cracking under pressure?

Dear Australia,

RE: NUMBER OF OLYMPIC MEDALS WON

Now, you know that this blog is not one known for crowing, or exulting triumphantly over others. However,
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA


HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHA

HA.

Thank you.

Doing the Time Warp...

Every year, round about Reading Festival time, a slender magazine plops through the letterbox. It is the Bangoriad, the yeary update for graduates from UCNW Bangor, or plain Bangor University as it now is. I flick through it, gaze across the bits in Welsh and see which words I can puzzle out (like most English students who go there, I (perhaps shamefully) never learnt more than a smattering of the language), read about a few new developments and new appointments, flick over the obituaries just in case someone I knew from then is mentioned, flick through only partially interested, and vagualy thinking of my time there, twenty years ago. This year, however, one thing caught my eye: mention of Y Seren, the student magazine, which has now put all the archive editions online. Going to the website, I spent a good hour looking through the editions between october 1986 and 1989, the time when I was involved in it as gigs and events photographer, occasional columnist, sometime scurrilous letter writer and one time spectacularly bad poetry contributor (however, the poem does have a message concealed, not very secretly, in it). I won't say 'the memories came flooding back': perhaps more accurate to say the memories lapped gently at the knee, and I thought with a wry smile of myself, loitering around the Students' Union building and avoiding lectures.
I got involved with Y Seren during Freshers' week, when I went up to the magazine stall and introduced myself as a photographer. There was one problem: I hadn't actually brought my camera kit ( a Pentax Spotmatic F plus various lenses) with me, and had to wait before my dad turned up a few weeks later before I could actually start shooting. Once I started, I realised I had hit upon almost the perfect way to get into events without paying. I could get into all the gigs free, then I would go backstage with the bands afterwards, do impromptu interviews, and drink their rider. However, this left those occasions where my services as a photographer were not required. In order to circumvent the paying for things problem, I became a member of Ents and RAG, and a member of Stage Crew. This meant I could either be sitting on the door stamping hands and taking money for an hour, then go into the event free (mostly the wednesday and friday discos), or I would help coordinate something and again free entry, or I would be the DJ. Failing that, I would be involved in setting up and taking down the stage equipment: This latter strategy meant that I could indulge in some late night drinking - this was well before 24-hour drinking was introduced, and indeed only just after North Wales allowed people to drink after the ungodly hour of 10.30. In fact, I did almost all of these tasks while enveloped in a warm boozy haze. This fogginess may be the reason why the memories do not exactly flood back.
And why my wry smile? Well, I can't help thinking now of what else I might have done had I not spent so much time living the student lifestyle, and if I had been more confident in my own abilities, especially when it came to going out into the big bad world. I ask myself: What if my 40-year-old self could go back in time and talk with my 20-year-old self? What would I say?
I think it would be something along the lines of this:
'First up, don't worry what other people think of you, ever. You can only be yourself, and this is your life, not anyone else's, and only you can live it. If you screw up, if you do something bad, then you are the one who will judge yourself most severely. Being cool isn't all it's cut out to be: A lot of the time, it's away of doing absolutely nothing, but with style. Just be easy on yourself. Next, don't bother with being shy, and stop hiding behind booze and fags. Express your ideas and opinions, even if others don't agree - remember what I said first? People will respect you the more for being honest in your ideas.
Third, do more study - you're just coasting at the moment, and yes, you're doing OK, but you can do so much, much more. If you don't, you'll spend years feeling frustrated at yourself and blaming yourself and the world around you for your own perceived failure. Remember, Carpe Diem!
Last for now - it's not a crime to enjoy life - live it, even when you don't have any money! Believe me, you won't be rich in the future either. Oh, and fame is a load of bollocks. Now, let's crack open the Merrydown and Red Stripe, put the needle to the record and do put away those fags...'
..and the image fades. And this leaves the question: What would my 60-year-old self say to me now? Since the key to the future always resides within the present, perhaps it's a matter of finding the balding, grey-haired bloke within. Just as long as he isn't wearing beige.

movies.

So, a rainy monday, and off to see The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emporer with Angus. Oh dear. I think he enjoyed it, but with the exception of a few bits of things blowing up (admittedly, most of it), it was a fairly tedious affair, with a really tenuous storyline and characterisation that stretched reality so thinly it blew a hole straight through it and into the far side. Also, it had some really ropey CGI effects. Summed up, it would be something I'd fairly happily watch on DVD on a rainy sunday, but not otherwise. Then again, my cinema-going has been curtailed somewhat since having children - it now mostly involves stuff that is noisy and explosive. Actually, come to think of it, an awful lot of my cinema-going experiences pre-child were noisy and explosive.
And then I watched 'Braveheart' on TV a few days back. Now, this is a film to get the heart racing: an atavistic battle between freedom-loving tribesmen and evil overlords. I remember first seeing it in a plush cinema in Atakoy, Istanbul, back in '95, with my old chum Guy Elders, and being thrilled by it. It sang to the Scots part of my blood, and I cheered on Mel Gibson in the guise of William Wallace as he tore apart the flanks of the English. Watching it again, my response was anything but triumphal. The characters were ridiculously two-dimensional, the story flimsy and the historical intervention (read it - Edward II was born well after Wallace's death, for example) outrageous. Most of all, however, I felt sadness - sadness that Mel Gibson has such a blood-boltered, simplistic mind. Looking at his Ouevre subsequent to Braveheart, it is striking how much of it requires bloodshed, humiliation and pain on a grand scale, and requires the universe to work in simplistic Manichean ways. Gibson is always on the lookout for a Messianic figure, even if he plays it himself.

Loose ends.

Well, a week into my summer holidays, and typically, I'm ill - some kind of ghastly sore throat - blocked nose- generally crappy feeling type of thing. Apart from painting a wall, sorting out my rampant tomato plants, one visit to the museums in Oxford and doing some pottering of the domestic variety, I've managed absolutely bugger all. And, to be perfectly honest, I'm totally hating it.
As I've grown older, I've realised that I only ever really enjoy myself when I'm busy doing something. I'm simply no good at loafing. Well, actually that's not true - I would be an Olympic champion at the art of avoiding doing stuff if a) loafing were to be recognised as an Olympic Sport and b) if I could be arsed to participate. Over the years, I have procrastinated, avoided, shirked, lurked, malingered, dithered, hithered and thithered, and all for no good reason, although I have been adept at thinking up ones to tell myself: that if I go down such-and-such a route, then I'll be cutting off a possible opportunity in another direction; that by focusing on one thing only, I'll be denying myself the ability to see the bigger picture; that THIS THING needs doing NOW, but this can wait for tomorrow; And so on, and so forth.
Of course, I'm hardly the first person to complain of this, nor will I be the last. The trouble I have is my immense capacity to be distracted. I could write myself out a to-do list each day, but that feels way too anally retentive and nerdy. I keep seeking ways to tie up the loose ends of my life, but of course they appear as quickly as they can be resolved. And while looking round for ways to resolve them, I waste more time, I dither more, and the looser the threads become.

Race (or is that stroll?) For Life

Nur and my mum, yesterday, triumphantly finishing the Race for Life in Reading. You can tell they ran all the way round, can't you? Well done, though - I'm proud of you.





And here's something I've begun to think about:

14 peaks, 24 hours....hmmm....

New tricks

Grr. You'd think I'd know by now to look before I leap. I've just had to reinstall XP on my ancient laptop after wrestling with an Ubuntu install last night - of course, afterwards I find out that some of the programs I use (Phonmap, for example) aren't compatible. The system did seem to work very well, but it simply refused to see things like my wireless card. Bloody ancient computers. So far, I've got through the main part of a day doing this.

Because You're Gormless.

It's all not going too well so far today: I was hoping to get a lot of writing done, but I seem to be being pursued by noise, distraction, more noise and rogue students talking about hairdressing and cars in a loud voice in the library while I'm BLOODY WORKING. So I've decided to take a break for a cup of coffee and scribble a few things down, just for the hell of it.
Talking of Hell, I haven't written anything about advertisements for ages. The latest beef: noticing that virtually all people in clothing/fashion/hair/makeup ads are about 5 years old. These are people who do not need tarting up, plumping up, or anything lifted, so why are they used? Advertising is all about creating our personal Shnagri-Las after all, and making us feel useless/inadequate/basically crap because we don't have this or that product, or our teeth aren't perfectly white, or our hair isn't Salon Fresh, or our car isn't purring down pristine routes. I just get pissed off at all these apparently over-privileged munchkins traipsing around in FantasyLand.
Some companies, of course, try not to use over-toned homunculi in their ads. Dove is one, with its Real Women "Campaign". I notice it doesn't use Real Trolls, however. Amazingly, Loreal use 70-something Jane Fonda in its ads for Face Glop For Raisin-Faced People. Now, Jane Fonda used to be a stunningly attractive woman, and is still so for her age. Unfortunately, in the ad, what holds me mesmerised are her teeth, which glitter blazing white in unnaturally even rows. It looks like she has an entire gobful of falsies, which makes me wonder why. After all, she is wealthy and famously health conscious, so how come it looks like she's lost all her pearlies?
I imagine she was in some kind of scrap. Perhaps she was on the piss in a bar one time and encountered a tanked up Olivia Newton-John, and they got into an argument regarding their fading revenues from old VHS fitness workout tapes. In a fit of rage, Jane glasses Olivia, who picks up a barstool and smacks her one in the mouth. Because She's Worth It.

Bloggone. (sorry, bad pun)

I'm sorry to see that (not for the first time, it must be said) Marcus has deleted his blog. I've been a consistent reader of it for quite some time, and I've often thought about how I would like to write posts that reflect what he was thinking and writing, but I've not had the time whatsoever to marshal my thoughts and write anything cogent, something that I think is a real shame. He's stopped writing it, or so it seems, because of some kind soul describing it as car crash reading. That's simply not true; it has made good reading throughout. There are certain things he has said that I disagree with - in particular, what he says about Islam, but I understand why he says it - but even so, his awareness of travelling along an important life route, and his sharing of that process, has always made enlightening reading.

I haven't been keeping this up to date once more - been busy doing study. However, I am about top throttle the idiot sitting behind me who keeps on yapping about bugger all and has put me off my stride.
Please also note the addition in the sidebar, and please contribute if you can!

Mess.

There is the kind of mess that is associated with creativity, and which is in fact a fiendishly well-organised system hiding under layers of apparent crap to fool the unwary eye; Then there is the kind of mess that the rest of us occupy. I'm not writing on this or my other blog as often as I would like, nor am I really making any progress with my studies, nor am I doing pretty much of bugger all as far as I can see. Why is debatable, but primarily it's because everything feels and looks like a mess around me at the moment. It's also because, for whatever reason, I feel almost as if I have some invisible presence behind me, a silent, disapproving editor watching every single thing I scrawl down, and this puts me off writing anything at all.
In fact, I often have this sensation of a silent critic at my back, a loitering shadow eager and willing to criticise and moan, and have done ever since I can remember. It has put me off doing mopre things in my life than I care to remember. And one thing it has always been most insistent on is this idea of a mess. In other words, it has always been the thing at my back insisting that I must needs do this, that or the other before I get on with the real task in hand. It's always there, telling me that if I don't get such and such done, I'll be wrong or dispproved of etc. And without doubt, it has led to me not doing as much in my life as I should have.
Well, enough wittering.

Sean.

For want of posting something better..

Aw, bugger it, this blog has lost its direction recently, mainly because of a tremendous sense of weariness on my behalf. I actually feel totally physically knackered, and have done for the best part of this year. This is, as far as I can work out, mainly the fault of work, which seems to be getting in the way of everything else right now, but also there is this tremendous reticence to write within me, an invisible wall built for no reason, having no purpose, and leading to no output from me.
Anyway, let me get writing rather than talking about writing. Eurovision, for want of anything better. This is usually a sodding farrago, but this year has clearly beaten anything yet. The vote went to Russia simply because so many countries were afraid of having their gas supplies cut off. Well, that's what it looked like. As Sir Terry of Wogan said, it's nothing to do with music anymore. I disagree with the last word of the latter sentence. Since when has the Eurovision ever been to do with good music?
However, this year has shown it in all its grim glory: a popularity contest. This is meant to be a celebration of belonging. Instead, it's a tawdry playground game of my gang's better than your gang. And, stupid as it may seem, it tells a lot about what the European Project is, and how it may turn out. In some ways, it's a good thing - we're seeing a gradual readjustment between the rich western European countries and the neophyte members of the continental club. It's a bit unfair for the big, rich countires to start whinging about how they aren't winning the competition anymore. Come on, let's share the cost of hosting the bloody thing around a bit.
On the other hand, it has become colossally tiresome to watch the same old voting blocs: All the Scandinavians vote douze points for each other, Greece gives Cyprus 12, Cyprus arse-licks right back, etc, etc. There needs to be some kind of change to the system, though what, I haven't a clue.
As for the UK complaining about not coming anywhere near winning over the past decade: Which language is used? What muscial format do most countries use? Don't worry, the Anglo-Celtic Cultural Hegemony, even if we get next to nul points for our acts, is still dominant across Europe.

ok, let's see if this works then.

Myyy Precioussss...!

..or, what are the most valuable things I own? This is apropos of a couple of minutes' thinking about what to write here, and waiting for my fingers to start doing the magical thing they do once they start their dance over the keyboard and I can feel my mind slipping into The Zone. What are the valued things? Here, I am not talking about people, or love, or gripes, things that are talked about as being possessed, but which is never true. I'm talking about things, pure and simple. Take my need for my family as a given; take my not very well paid job for what it is; understand that what I am considering of value here is not things that are, per se, valuable, except that they are of worth for me. Let's start.
1) right now, my hands. only after you've had a limb out of use for a while can you truly appreciate having full use of all of them. I suppose I should extend this to all my bits, but my hand will do for now. Hands in general fascinate me: I remember one time at university, when I was in my halls of residence, watching a Sudanese student washing up his plates in the sink, and seeing the gentle, clever grace of his hands as they caressed the plates into cleanliness. Whenever I accidentally catch sight of my own in a reflection, there is always something slightly shocking in the moment, simply because they look so delicate and poised, yet I know how much strength there is in them.
2) The table at which I'm sat, which is in fact a bureau. An old, cheap bureau, a hand-me-down, but one at which I feel at home, and which feels like a thing born to be written upon. It is warm to the touch, I feel stories woven into it, and I love its simplicity.
At this point, I feel I should mention that this is a random list.
3) My key ring. This is in fact liberated from a gym bag, coloured white and red with the slogan 'Play Football!' upon it, over thirty years ago. It is the oldest thing that I have continuously owned upon my person, and it still performs the function to which it has been adapted. Why change what works?
4) A Citizen Automatic, a gift from Nur several years ago, which is currently languishing in the bureau, its mechamism in need of some TLC. I didn't appreciate it at first, but it's a truly lovely bit of watchmaking.

Yum!

This evening's meal was mainly a freezer clearout, and involved stuff you just shove in the oven then shove in your mouth. However, I felt a hankering for cilbir, so I made that too, and realised how much I missed it. I've posted something about it on here before ages ago, but it's worth a repeat mention, because it's so ridiculously simple but so bloody delicious. The first time I heard of it, I thought it would be utterly bloody disgusting, then I tried it. Trust me, if you make this, you'll get hooked. And it's perfect with raki - or a dry white wine, or a well matured and chilled fino.
Cilbir, aka eggs in yoghurt
you will need:
eggs
garlic
yoghurt
mint and/or dill
flakes of crushed chilli.
total time: 5 minutes - 15 minutes, depending on your eggs
first of all, decide what you want to do with your eggs. for this dish, they should, traditionally speaking, be poached, but I think it's far better when scrambled. If you go for the latter, fry the eggs in butter and a bit of sunflower oil.
Crush garlic, and either chop up or crush with a mortar and pestle. take your yoghurt (Turkish or Greek style, but not strained yoghurt - you need to be able to smooth this over, or pour, over the eggs), put it in a bowl, mix with the garlic. make sure your eggs are cooked. put on a service dish. pour yoghurt over the top. garnish with mint and/or dill, and flakes of chilli.
that's it! Eat with big chunks of fresh crusty bread.

A novel cure for Haemorrhoids?

I just recieved this slip through the letterbox.
It reads:
have you got piles?
need help to bring them down again?
well if so give sue a ring on xxxx xxxxx xxx

Oh, sorry, forgot to add the top line:
Ironing service.

Muddy.

That pretty much sums up my sunday afternoon ride up to Goring via the back roads past the Mapledurham estate and back via the Thames path to Pangbourne, Purley and Reading. You'd think a path that is a river route would be pretty flat: not a chance of it. It was up and down, up and down, and some clever bugger put large steps on some sections. The bridge tolls at Whitchurch show the prices from the early 1800s, which remained unchanged right up to the early 1980s.

well, you don't see this every day...

...snow in the south east, that is. Sunday morning. It lasted all of six hours. Of course, I had to build a snowman.
However, it was looking a bit to cute, so decided to make it a bit more sinister.

My desk.

Pinata!

so much to write, so little time, so it seems, so it is. Like so many other people, I am not entirely in control of my time management, and so I allow little jobs to slide until they end up as one colossal bloody mountain of sodding little jobs, and there's me at the base wondering what to do. Perhaps I should take a leaf out of my friend Marcus' book, or rather blog: The enlightened path may not lay at the top of the mound, but rather by walking round the side of it. Hopefully with a nice cup of tea to hand.
I find myself bogged down at present, having to juggle the various needs and desires of not only myself but also others. Sometimes it is frustrating: However, it is my life as it is. I'm well aware that I don't earn enough money, and that doing my Dip is the only current way forward, yet I still wonder whether I am on the right path, and whether I should be moving into something else. I want to study, I want to write, yet I seem to not have enough time for either.Perhaps I should walk around the mountain.
On a different topic, I've had quite a few reactions to the whole Jesus Pinata thing. Most agree with what I said at the end of the post, ie a sick stupid idea, yet it later struck me that theologically speaking it was actually appropriate, as long as it was done on Good Friday. The act of striking a Jesus Pinata until it breaks (spilling communion wafers and wine?) would be hugely symbolic of the mockery, abuse and pain heaped upon Christ in his final few hours, and therefore apt. I formed this opinion while watching BBC/HBO's hugely impressive 'The Passion', which didn't shirk from showing what a miserable, vile and humiliating death crucifixtion was, while not lingering on the thing with the sadistic pleasure evinced by Mel Gibson's film. However, the actor playing Jesus looked a bit too much like Ben Fogle with a beard to be entirely convincing.