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.

Dad's Birthday - Nov 14th

‘You can take the boy out of Basildon but you can’t take the Basildon out of the boy.’ As we go through life, we change. That’s the way it works. On balance, our lives are richer, sometimes materially, more often although unnoticed, spiritually too. We learn, love, win, lose, and get through life, rarely as we expect. We grow too, with few exceptions, yes, OK, around the waist – fair cop, but what I was alluding to was - intellectually and spiritually.

Looking around the friends that are still in my life – i.e. you, I see people who are so much more than when we first met. So many of us were callow youths and silly girls (and here I don’t just mean the women), chasing the next thing to make us laugh. Now we are senior citizens, seasoned by life, kids, tears and joys. So many ups and downs have visited us, leaving us with skinned knees and bloodied noses, yet we survived and are for the most part - happy.

Now in our autumn, we have time to reflect.

 

Whether we do or not, depends on our need for introspection. You tell me. Do you ever take time to look at your life, the way you live? Are you satisfied with it? Does any part need changing? Or do you just hurry through, jostled by the pressures of a 21^st century lifestyle? I look forward to any thoughts you may care to share.

I reflect continually, especially when with schoolmates. In my visits to Basildon, I have lunch with friends from Woodlands and our Junior school, Manor. Without fail, we talk about Basildon in the 50s and 60s and recount – possibly less than reliably – incidents from that time.

Similarly, I meet friends from my days at Ford Tractor or Warley and Trafford House or from the years of travelling around Europe as an auditor, then launching systems, then the time in Portugal. I return to the nest for a week of lunches and dinners with people I first met in the womb that was Basildon.

I mention all this in illustration of my opening sentence, Basildon has been the hub of my life and for that I am grateful. While it is the butt of jokes around the theme of The Only Way Is Essex, I love the place. It carries a wealth of fond memories.

It shaped the way I speak and as Scott Walker once sang – “No Regrets”. It is what it is, which I have noticed, now that I’m surrounded by the Lincolnshire accent, is more Essex than ever and I fear I am turning into Dick Van Dyke muttering “Gor Blimey Maaaa-ry Poppins!” possibly in an attempt to retain my identity.

 

A working class existence in Basildon taught me many life lessons. Yes, I got turned over now and again but that also taught me about people.

 When I return to Essex, the pace of life is now too fast. I am a country boy used to a snail’s pace. (“Will you walk a little faster?” said a whiting to a snail - Lewis Carroll). While I couldn’t live there again, Basildon is my spiritual home and I value that; the experiences it gave me, a happy childhood and the lifetime friends. Wherever you are in the world today, for 99% of the recipients of this letter, apart from a few cousins in Oz, this means you.

Now to the news, a great source of entertainment. Isn’t it great to see two UKIP members in parliament? Of course I’m not a supporter - don’t be daft. It’s the party of short-sighted bigotry; the political wing of the National Front, like Sinn Féin was to the IRA. Nonetheless, a joy to see them elected as it has rocked the boat - the closed shop of privileged entitlement that is our a two-party system. At last the tide is turning. The voice of public opinion is making itself heard. Guided by that element of the press that sells papers by scaring people, it’s what people think they want. Best not look in the mirror though.

How many of us are properly English? Nearly none. Certainly not me but probably not you either. Due to a history of invasion, most of today’s Brits have ancestors that are Scottish, Irish, French, Italian (Roman), Huns and Goths and Scandinavians. If you read any history of England you will see that if there are any pure English left, they’ll live in Cornwall or West Wales, maybe Ireland if they had a boat - driven to these outlying regions by bloodthirsty invaders.

I don’t really understand the anti-immigration argument. The National Health Service can’t operate without its contingent of foreign doctors and nurses. Plus the world is now multiracial, Nowhere is pure anything anymore. Look at the German Football team. If you were going to get purity of blood stock anywhere you’d expect it there. Instead you get Mezut Ozil, Sami Khedira and Kevin Prince-Boateng. Hardly Hitler Youth is it?

As for the benefits of a multiracial system, the Notting Hill Carnival has been bringing fun and gaiety to all creeds and colours for years. There was no disowning of Jessica Ennis, Mo Farah and Dame Kelly Holmes when they won their golds. Curry is the favourite English food and has been for years. Like the French, we eat horse willingly and happily. OK, unbeknownst to us, admittedly, but it had become a favoured flavour in mince, burgers and lasagnes. Talking of which, lasagnes, pizzas, kebabs, burgers, wallies, Spag Bol, Big Macs, Chinese, Indian, Thai food… all introduced to the masses by the people they don’t want here.

We like to holiday all over the world and spend summers and winters in Spain and Turkey taking advantage of their health services and cheap wine. We don’t mind being immigrants, just don’t want any over here unless they’re going to look after us when we’re ill, fix our plumbing on the cheap or as in Lincs, pick the vegetables at an unearthly hour so they can be fresh on our table.

All academic of course, with international air travel being as easy as it is and Internet access that allows conversations to everywhere, the world is a tiny place. Bleating about immigration is unrealistic. It’s like King Canute forbidding the tide to come in. Cherry-picking seems to be the answer. We need sports stars, doctors and nurses, veg pickers and grads in IT, medicine and engineering. Our home-grown talent can't fill the demand. What a headache. Glad I’m not PM.

Too serious, back to UKIP. Look at the pathetic Tory argument “A vote for UKIP will put the Glenn Miller Band into Downing Street.” They’re not saying why you should vote Tory (perhaps they can’t think of an argument?), instead they prefer to focus on why you shouldn’t vote UKIP; a manifestation of the usual negativity that we have come to expect from politicians.

Cameron is a poor orator isn’t he? They really shouldn’t let him speak in public. With his tight-lipped earnestness, rather than let his argument do it for him, he tries too hard to convince. Look at Obama, Salmond, Farage, all relaxed and eloquent, speaking spontaneously, making it up as they go along. You can’t believe a word these slippery eels say but they are good speakers, delivering with confidence. Cameron, dull, unconfident - and getting chubby.

Looks like the Lib Dems will be finished at the next election. 2 or 3 seats? What d’you think? Soon be down there with the Greens. Caring about people and the world we live in is a lost cause.

I see Mark Reckless lived up to his name, celebrating his election victory with an orange juice. That man is pure Rock ‘n’ Roll. More importantly, Why was the Shadow Attorney General Emily Thornberry asked to resign? I understand that her action of tweeting a photo of the English flag displayed from a house window in Rochester, was interpreted as a sneer at UKIP voters. If that’s right, why was she asked to resign? Why wasn’t she sacked? When the Labour Party, the party of the working class, looks down on you, you realise you have become sub-working class, i.e. a chav.

Enough of politics, Camera Club... We have a competition coming up; Four on a Theme. You can put in two entries. These are my two sets of four. I’ll be tinkering with them in Photoshop.

These are the untouched photos. The first set is entitled “Life in Lincs”.

 

It’s the area in and around my village; a ploughed field, the windmill in the next village, the snow scene is my garden in the first winter here and a bit of ditch clearing in Jan when poor old Somerset was underwater. The second set are photos of Paris when I was there at Easter and is entitled “That Parisienne Vibe”.

 Saw Remember Me last night. It’s a new ghost story on BBC1, Sunday nights starring Michael Palin. Don’t watch it. I didn’t want to go to bed afterwards. Kin scary.

I missed the first series of The Fall with Scully as a senior detective in Belfast. Years after the X-Files and she’s still hot isn’t she? Confident and feminine, not afraid to look like a glamorous woman in a man’s world (the police). As I missed that first series, I recorded all six episodes in the rerun which was shown as a trailer to the second series, then watched them back to back. Now we’re into series 2. It’s recommended, if only to fantasise over Scully.

Some of you watching The Missing have spoken highly of it. I’m recording it and will probably have a marathon session, all episodes, one after the other as we approach the end.

Babylon, Homeland, 8 Out Of 10 Cats, Big Bang Theory, Have I Got More News For You… I watch all these and more to end any day. When I was at work, some nights my head was spinning with work problems and I would dream of spreadsheets and snowstorms of paper, macro code and numbers. Now I make sure that whatever I spend my day on, I end it with my mind in neutral. As everything is recorded, I watch it when I want, not when it’s on live. Generally, I watch pap. Some of it engaging, some of it funny. If I watch Horizon or some such intense and informative documentary about space, the mind or human behaviour, that is early in the evening. For the last couple of hours of any day, I relax the mind - and I sleep like a babe.

I also do a bit of reading just before dropping off. Currently reading about Highbury. Did you know Spurs had shares in Arsenal about 100 years ago? Sold them, then, when they wanted to stop Arsenal entering the Football league, regretted the selling of those shares. Don’t think it was meant to be a comedy but how I laughed!

I’ve been writing the Lottery Winner story more lately. Written thirty pages so far, setting up the background to various threads. You’ve got a lottery winner who doesn’t care much for money so after getting himself set for life which only take a few of his 157 million, he sets about giving the rest away – by unusual and imaginative means.

He looks after those who choose to be homeless, rehabilitates criminals, puts square pegs in square holes, hires people to hack and to spy on the great and the good, bent coppers and politicians, and anyone who annoys him. They are then exposed via a few journalists whose careers he looks after. He buys farms in depressed regions, and uses their animals and produce to feed the community who are largely the poor and unemployed – and organises various other acts of philanthropy. In a separate thread, he gets involved in criminal gangs, setting them up to kill and steal from each other.

He practices vigilante justice as he has a dim view of the law, seeing it as riddled with loopholes for the benefit of lawyers rather than to serve justice. In short, it’s a piece of self indulgence. It’s what I would do if I won silly money on Euro millions. As the chances of that are negligible, I’m living my fantasy by writing it in a story. As you see, I’m keen on vigilante justice. We’ve had Robin Hood, Zorro, Batman, Superman etc. Is it really that bad? Yes, you’re going to make a mistake every now and then and kill someone mistakenly. Whoops! These things happen. Millions dies in tsunamis, earthquakes, mudslides, train crashes, air crashes - all dying pointlessly. What’s a few more in the pursuit of natural justice?

There are mad scientists, a bloke that believes he’s a vampire, a dainty killer from MI5, and of course some villains whose fate it is to be overcome. No sex, no swearing. Just like my life today.

Oct 1st 2014

Sorry it’s been a while but life has been full of ‘nothing much’ again. This is handy as it gives me time to dwell on what really matters. As a younger man, I was in a headlong rush to do everything, try every new experience, sip every drop of nectar that was offered. My leaving gift from Portugal from Caroline, my girlfriend at that time, was a crystal butterfly. She knew me well. I flitted. If you knew me then, you’d have known a shallow, ego-centric person with little time for anything not hedonistic or requiring in-depth application of self. While I’m not proud of that, I had a good time so – Swings and Roundabouts, eh? Was it really so bad to live Life so fully?

Now, limited by health and age, those sugar rushes are less appealing and things of a lesser magnitude that I’d have previously missed, have grown in importance. This was captured wonderfully by a line from Mr. Pink the PE teacher in Doctor Who. Wise before his years, he said, “I don’t want to see more things - but to see the things that are already there, more clearly”. It is easy to be in too much of a rush to move on to the next high. If you can’t see the wisdom in this, I can’t explain it. Nonetheless, give it some thought and you too may experience an epiphany.

Do you watch Doctor Who? I love it! The storylines are no longer for kids. They haven’t been for years. They’re far too complex and require abstract thought – an ability to see what’s below the surface as well as the obvious, plus, the dialogue is clever and lyrical. So, not for kids or people who watch ITV.

Clara had just betrayed the Doctor by trying to blackmail him. She threatened to throw away all the keys to the TARDIS. As they were special keys that could only be destroyed by the lava of a volcano, she got him to take her to the edge of a volcano and then demanded that he went back in time to fix a big problem. He wouldn’t so she threw the keys into the volcano achieveing nothing but a lose-lose outcome. By destroying them, it meant he could never enter the TARDIS again. She did this because the man she loved had died and she wanted the Doctor to make it right with some time travel. Sadly, her approach was to demand this - with menaces. She didn’t simply ask it as a favour from a friend.

He outwitted her (you’ll have to see the episode to find out how), then helped her anyway. Ashamed, she asked why he was helping her after she had betrayed him, to which he looked her straight in the eye and replied -  “Do you think I care for you so little, that betraying me would make any difference?” Wow! What writing!

Talking of clever words, I heard in a song on the radio … “Where’s the ‘good’ in goodbye, where’s the ‘nice’ in nice try, where’s the ‘us’ in trust gone, where’s the ‘soul’ in soldier on?” This was by the Script from their album ‘No Sound Without Silence’ –a clever thought in itself. How do people come up with these lines? As an aspiring writer, I am hopelessly envious of this much lyrical talent and originality all around me.

You all know me pretty well so will know that I speak to anyone – in the street, in a shop, in a queue etc. In the queue in Morrison’s last week, I was waiting for the couple ahead to pay and was vaguely aware of a young lad behind me unloading his dad’s trolley onto the conveyor behind my shopping. He was using one hand, which I casually dismissed as a young guy, being cool and unhurried. In this exercise though, he dropped one of the tins.

In such moments to ease embarrassment, it is my way to quip merrily “How’re those juggling lessons going?”  Don’t know why but this time, I didn’t. Just as well. When I looked, the kid only had one hand. Phew! Got away with that one. It was lucky I didn’t offer to give him a hand. We must consider the possibility of Guardian Angels being more than a fanciful notion. Note to self, Listen to your mum. Don’t talk to strangers.

The end of September brought the annual golf tour, this time to Ayr on the West coast of Scotland. The local Wetherspoons – the West Kirk brought a surprise - a converted church, an ingenious accommodation of a trend where the two pound pint is the new object of worship.

 

Ayr is a small unimposing town where people go about their business muttering in Jock tones that are beyond incomprehensible. I nearly got a slap from a young girl having a ciggie outside a nightclub. We were looking for a hostelry more suited to our age than theirs and asked directions. She was clearly trying to be helpful with animated dialogue that was beyond my capacity for understanding although I think I detected “See you Jimmy” and “Stitch that!” By way of a response I had to confess sheepishly “I didn’t understand a wuurr-rd.” She gave up but her mate frustrated at my denseness, wanted to punch my lights out. I believe this is a normal greeting for stupid, deaf Sassenachs when we venture North of the Border to display our natural talent for being dense. I think I could have placated her if I’d had a deep-fried Mars Bar about my person but I had come out in a hurry so was unarmed.

In other conversations in that week following their failed Independence Vote, the “YES” brigade were clearly angry about their betrayal by the “NO” voters with much nebulous accusations of them “Having let down our youngsters.”

It seems to me to be an admission of failure in an argument when the losing party resorts to emotive language. When you can no longer present an argument which lets the audience form its own opinion(s) but have to tell them what their conclusion is to be by stating it as if it were a fact, that’s a scheming politician’s approach. You can see this at every Prime Minister’s Question Time. Labour will tell you that the Tories are incompetent - and vice versa. Neither party will show you why the other is at fault by presenting an argument free of emotive language to let the listener decide on its merits.

PMQs are just kids in the playground having tantrums; a totally worthless exercise other than to show how the Mother of Parliaments has descended into nothing more than an arena for childish squabbles deserving contempt and ridicule. Surely these Muppets can see that we are laughing at them? Perhaps not - as it continues in the same vein, week in week out, with each speaker puffing grandly and pretentiously in (predictable) ignorance of the derision they attract like a magnet strutting through a sea of iron filings.

But, back to the Jocks… The complainants didn’t explain why the youngsters had been let down by the older voters who were more experienced in life, economics and lying politicians, it was enough for this vague assertion to be presented as if it were true.

The fact that the older voters could see that the intensely-disliked Salmond NEVER ONCE explained what Plan B was for how he would organise a National Bank that could support a currency that was not Sterling, or that the country’s income could not sustain its wonderfully generous socialist policies without its subsidy from the rest of Britain, or that taxes would go up once they were independent; all realities to be ignored in favour of rampant patriotism.

Naturally, the Jocks were angry. But then have you ever know one that is anything else? It seems it is their duty to be angry. In explaining the word ‘oxymoron’ it is usual to give examples via phrases such as ‘Honest Politician’. ‘Caring Psychopath’ wouldn’t be far behind  - and ‘Contented Scot’ would serve equally well.

Apart from my scrape with the young ladies, Ayr was generally a peaceful place. This is a sunset that greeted me on the way to another pub that the guys had chosen to investigate.

Those of you who have seen me in that last few years will know that I have the shakes (Essential Tremors). They only trouble me when I am at rest and are absent when walking around a golf course or doing anything that requires the tensioning of muscles. It is also particularly prevalent when I am anxious about anything - at which time I am like the Duracell Bunny.

A few weeks back, a consultant examined me and concluded that this is Parkinson’s. Before you fret and get alarmed, it is at an early stage and shouldn’t bother me for some years, in which time, there may be advances in medical science so perhaps it’s not as bad as our imaginations would have us believe. Before we worry unduly, let’s wait till it becomes a problem. For now, it is little more than annoying, especially when drinking tea. What a messy business that can turn out to be! Most blokes are proud to say “I need both hands to hold it” - but not when talking about a tea cup.

There is a drug that minimises the shakes but it comes with a side-effect which is to exaggerate compulsions. If drinking or gambling is a problem, this drug will make that worse. Luckily, since the diabetes, I drink nearly nothing and gambling has never been of interest. There are other compulsions and the consultant listed some worth considering, hoarding being the one that caught my attention.

I still have a lot of Mum & Dad’s things laying around. Mum’s been gone for eight years and Dad for 22. The intrinsic value of these souvenirs is of no significance but their sentimental value is a powerful draw. Or is it? Am I being sentimental or just lazy about clearing things out? How do you decide if something is retained out of sentimental memory or through being a magpie in a previous life? At any rate, when I got home from that visit to the consultant, armed with a self-awareness of this tendency, I set about my study with a vengeance.

You will have seen in previous Letters that the tidying of this study of is a job that (a) will take ages and (b) never really gets started; now it has. In the first two days I ditched five bags of paper, which included calendars. Years of travel around Europe between 1980 and 2000 saw me buy calendars in the major European capital cities to frame their pictures and capture their art, views and culture. Additionally, there were more old bank statements and various jokes from before the days of emails when these were passed around on photocopies. Luckily, my PC played up at the same time so went for repair for a couple of weeks. Being thus deprived of electronic temptation, it allowed me the time to devote to study tidying. The reward is - I can now reach bookcases without having to move things first.

Most importantly, in rummaging through old files, I discovered songs I had written at various stages of my life - plus lots and lots of poetry from the early 90s when I was churning it out like ticker tape. That creative vein faded by the mid-90s but for a few years it was a natural part of me. Surprisingly, while it was clearly my poetry because of the style and the handwriting, I was seeing much of it for the first time and I remembered fondly the people for whom it had been written. It was a wonderful trip down Memory Lane to a very happy and emotional time of my life. Poetry comes from joy, sadness and experience of life. You don’t live life by sitting on a rock watching the tide go in and out. You have to get  your feet wet – and take the consequences.

My poetry and songs are now filed safely, as are the poems that were written to me by one friend in particular. In the year we were together we wrote each other enough of our thoughts in rhyme to fill a book. I have now created a file and organised it thoroughly. Although, in the true spirit of this room, while only weeks have passed since this renaissance, I now have no idea where it is.

I went to Cologne last week to visit Marie-Paule, a friend I worked with in Portugal. She showed me around Cologne and also Hasselt, her home town in Belgium.

 

As you see, the travel continues, as does the tendency to photograph anything and everything. I’ll be in Essex again in Dec and seeing some of you, which means I’ll be here in Lincs for Nov. Give me a call if you fancy a chat - or send me an email. Time and an inclination to ramble on without direction or purpose, are in plentiful supply. Ever the flitting butterfly, B.
 

Sept 7, 2014

It occurs to me that due to the rambling nature of my thoughts, increasingly, these letters have become less and less about life in Lincs. Some of that is down to the fact that life here is quiet. It’s hard to make ‘nothing going on’ into something interesting. Also, as I travel a fair bit, you’ll hear about those experiences rather than life here - plus, I am constantly engaged by the minutiae of life - politics, the news, documentaries, music - which means you’ll hear about that too.

Some of you comment on the bits of these letters that catch your eye and for that I am grateful. Feedback is always appreciated, whatever direction it takes. A few write back to tell me about your own lives, which is nice for me as I want to know what moves you; what twists and turns visit your life. By the very fact that we have been friends for quite a while now, you shouldn’t be surprised that you are important to me and I want to know what’s happening to you - especially if we haven’t spoken recently.

With that in mind, this letter is about life in Lincs. Let’s start with our roads. They’re not big. We have one motorway, the A1(M) which goes North to South and luckily, the other way too. Most A roads are single carriageway which occasionally feature a bit of dual carriageway every now and then allowing you to get past one or two trucks - so you can queue again behind the ones in front of them. We like to celebrate small victories.

The B roads are Lincolnshire County Council’s traffic calming devices. Straight as you like it’s possible to get up some speed - but they undulate. Consequently, if you do more than 40 you’ll bang your head on the roof before long. We don’t need speed bumps, surprise undulations in the road surface do the job. Speed is for strangers who don’t know the cost of shock absorbers.

In reality, speeding is rare. It does happen but queueing behind a convoy of trucks and tractors interspersed with cars - tends to encourage patience. A few impatient souls will try overtaking five or six cars at a time and where this is successful without a head-on, it just means they queue jump a bit to get in the same queue further up - and life goes on. Realisation will dawn eventually.

With so many farms in this county, there are a lot of tractors using our roads. Slow as they are, oddly-enough, tractor drivers are considerate souls. When there is a straight bit and no traffic in the other lane, they drift to the left, straddling the white line to give you a view of the road ahead. It’s up to you whether you overtake or sit tight. When a bend or a line of traffic approaches, they move back to fill the lane. By blocking your view they are telling you there is nowhere to go. As you see, pace of life is also influenced by driving habits.

It is a simpler life here. I went into Spalding today and found the market place had been taken over by a music festival labelled ‘Music In The Market Place’.

The stage had also been helpfully identified. To add to the air of fiesta, balloons had been deployed. We know how to push the boat out. You soon saw why it had been called Music In The Market Place as a woman was singing and playing a guitar - in the market place, justifying the thought that had gone into the title.

Deckchairs had been laid out for an audience who sat watching, intrigued, applauding politely in the right places - yet offering no clue as to how they would vote at the end. Acts seem to get their fifteen minutes of fame, and the two I saw were deserving of it  being good musicians and singers. Tomorrow the market place will revert to its traditional offerings; handbags and gladrags, fruit & veg, antiques and several forms of cheese. As you see, there’s a bit more to life here than you might surmise.

Being a fruit and veg growing area, there are a lot of Eastern European pickers hereabouts, mainly Poles. When I was a kid, my Uncle Ted (Tadeuzs Balski) a friend of Mum & Dad’s, who I called ‘Uncle’ as he was a generation above, was my footballing mentor. He encouraged me to kick a ball with both feet, taught me how to do keepie uppies and the overhead kick that was not to be seen in British football till Dennis Law brought it back to the U.K. from Italy some eight years later. Uncle Ted was Polish. Following the invasion, he fled Poland to volunteer as a motor cycle despatch rider in the British Army and settled here after the war.

A mate of mine from the Internal Audit days - JR, had a Polish girlfriend called Gina; a lovely lady, a GP who was well mannered, intelligent and articulate. So, I have known two Polish people, both of whom I liked. The love of my life, Aleksandra Mijovic, was a Yugoslav, a Serbo-Croat, studying for two degrees; Business Admin and English Literature. Her dad was a consultant in banking systems who was involved with introducing the VISA credit card process to Sweden (where we met). I met her family and friends in Belgrade and Stockholm, finding them to be civilised people; all-in-all, no complaints.

The few others that I’ve spoken to in and around Spalding, including my dentist, have been quietly-spoken, well-behaved and polite. Consequently, you will not be surprised, from my experience of Eastern Europeans I do not share the Daily Mail’s xenophobic hysteria. Which reminds me… What do you call a person walking to work at 06:30 in the morning? Ans: an immigrant. They’ve got a job - which requires them to be out and about at 06:30 in the morning in all weathers, and - they’re walking to work. How many Brits walk anywhere? Ask any of your cabbie mates. The majority of their fares are people on benefits heading to or from the pub.

Back then in the late 50s, Uncle Ted introduced us to European cuisine such as Salami, Wiener Schnitzel and Pickled Dill Cucumbers - or Wallies as they are better known. Even today, I buy these cucumbers as an adjunct to various meals. Plus we eat them in Big Macs as part of its glorious taste explosion.

All of this is to lead you to my newest fad, Russian Roulette Shopping. With such a large Polish community, we have dedicated Polish food shops featuring quite a bit of their favourite foods - biscuits, cold meats, spices and sauces. A smaller selection is also on the shelves in Sainsbury’s and Morrison’s.

In restaurants, I like to try new things. For the ten years I was on the road with Internal Audit and launching systems with Ford of Europe Accounting, courtesy of Ford, I ate in restaurants around Western Europe from Finland to Italy. It gave me the chance to try local favourites. Gravad Lax, caviar, oysters, Reindeer and Bear steaks (sorry Santa - and fans of Paddington), Squids in ink, Alligator and Turtle being amongst the most memorable. At an Indian, Thai or Chinese, I’ll usually choose something untried - a Chef’s Speciality rather than an old favourite. This is where the Russian Roulette Shopping comes in.

Today in Morrison, this sense of adventure led me to try Almette Zzoolami - from the refrigerated aisles. I have no idea what it is.

 

The name offered no clue but I bought it anyway. I suspect it is a soft cheese in the style of Boursin but this is by no means a given. I’ll let you know shortly.

I like strong tastes and adventures in food, often garnishing meals with a splash or two of Tabasco. My mate JR, mentioned earlier, has a more conservative palate and was of the view that having bought a bottle of tabasco, what with it being the Devil’s condiment and all, you’d use so little that you wouldn’t need to buy another bottle again in your lifetime. He was baffled as to how they stayed in business.

In a previous letter, I mentioned flying with the famous footballer Eusébio. As lunch came round, he reached into his Gucci bag, pulled out a bottle of tabasco and emptied it onto his BA chicken, possibly a bit more freely than most people might be inclined. Each to their own.

So - Almette Zzoolami, let’s see what that turns out to be. More experiments in Polish food to follow. I’ve already tried some of their biscuits which were a cheery, cherry version of Jaffa Cakes - fabulous.

In past letters I have mentioned the fields around these parts. This was the sight that greeted me on my way to the golf club today. I’ve never seen hay stacked in this Close Encounters style before, although, it must be normal as we’ve seen it on the backs of lorries in bales like these, just not in fields. At the height of last year’s floods, on my way to the doc’s in the next village, I witnessed dredging of the ditches. A chap with a JCB was digging out the weed growth in the ditches that separate our roads from our fields.

 

I witnessed this while the Somerset Levels were under water so was pleased to witness local efforts to keep local ditches and dykes clear.

 

JCBs are fine for ditches but something else is needed for rivers and dykes. The golf club has a couple of holes that follow the River Glen. Waiting on the 2^nd tee one day, I watched a couple of boats clearing the weed from the surface and the depths. One was a Proud Mary contraption, with the paddle wheel on the back. He reversed through the weed, then scraped it off the paddles every now and then. The other was a motor boat and a chap with a rake. I hope he got paid more, he seemed to have the tougher job.

This is the Glen, running alongside our course. When you wait on the 2^nd and 4^th tees for the match ahead to get out of range, it provides a welcome diversion but beware its two faces. Having seduced you with its beauty and serenity, when it’s your turn to drive, it becomes a ball magnet. The Delilah that is Nature, eh?

Most of this area is land reclaimed from the sea over a hundred years ago. Spalding was a port once, as was Wisbech, plus I have Holbeach 15 minutes away. The “beach” in their names suggesting previous proximity to the sea. A number of villages in these part have “Seas End” as a suffix to their name - another indication that the sea was once closer. Moulton Seas End is just two miles from me and (now), a lot more than that from the coast.

All those years back, the land was reclaimed by Dutch engineers. It will come as no surprise that my local council is called South Holland District Council. Dutch engineers used their experiences from the Low Countries to design a system of drainage dykes (canals), with raised sides. Now, we have largely flat land, rich, fertile, good for farming - that was once the North Sea or at best marshland. My only complaint is that it has brought the French nearer.

Aug 2014

The summer saw my patio turn into a blaze of colour. Having brought a lot of pots with me from Keysland, I eventually found a few days to put something in them. With winter approaching, today being another sunny day in Paradise, will see many of these transferred to the beds to see if they can survive our winter. I say ‘our winter’ as I’ve noticed that this area is 3º to 5º Celsius colder than you Southern Softies get in Essex (writes Grizzly Adams, Bear-wrestler and Mountain Man).

 Jan 2013

 

Well, that’s more or less life here in Lincs, slow yet varied, simple while also full of surprises like ditch dredging and Music In The Market Place. BTW, the Almette Zzoolami turned out to be a soft cheese that was a bit milder than Boursin, with more gentle chive notes than in-yer-face garlic & herbs - barely poisonous so further excursions into Russian Roulette Shopping will follow.

John King (school friend since we were eight) and Margaret came to visit me and were pleasantly surprised by the sedate pace of life versus the hurly-burly that is Essex. Pete Childs also came for a weekend of golf and to take a look at Spalding. If any of you have a desire to sample this quiet lifestyle, give me a call. We should be able to arrange a few days of (effectively), sleepwalking.