland, offset by a couple of wins at the golf club. And, due to our advancing ages, health scares from some of you - balanced by lovely emails and phone calls from others. In essence, a year of low lows, and high highs. I suppose this is what makes life what it is - a turbulence of famine and feast, and no telling which one’s around the next corner.

On that subject, I heard an interesting question on the radio recently, “What makes us human?” That is certainly a question that had never crossed my mind previously. I’m not sure I know the answer. Is it the consideration and love we show to others- or our cruelty? There is no cruelty in the rest of the animal kingdom. There is certainly ruthlessness for reasons of hunger - but cruelty - just being nasty because you are bigger and more vicious, like that of smarmy Shere Khan in the cartoon Jungle Book, I don’t think I’ve seen that trait in any creature other than humans.

Maybe it is our emotional strength or its reflection - vulnerability? Perhaps our creativity, poetry or art? Taking that further, is it the ability to create beauty - or the ability to see beauty? Perhaps it’s our desire to reach for the stars? The possibilities are endless. Maybe that’s it? What makes us human is that we reach for the stars, filled with the hope that we can touch them? More likely, it’s a combination of several attributes. The chances of it being just one must be slim.

Well, heady romantic stuff to start this letter and to end this year. While this next part may seem a digression as it starts, it is related. It is a soft, meandering lead-in to a greater point.

My Freesat and Freeview HDD boxes are filling up. When I set the programmer, it seems like a good idea at the time to record a particular film, documentary or drama, some of which then sit there ignored for months, sometimes over a year.

Couple this with a love of music and a plan emerges. I have started watching the BBC4 music documentaries that I’ve recorded: the lives of Pop Stars, Blues, Tamala, Abba, Paul Simon, The Beach Boys, Queen, Jeff Lynne, Paul Carrack, The Travelling Wilburys, Michael Jackson’s last Tour… The HDD boxes are bulging with an eclectic collection. Apart from revisiting music that was once popular, you also learn a lot of World History. For instance, Paul Simon unwittingly broke South Africa’s Apartheid Laws when he recorded Graceland (in South Africa), with black musicians. He didn’t know that there was a law against cultural integration of blacks and whites (music being cultural). Even the black movement of the time attacked him as they felt he was undermining their case for equality - by practicing it. They were determined to be victims.

The History of the Eagles was a frank biopic, including candid admissions by Don Henley and Glenn Frey of their avaricious attitude toward relating royalties to song-writing. They didn’t say how much of the royalties went to the people who contributed to the arrangements. Surely that is also a big part of the final product and the song’s success? Separately, Roy Orbison’s song-writing was inspirational and a mystery to many as he didn’t observe the rules of the day for conventional song structure - verse, chorus, middle eight. His songs wandered about all over the place. As you see, in watching these programmes there is so much more than a simple trip down a Memory Lane. You get an education in world history and song-writing techniques as well.

The person that made the most impression and got me thinking was Otis Redding, a strong young man in his prime. At 6’ 4” he was a big lump, handy with his fists when riled, a popular singer at a time of accepted racism and segregation that was America in the 50s and 60s. As I watched the programme, I thought back to my early life in England. While racism was more open in my childhood and teenage years, it was rare, at least from my personal experience. Having a brown face, I was on the receiving end of sharp comments occasionally, but as I said, rarely. The odd comment from children in the street or on the football pitch struck home but I never really thought I was different till I was 20 when a girlfriend told me on our third date that her parents didn’t want her to carry on seeing me ‘because it was wrong’. That was 1968.

Val was a soft, gentle girl, a Flower Power hippy. She lives in my memory as  the only girlfriend who, when I asked her out, replied with artless openness “Yes, I’d like that”. Their attitude shook her. She only saw me for who I was and was in tears when she told me. At her insistence, I promised to meet her again but I didn’t turn up and it ended there. She was close to her Mum & Dad and I didn’t see a way of resolving it happily, so I ran away from the problem. In my defence, I was only 20 and not up for a fight. Other than this, through my life, friends, girlfriends, my ex-wife and her family, never noticed the colour of my skin and that’s what matters.

Friends that have criticised me - did so for my utterances or my actions, a fair call as through immaturity I often leant towards the sensational to get a laugh or a reaction rather than behaving more thoughtfully. It has been my way and I regret that now that I am of a quieter, more reflective disposition. However, milk was spilt. I have to live with that and accept responsibility.

But my experience was mild. For Otis Redding, it was a lot worse. He lived through a time where his face couldn’t be put on his album covers as that would prevent sales in America - so they put pretty white girls’ faces on them instead. He could only play to black audiences. Mixed audiences were not a feature of American concerts. He wasn’t allowed in restaurants reserved for whites; all this in our lifetime.

This changed when he played a European Tour with his band the MGs (plus Booker T), a mixed group of black and white musicians. Imagine, for the negroes in that gathering, being used to being treated as second class citizens all their lives and then being served drinks on a BOAC plane by a pleasant, well-mannered white stewardess or being accepted in England without fuss in any restaurant that you walked into. Best of all, imagine his delight at performing to a mixed audience and feeling their unfettered, guileless joy radiating across the footlights.

They arrived at Heathrow in the early hours, wondering how to get to their hotel. A fleet of limousines turned up unexpectedly. The Beatles had sent their cars. How kind, thoughtful and generous was that?

The programme featured tributes by Tom Jones, Rod Stewart, Bryan Ferry, Chris Farlowe and Eric Burdon. Booker T, in talking about him, described his humility. “He was not slow to pick up his own bag and he would not ask someone to get him a glass of water. He’d get it himself. He put himself low - and in doing so was a king.” When on tour, he phoned his wife five or six times a day to ask how she and the kids were. Can you see today’s celebrities behaving like this? He was a young man, just 26 when he died in a plane crash. So when I watch these shows ostensibly about music, there is a lot more that comes out of it than old music. There is also World History plus a wealth of anecdotes of people behaving decently, honourably and generously - with humanity and humility.

Conversely, look at this Andrew Mitchell nonsense, supposedly about whether he called policemen ‘Plebs’ (apparently not - but really, who cares? It’s only name calling.) How old are these people? Aren’t they called ‘Pigs’ and ‘Filth’ to their faces on a daily basis? It seems to me that ‘Plebs’ is pretty lightweight by comparison - unless you have a hidden agenda, such as whether it’s a way to repay him for police cuts, then it’s worth banging the drum about “My feelings have been hurt. Boo Hoo! Poor me.”

The more interesting story is whether police lie to fit people up. From my scrutiny of the news and of history books, this has been going on since Robert Peel but a bit of publicity for that every now and again, and the vindictive intent behind it - all at the same time as police taking payments from the newspapers, just goes to show - the police are no more honest than you or me.

At Mimi’s yesterday, I saw James Martin’s Saturday Kitchen where he made a modified Bread & Butter pudding. Now, if you have a sweet tooth, a cholesterol problem, a death wish and a desire to try Russian Roulette, this is the very thing. I like Bread & Butter Pudding; it is a simple uncomplicated dish with the versatility to accommodate Ice Cream or custard as a partner. However, this is Turbo Bread & Butter Pudding. It is called White Chocolate, Whisky and Croissant Pudding. Starting with All Butter Croissants, you add more butter. Slosh in some full cream milk, then add more cream. Put in some eggs, then add more eggs (yolks), and finally, season with whisky and slabs of white chocolate. Job done - a dish of heart attack.

I made a ‘lite’ version today. If you visit Mimi’s over Christmas, it will be repeated. There may be some left - but be quick; I can’t see it lasting long. Mine was a ‘lite’ version as my efforts to reduce my sugar intake in recent years has increased sensitivity to sweetness. I made an apple pie a month or so back and though I reduced the sugar from that recommended by the recipe, it was still far too sweet. I couldn’t eat it. It set my teeth on edge. I had one bowl and gave the rest to the birds. The few that were eventually able to fly out of the garden, now have diabetes.

With that experience lingering, this time I didn’t follow the recipe. I reduced sugar and fat considerably and tasted as I went along. Result - a deliciously moist, slightly sweet pud that will reduce your life by just a few years.

Which gets us to the point of looking after your health. A few of you have seen the light and are dieting (not before time, I may add). A few of you have had health scares and so are watching what you eat and drink - well done, and a few are even exercising (allegedly). But for all of these sensible measures, we can still be sitting in a pub when a helicopter falls on our heads as happened to those poor people in Glasgow. I’m not suggesting you laugh in the face of good advice from your doctors and do what you want, but at the same time, don’t live in a bubble so that all pleasure is denied. Show some judgement - N.B. This is not recommended by the Health & Safety police who insist on protecting you from everything God’s Wrath to difficult crossword puzzles.

Let’s close with a bit about fat balls. Ladies, I can see your eyes lighting up but I’m talking about feeding the birds again. In defrosting the fridge, I found a number of jars of goose fat, ideal for roast spuds or those special games where a bit of extra lubrication can be handy - but of little other practical benefit. By combining this glut of (melted), fat with the rest of the cottage loaf from Saturday diced up into tiny pieces - and the crushed remains of some croutons until then, expecting a starring rôle in Caesar Salads, you get a dish of fat-coated bread bits. Let the fat cool and set, then shape with an ice cream scoop and your garden birds will think Christmas has come early. This may be a kindness, or possibly a way to visit a torrent of heart attacks on the local feathered society. At any rate, the birds wolfed them - probably because of the recent cold spell.

 So there it is; the last letter. If you still want to receive these in the future, let me know. If you don’t, do nothing. They’ll stop as if by magic. I won’t take offence. I know that some of you don’t like to read that much. I on the other hand read a lot and enjoy the wonder that is the English Language. I treat words like computers, they’re toys for me. People judge by their own standards.

Future topics will include rants on Human Rights - is there such a thing? Democracy - Does It Exist Anywhere Outside Switzerland? Bribery in Football. The MPs' Pay Rise - Is It Enough? More Ways To Kill Birds And Make It Look Like a Kindness.