I shouldn't really be blogging right now. I should really be looking for work. And quickly.
It's 20 years since I left school, ill equipped for life in Thatcher's Britain, with just a handful of qualifications- if that handful was represented by Jeremy Beadle's tiny paw-that I managed to scrape together having somewhat lost interest in my education, during my first real bout of depression.
But despite, or maybe because of my melancholic moodswings I have always worked. Except when I didn't need to and took a few weeks off here and there to relax.
So here I sit, 38 years old, firing my disappointingly short CV off to random employers, and so far...nothing. Not a glimmer of interest. It's like my School Discos of 1984 all over again. In fact, in an attempt to relive these days to the full, I should really stick on my cherry red DMs, shabby cardigan and "Hatful of Hollow".
Actually. Hold on, "William It Was Really Nothing" is now blasting out and I'm feeling quite inspired. "the rain falls hard on a humdrum town, this town has dragged you down..."
Do you know, there might be something to this. I'll keep you posted.
In the meantime, if you know anyone who wants to employ an indie loving, gentleman's outfitter/tailor/kilt salesman/ former independent radio presenter/blogger, let me know.
Saturday, 21 July 2007
Friday, 6 July 2007
Slim Fast, Die Young
A week ago I came downstairs to find my 75 year old father lying on the floor. He was fitting, foaming at the mouth and was lost somewhere in the depths of a very deep diabetic coma. Although, at the time I couldn't be sure if his condition was related to his diabetes, I'd seem him have a hypo in the past, but this was different, his face was swollen, and his tongue was hanging out of his mouth, his eyes were wide open, but there was no response from him. Paramedics were called and after they had administered 3 IV shots of glucose, they called for back up, having got no response from him. After an hour he was still out cold. However, slowly, very slowly, he started to come round. As he regained consciousness he became very distressed, but after another 15 minutes or so he was pretty much back to his normal self. The whole episode lasted about an hour and a half, and was one of the most frightening things I, or any other member of my family has ever gone through.
Now, I don't think I would normally post something this personal here, but this week saw a report published, and covered extensively by the BBC and others, of the latest trend for some diabetics to miss out their insulin injections for fear of getting fat.
Current estimates are that one third of young women with diabetes are using this method to keep slim, in the process they are risking blindness, nerve damage, kidney failure and heart disease. However, I'm not condemning them entirely for their actions. The society in which we live nowadays is very much obsessed with body image, where teenage girls, and boys have impossible role models to aspire to. To be anything over a size 6, or to be without the obligatory six-pack is to be unhealthy, ugly and a freak in these "Heat" obsessed times, whereas in reality, as a majority we are a nation of lardy arsed wobble bottoms- and remember, I come from a people who think nothing of putting a Scotch Pie on a roll, or deep frying in batter anything that doesn't move.
May I recommend the Deep Fried Pizza Supper, Pickled egg and a cheeky little bottle of Irn Bru?
So I won't condemn them, but their actions do anger me, to put their lives in danger in this way saddens me. Not that I've lived a blameless life myself. There was a point in my life when in my Top 5 list on BT Friends and Family, after my parents' and my girlfriend's number, listed as Number 3, was the telephone number for Pizza Hut Delivery, Sockets Heath, Grays, Essex. And I got staff discount in Oddbins, Lakeside.
I do think we need to educate (not lecture) people more when it comes to health and nutrition in this country, my own father's diabetes could possibly have been avoided if he'd been more careful in his lifestyle choices, my own body is on the verge of collapse having abused it quite spectacularly when younger, but it's not too late to make a change. Find a healthier balance. And make the most of the life we have.
And if I can give just one piece of advice to anyone reading this, it would this... Start each day with a bowl of porridge. A slow, gradual release of sugar into the bloodstream, lowers cholesterol and almost as tasty as the cold left overs of last night's Chicken Patia. I may have lied about that last bit.
Now, I don't think I would normally post something this personal here, but this week saw a report published, and covered extensively by the BBC and others, of the latest trend for some diabetics to miss out their insulin injections for fear of getting fat.
Current estimates are that one third of young women with diabetes are using this method to keep slim, in the process they are risking blindness, nerve damage, kidney failure and heart disease. However, I'm not condemning them entirely for their actions. The society in which we live nowadays is very much obsessed with body image, where teenage girls, and boys have impossible role models to aspire to. To be anything over a size 6, or to be without the obligatory six-pack is to be unhealthy, ugly and a freak in these "Heat" obsessed times, whereas in reality, as a majority we are a nation of lardy arsed wobble bottoms- and remember, I come from a people who think nothing of putting a Scotch Pie on a roll, or deep frying in batter anything that doesn't move.
May I recommend the Deep Fried Pizza Supper, Pickled egg and a cheeky little bottle of Irn Bru?
So I won't condemn them, but their actions do anger me, to put their lives in danger in this way saddens me. Not that I've lived a blameless life myself. There was a point in my life when in my Top 5 list on BT Friends and Family, after my parents' and my girlfriend's number, listed as Number 3, was the telephone number for Pizza Hut Delivery, Sockets Heath, Grays, Essex. And I got staff discount in Oddbins, Lakeside.
I do think we need to educate (not lecture) people more when it comes to health and nutrition in this country, my own father's diabetes could possibly have been avoided if he'd been more careful in his lifestyle choices, my own body is on the verge of collapse having abused it quite spectacularly when younger, but it's not too late to make a change. Find a healthier balance. And make the most of the life we have.
And if I can give just one piece of advice to anyone reading this, it would this... Start each day with a bowl of porridge. A slow, gradual release of sugar into the bloodstream, lowers cholesterol and almost as tasty as the cold left overs of last night's Chicken Patia. I may have lied about that last bit.
I'm sorry, this has become a bit of a lecture. It's just that after seeing my dad the way he was, and knowing how much worse the whole episode could've been, it threw me a bit to read the story about diabulemia.
I'm leaving this post as a work in progress. I started out trying to come to terms with my own feelings about nearly losing my dad, but I became distracted first by the eating disorder side, but latterly by the role image alone plays in so many women's lives.
For young women to put their health at risk to look good, or at least to conform to the image society, or at least fashion, dictates is nothing new. But there seems to have been so little progress in over 300 years.
One of the first, and finest feminist books published was Mary Wollstonecraft's "A Vindication of the Rights of Woman" in 1792, yet in part it could have been written at any time in the past 25 years- image, sexuality and independence may be hot topics now on Loose Women, but they are nothing compared to the arguments put forward by Wollstonecraft at the tail end of the 18th Century. And, if you would indulge me, in time I would like to come back to this.
So for now I'll sign off. Maybe not my most coherent posting, but, it will all make sense eventually.
Now, if you would all turn to Chapter One in "The Awakening" by Kate Chopin...and pay attention, I'll be asking questions later.
Sunday, 1 July 2007
Let's play Master and Servant
And so 3 months of good old fashioned family entertainment has come to it's conclusion in spectacular form. There may be spoilers ahead, so if you don't want to know the score, look away now.It seems like only yesterday that we were saying hello to The Judoon and Martha Jones on the Moon, as nice lady from "dinnerladies" sucked the blood from poor old DC Dalglish, and yet here we are, Summer's here and the ride is over. For now at least.
But, oh what a ride. Only blip in the season was the 2 parter featuring those malevolent pepper pots, the Daleks in Manhatten. I'd have been happier with the Muppets myself.
However, if that was the low point in season, there were many, many high points. First and foremost, it was a beautiful series to watch, hopefully the BBC will allow the production team to spend as much as they want on the visuals, it's incredible to think how far things have developed in the world of Special Effects since the original series aired.
We also witnessed possibly the finest "Who" stories in Stephen Moffat's "Blink" and Paul Cornell's two parter "Family of Blood/Human Nature". Moffat also wrote last year's "Girl in The Fireplace" and Series One's "The Empty Child", so has really got his work cut on for next season. Paul Cornell was also responsible for "Father's Day" in Series One when Rose went back to meet her father, so again, no pressure!
And what of the actual cast? I have enjoyed seeing Freema Agyeman's character of Martha develop over this series, and I hope the rumour that we haven't seen the last of her is true. I liked her, she was refreshing to watch after Rose's latter smugness, she was funny and sassy, and was a great foil to the big fella.BBC One's Mr Saturday Night, John Barrowman in his Captain Jack guise was back, larger than life but more rounded than in previous outings, and all the better for that. But still very much behaving like a dog in heat, flirting like Bill Clinton at... well anywhere really.
Now if you are going to bring back a super baddie, you'd be unlikely to do better than have one played by Derek Jacobi and John Simm. The Master, now sans goatee, but still oozing charm, was resurrected with a fantastic end of series triple parter that put the world and The Doctor himself, to their collective knees. Although I have no idea what a collection of knees would be called, A Knobble? Anyway, it was good to have him back, and even though we last saw him being burnt in a funeral pyre, (ashes to ashes, as opposed to Life on Mars) I fully expect to see him back in the not too distant future.
And so finally to the former David McDonald from Paisley.
I am a long time devotee of the show, my earliest memory is of watching Doctor Who, in my high chair. No really, in those days, we had two televisions, both from the Co-op, both black and white, one had a picture but no sound, the other naturally had sound but no picture, so one sat on the other. And that's how we watched telly in our house in the early 70's.Thankfully we only had one channel, see blogs passim.
And as a long time devotee, I can say without any doubt, that David Tennant is everything that The Doctor should be, and so much more. He has evolved into the role, bit by bit ever since he first burst forth from Christopher Eccleston's firey leather jacket back in the Summer of 2005, and has made the role very much his. His performances have been a joy to watch, his acting has terrific depth and he displays marvellous comic timing time after time. Cheeky, funny, scary, dark and brooding. And, in a Bowie-esque way, rather sexy.
There will come a day soon when he's gone from the role, so, make the most of these glory days. His are very big Converse boots to fill.
Thursday, 21 June 2007
September 1, 1939
I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-Second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return
Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man
Each language pours it's vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In a euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow,
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work',
And helpless governnors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleagured by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
W H Auden
On Fifty-Second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return
Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man
Each language pours it's vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In a euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow,
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work',
And helpless governnors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleagured by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
W H Auden
Tuesday, 19 June 2007
Never a frown, with Gordon Brown
New Labour, New Leader, New book in the shops now.And I have to say, rather good it is too.
Eight essays about individuals who have, in Gordon Brown's opinion, shown great courage when others may have taken the easy option. Each subject has that all important moral compass to guide them, and at times it is almost as if the profiles are really parables set out in the Gospel according to Gordon.
But the profiles are written with warmth and a very healthy lack of cynicism, which is rare these days, the language used isn't overly worthy, but manages to avoid the trap of being dumbed down.
In his introduction, Gordon Brown recalls, at the age of ten, being given an encyclopedia on twentieth century history,which told of the great deeds by the likes of Ernest Shackleton, the attempt on Everest by Mallory and Irvine and the sacrifice made by Captain Oates, and yet it is the story of Edith Cavell a nurse working in Brussels at the start of the First World War that left the biggest impression on him. And it is the courage of people such as her that has inspired him to write this book. The almost super human compassion and good that can exist in even the darkest of days is what is celebrated here.
Of course, these short essays cannot tell the full story of each individual, there is much that is unsavoury in some these lives, but it does work as a good introduction to some remarkable people.
And likewise, much as I have enjoyed this book, that is all this review is of.
I will return to the author in good time.
Saturday, 16 June 2007
Thursday, 14 June 2007
Technophobe
My stomach is in knots as I type this. Tonight I am doing something I've done for many years, that is I 'm taking my turn as a volunteer as the technician for the Talking Newspaper service in my town.
Unfortunately, tonight is my first night since we went digital. The old equipment was solid, reliable, easy, if you like and 100% analogue. The new stuff is apparently "really easy to use, once you get used to it" which is handy. My first sighting of the our new baby was on Monday, I had a 20 minute training session, and that was it. This morning I was e-mailed the training manual. And naturally enough, the instructions sent contradict everything I was taught on Monday. And I do mean everything, right down switching the bloody computer on.
It will be, I'm sure, an adventure. If I survive, I may even be tempted to scrap this blog piece entirely as I re-write my own personal history in a Stalinesque stylie. The spell checker wants me to say Stalinist, but I say blee to the spell checker. The spell checker says blew...
Unfortunately, tonight is my first night since we went digital. The old equipment was solid, reliable, easy, if you like and 100% analogue. The new stuff is apparently "really easy to use, once you get used to it" which is handy. My first sighting of the our new baby was on Monday, I had a 20 minute training session, and that was it. This morning I was e-mailed the training manual. And naturally enough, the instructions sent contradict everything I was taught on Monday. And I do mean everything, right down switching the bloody computer on.
It will be, I'm sure, an adventure. If I survive, I may even be tempted to scrap this blog piece entirely as I re-write my own personal history in a Stalinesque stylie. The spell checker wants me to say Stalinist, but I say blee to the spell checker. The spell checker says blew...
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