(Some) things I learnt in 2008

1. How to make tiramisu.
2. No matter what the recipe suggests, you should add at least double the amount of Amaretto to the ingredients of tiramisu. Otherwise you are just eating over-priced Italian cheese with swimming, soggy, coffee-dunked finger biscuits.
3. ‘Friends’ are precious. But the old-school definition of friends. Not the Facebook definition. I know this because I managed to become friends with myself on Facebook today. Now I’m getting spam from me. Beat that.
4. To travel is indeed fantastic. But to have a home to call your own is truly a blessing.
5. It’s easy to forgive. But even more difficult to forget. No matter how good the intentions are, time is usually the winning ingredient. The more time you have, the easier it becomes to forget. I think. I just hope that I have enough time left to forget.
6. ‘Plum’, ‘doughnut’ and ‘turnip’ are politically-correct and quite acceptable forms of insult. You can call someone a plum and not feel that you have necessarily offended them.
7. George Bush is a Plum.
8. Robert Mugabe is the Emperor of Plums.
9. That going to a doctor does not solve all your problems. They can ease the symptoms. But it’s best not to get sick in the first instance. Doctors know this, I think.
10. Some friends are like olives. Drinking a martini is generally better with them involved.
11. I like Phil Collins.
12. It’s lovely to work for a company that you like. Let alone a boss that you like, too. But when the chips are down, all is fair in love and war. This is not a criticism or a reference to any person living or dead. It’s just a thought. A boss once told me, “Be patient with your leaders. One day, you may have to become one.”
13. The tattoo I got when I was 21 (a Celtic armband) is the 2008 equivalent of a ‘Tweetie the Bird’ tattoo from the early 90s (which Doughnuts got when they were 21).
14. You never really appreciate something until it is gone. This includes things like toilet paper, your health or people you love. So to be grateful is a good thing.
15. That tough love is something we could possibly all benefit from. Tough love, not as in fetish love (steady, now), but tough love as in leaving your loved ones to their own devices… unaided and without sympathetic support. But always with a watchful eye and a close presence. It’s difficult to do this, I think. Popular support is for showing sympathy. But I don’t think this is big, clever or smart.
16. That wearing a medium-sized shirt used to look sexy. Now it looks a little silly. And tight. That’s over-priced Italian cheese with swimming, soggy, coffee-dunked biscuits for you.
17. Not sure on number 17.

 

Things I still don’t know, but am hoping to learn in 2009:

 

1. My purpose.
2. Everything else.

 

Micro-warm greetings this season

Economy Class? Now there's a contradiction.

Don't you think that the recline button on an airplane seat could be the most anti-social invention, ever?

The passenger in front of you may as well be mainlining on heroine, smoking a joint and urinating on the air stewardess. That behaviour would at least be somewhat socially acceptable in comparison to the rude, graceless and downright nasty act of putting a chair into the recline position.

There are 3 rules to enjoying a good flight:

1. In the event of an emergency, the exits are there, here and here.
2. The seat belt works like this.
3. You’re in Economy Class. Not First. Not Business. Economy. Which means that you may be expected to skimp a little here and there. There are no walk-in showers, bubbling hot tubs or horizontal beds. Please bear this in mind before you thrust yourself backwards into the lap of the poor, unsuspecting passenger behind you.

The shiny, smiling air stewards neglect to mention number 3.

I recently returned from a flight of eleven hours. Nine of which I had the unfortunate pleasure of hosting some stranger’s head in my lap.

Said person wanted to enjoy the recline position in Economy Class. Excuse me for being a bit direct for a moment, but what a stupid, selfish prat. If you want to recline in Economy Class, the best thing to do is buy a First Class ticket.

So, I am blessed with the sight of someone’s balding forehead within millimetres of my nostrils for the good part of a journey.

In a vain attempt to alert the said passenger into realising that he has perhaps performed a lewd act without realising it, I think of spilling some of my airline food over his head. But I fail miserably in this endeavour, realising that his act of reclination has pushed my food tray down to shin height.

“Excuse me sir,” I politely interrupt his attempted slumber. “But do you think you could put your chair back up ever so slightly. I’m sure you’re a very lovely person, but if you had wanted to sleep with me, you should have at least offered a movie first.”

But the reclin-ed man feigns temporary deafness.

Eventually I manage to crawl out of my chair and go stand near the galley.

“Excuse me, sir” says the shiny, smiling air steward (the one who forgot number 3), “but you cannot stand there – you’re blocking an emergency exit. It needs to remain clear in the event of a fire.”

As if I wouldn’t move out the way if there were a fire.

I opt to go to the lavatory. At least there’s a seat inside with no recline position option in front or in the rear. And a ready supply of water. Nice. But eventually the novelty wears thin.

I wonder up to the First Class curtain after flushing and peak through.

They have a camp fire burning, an ice cream van in the corner and Don McClean singing lullabies. Now that's class.

The Good Doctors

I do admire and respect doctors. Please believe me. They are in many cases the guardians of human life. It’s just that my experience with the profession, as you may already know, has not always been the most enjoyable.

Of course, the doctors in question have almost always helped me out, except in the instances where they haven’t at all.

After a bout of health issues, I went to see a number of doctors. Amazing what they specialise in. Of course, the body is a miraculous thing and its workings far above the full understanding of man, I believe.

But my. Our doctor folk do like to take advantage of the fact.

I go to my doctor, who is what they call a ‘general practitioner’. Now, the clue is in the title, I would have thought. I would have thought that my doctor was a general expert. With a general view of everything. Every part of the body. Nice. Exactly what I needed.

But no. She (my doctor) offered her best diagnosis, “I will refer you to a specialist.”

I have to at this point mention that she was referring me to a bum specialist. I explained – quite accurately, I believe – that I was having some digestive issues, and she clearly thought that it was an issue that only a bum specialist could assess, and hopefully, solve.

But bums aside, are you following my train of thought? You can hardly call yourself a generalist, when you don’t have a general idea about everything. Perhaps the board outside the doctor’s practice should read “General Practitioner (Except for Bums, Eyes, Nose and Ears. But everything else is fine. Please, come on in.)”.

Are we then to assume that doctors who are generalists are also amateurs? It’s like the generalists were the lazy larkabouts in medical school. Had they exerted a bit more effort, they would have been in for the lesson about bums.

Nope. My doctor missed the bum lesson.

So, she refers me to the bum specialist. Again, please understand that my admiration is high. Anyone who wakes up in the morning fully understanding that they will be gazing at bum holes the entire day (oh, where we could go with that line), has my respect.

“Johnny, Sue! What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A bum doctor, mummy!”

I blame the parents.

Anyhow, at the bum specialist, I am asked the next obvious question. So obvious in fact, that I did not anticipate it.

“Drop your trousers and briefs, please.”

“Pardon?”

“Drop your trousers and briefs, please. I need to take a look.’

Sputter. Cough. Wheeze.

“But doctor, is not my accurate – almost verbose – description of how I feel not good enough? After all, I don’t even know what it looks like down there. Why should you be the first?”

“Seriously. I need to see.”

I proceed to drop my trousers – and briefs (which thankfully were my favourite ones) – and stand facing the doctor.

“Turn around and bend, please.”

“Are you sure you want to go ahead with this, doctor? I won’t tell anyone if you don’t, and of course I won’t mind.”

“We are in the medical profession. We are used to this kind of business.”

We?! Where on earth did the ‘we’ come from?! Was the bum specialist to invite more friends and passers-by into the room when I was bowed over, bum akimbo?

Nevertheless I did as the specialist requested, nervous that a fright fart would escape. Don’t judge me. Many of you have let out fright farts before, and I pretended not to notice.

But after a few light prods and pokes (I do indeed fully understand the beauty of the word ‘light’), a few ‘hmmmms” and only one “aha”, the doctor continued. “All right, you can dress again.

“I will need to refer you to a tummy doctor.”

Grand. At least I got to moon the bum specialist. The visit would have been rather useful had it not been a complete and utter waste of our time. My bum got some air time and the bum specialist got some Euros.

And off I go to the tummy doctor. At least he won’t need to see my bum. He won’t, will he?

My grand pedestrian adventures.

Remember those tales when we were young? You know the ones where all the animals of the enchanted forest ran to the mighty Lion or the wise Owl to look for advice, courage and support in times of trouble?

The little animals always went to Lion or Owl, didn’t they? You never saw them seek the all-knowing Bunny Rabbit. Or the charismatic leadership of the Tortoise. Or the encouraging word of the Lesser-Spotted Hyena (if they could find him). No. It was always the Lion or the Owl. Mighty creatures. Creatures worthy of seeking advice from. Not small things. No. Lion. Growl. Owl. Hoot.

Stories that never featured a Lion or Owl were rubbish, weren’t they? A bit whimsical and boring. But a Leading Lion or the Oracle Owl. That, we could all believe in.

Anyway, my point is this: why don’t people do this in real life? Why go to the bunny rabbit for advice when there may be a Lion just around the corner?

Let me explain.

I enjoy walking. It’s the best way to explore this enchanted forest, I find.

The thing is that people (from outside the forest) stop. And ask me questions. Not a problem in itself, you see. Questions are a good thing. I find that the problem is often almost always in the answers I give in return.

You see, some form of crazed delusional mania overtakes me when a stranger stops and asks me for directions. I am excited to be asked, of course. Being asked for directions when you yourself are from outside the forest implies that you look and act like a local. Which is nice.

And so, I begin to answer the stranger, and give him directions of the most elaborate nature. Honestly and truly trying to help him or her in their navigational predicament. They accept my answer most graciously, and totter off, in the direction I sent them.

This crazed mania suddenly leaves me as soon as they have left shouting distance. And I realise what hogwash I had just told them. Street names were inverted. Rights were mixed up with lefts. And train stations became cathedrals and cathedrals become Night Shops.


It’s not that I’m trying to purposely misguide people, please understand. It’s just that I seem to completely lose the plot when someone asks me for directions or assistance en route. I like talking to strangers, but let’s talk about the weather instead. Directions and maintenance are for the Lion or the Owl.

It doesn’t end with directions, either. Yes, some visitors to the forest ask me for assistance with their motor cars. Just the other day, I was out for a totter when I spotted a lady and her motor parked on the pedestrian path.

Blood drained from my face when I realised that she spotted me.

“Ah, a man!” she must have thought. “He must be able to help me!”

I tried my best invisible look, but to no avail.

She made the first plea, “Excuse me, mister. Do you know anything about cars?”

You know I don’t. I know I don’t. So why the blooming heck did I ask her to pop her trunk so that I could take a look at the engine? What was I looking for? A lesser-spotted hyena?!

You see what I mean? I cannot seem to help it. This crazed delusion overtakes me, and in my willingness to help, I only make matters worse.

I jiggled and prodded a few things in the boot, wiping my now dirty finger in a manly fashion on my fashion jeans.

“Any idea’s?” she asked. And do you know what my answer was?

“Perhaps you should go for a bit of coffee and cakey and come back in a wee while. It’s perhaps over-heated and needs some time to recoup. That should do the trick.”

Now I am giving auto mechanical advice, which includes the words ‘coffee’, ‘cakey’ and ‘wee while’.

Lions. Owls. And rabbits. There’s a lesson, here.

God and I

I had a conversation with God a few nights ago.

Mind you, it wasn’t really a conversation. It was a monologue.

I was telling God that He had possibly missed the plot when He created mosquitoes. Of course, my monologue wasn’t of a completely negative tone. Nature, in general, I mentioned to Him, was a particularly spectacular idea. And He deserved all praise and congratulations for a fine, wonderful result; particularly in the short amount of time that He did it in.

But what’s up with mosquitoes? Why and wherefore?

Could He not have ordered all mosquitoes down into the pit of hell together with Lucifer, when He had the chance? We all know that mosquitoes are attracted to heat. He could have done them all a favour.

Sparing no detail, and as I could no longer sleep, I explained to God the hours of unnecessary discomfort I had suffered – that very night – from a single mosquito bite.

I even showed Him. Look. See. Right here, on my finger – the bit where the skin stops and the nail starts. I had to explain that I was not of course pointing at Him, but simply showing him where on my person the offence had occurred.

What on earth possessed the mosquito to do that, I enquired of God, rather exasperated?

What a cruel, heartless bastard of a creature.

Not only can you not effectively scratch in that place, but, surely, there is no blood there, either. After I apologised for saying “cruel, heartless bastard” to God in conversation, I suggested, that in light of it’s cruel behaviour, that He completely banish mosquitoes from the planet.

Well, perhaps, I admitted to God, I was being a bit hasty. Not all the mosquitoes in the world, but perhaps just the one bloody mosquito that was somewhere in my apartment, buzzing about looking for pointless places to bite me on.

I apologised to God for saying “bloody” in conversation, and then decided to assist Him in ridding the pest from the planet.

I was gong to annihilate the creature. That is, squash every last amount of life out of it’s small, squashable body. With a great deal of resolute satisfaction. Greenpeace, PETA and tree-huggers can kiss my bum (I don’t think God minded that I used that word).

I became a stalking predator. Listening out for the buzz. There it was – zummffming about – past my head. It landed, and I spotted it’s landing place. Crouching, I went for it… but it saw me and flew off again!

Never letting up, I followed. It landed on the wall above the flower pot. But this time I tried to fool the mosquito into thinking I was heading for somewhere else other than it’s own position. It worked! I thwacked it hard and good.

Death was imminent. As was a broken flower pot; a needless waste that could have been spared, I subtly mentioned to God.

Although God did not directly answer that night, I have since been presented with somewhat of a solution. You see, I have since discovered the wonder of a window. And the fantastical thing it does when it is shut.

I do believe in miracles. Thank you, God.

The case for pirates

How our culture is re-inventing capitalism.

Chouffe makes you fax

Chouffe is the name of a rather gorgeous beer brewed in the Belgian Ardennes, and the local bar now serves it on tap. What a delightful convenience.

Deliriously delicious it is, too. Although it is incredibly powerful. It has all the magic effect of causing dramatic change to my perception of the world, myself, and indeed the barstool I was sitting on.


Chouffe altered my reality. Nothing was what it seemed and everything was what it was not. In my Chouffe’d state, I speedily forgot what I did for a living. And become Comedian. Therapist. Philosopher. French. And oh dear. Dancer. With an alarming sense of rhythm considering no music was playing.

I enjoyed my time with Chouffe, but it was only fleeting, as I spectacularly ejected most of what I had consumed shortly after consuming it. Vomit is such an ugly word. I prefer “fax”.

The feeling to fax caught me by surprise. For the fax made known it’s intentions whilst I was walking home. Looking for a corner, but finding none, I believed that the best place to fax was on my doorstep. Which I only got half right. A doorstep it was. But mine it was not.

And my predicament was only just beginning. As my fax began transmission, I realised that the recipient was not the intended doorstep, but my own shoes. Have you ever tried to fax, bent over, and move your feet out of the way at the same time? It’s incredibly difficult. Running on the spot. Hammer time.

In my faxing kerfuffle, I lost balance and fell head forward on the door. KNOCK!

It had the sobering effect of, well, knocking your head bloody hard on a door. A door that now looked remarkably unfamiliar.

I began to realise where I had faxed. My neighbour, but three doors down from me. I suspect that he would not be happy to have received my fax. But, would he know that I was the sender? I mean, most faxes look the same, right?

Conscience and paranoia got the better of me. Running, soggy shoed, to the correct door this time, I stumbled into my kitchen, filled a bucked with water, grabbed a cloth and shuddered back to the doorstep. In less than a jiffy, the fax was erased from memory.

Or so I thought.

This morning, I met my neighbour on his knees. Cleaning his doorstep.

Oh dear. It turns out that I deleted the wrong fax. From an unknown sender. On a different doorstep. My original fax remained.

As I walked past, putting on my best innocent face, we both looked at each other in mutual disgust at the inconsiderate faxer.

Chouffe made me fax. But so bad was my altered state that I didn’t even recognise my own fax.

You’d think that I’d have learnt my lesson. But this weekend is Beer Passion Weekend in Antwerp. I am excited. To see those two words together: beer and passion. At last, somebody understands me.

I’ll certainly be trying not to fax on anyone’s doorstep, let alone mine. But I think things will really be out of hand if I begin to email.

The Computer is Personal Again.

Bollocks. Complete and utter. Let me explain.

A friend of mine recently purchased a shiny new HP home computer. ‘Twas a sight to behold. Lovely. Big. Shiny. My friend is many years my senior and I was brought ‘round to help because, quite frankly, I am younger and by default should know all about ‘puters. Which is bollocks, too.

Trust me. Youth indicates no more a capability for ‘puters than it does for atomic and molecular physics. Youth (I include myself in the demographic) is good for nothing.

Let me carry on. We get the thing out the box, plug it in and switch it on. Shazam, the power surges through and we see a beautiful hill of grass on-screen. Oh look. There's a tree.

We hear a gentile churning sound that seems to indicate that something magical is working inside. Steadily, small icons (see my lovely grasp of ‘puter lingo, here) pop up all over the grass hill, and things appear to be working.

Tens of little icons appear; little portals into worlds of digital mania. Wonderful. Fantastic.

Only. Everything. Everyting. Is in Spanish. Mierda.

Think you can easily find the button that says “change your language settings here” when the button that says “change your language settings here” is in the bloody language that you don’t understand?! Da Vinci bloody Code.

See where I’m going? Computer is personal again? My arse.

“I thought you knew all about ‘puters. You’re young.” My friend looks for reassurance.

“I know nowt about ‘puters. And what I know about Spanish is even worse.” I give him none.

Anyhow. We try some more. We look through the documentation that the kind HP folk have bestowed upon us. 6 manuals and 8 DVDs. I. Kid. You. Not. And all in English, but none in a language we understand. They talk about rebooting, operating systems and safe modes. May as well be in Spanish.

Trying to cope with our lingo nightmare, we do what all men generations before us have done. We toss the instructions into the bin and continue staring at the screen.

Thankfully, the word “Start” is still in English. But as we proceed to find no further guidance or success, the word itself becomes a taunt. An irritating form of sarcasm that the programmers at HP surely know about. Start?! Start what?! Enigma bloody machine.

We proceed to change every bloody setting on the ‘puter, hoping that one of them we stumble across could actually be the language one.

Currency is now the Zimbabwean dollar, the time zone is Central East Asia and all decimal places are set to minus six. Lovely versatility they offer you, here. But still. No language.

“What do you need a ‘puter for anyway?” I grumble at my friend.

“For surfing the interwebs” he replies, knowledgably.

And still. We stare at the screen.

Our trance is broken by a pop-up message that includes the words “error illegal”.

“Well, I think it’s broken.” I offer my best diagnosis.

“You’re good for nothing!” he moans.

“I know.”

“Want a beer?”

“Okay.”

Computer is personal again? My arse!

Greenwashed (and loving it?)

Revealed: a cow has a bigger carbon footprint than a Hummer. I'm all for being a responsible caretaker of the environment, but am growing a bit jaded from all the greenwashing nonsense marketers are throwing our way. You too?

Having said that, here's a lovely ad for the Discovery Channel. Single-click to view. Double-click is an unnecessary waste of energy.

Bunnies, bunnies everywhere...

The White Rabbit is a creature of folklore and much mystery.

It (he) appears in many tales; Alice in Wonderland, Harvey, even Who Framed Roger Rabbit? And of course, at this time of year, there are many more bunnies about than usual.

The pooka is part real, part fantasty, part always good, part certainly unknown.

Anyhow, for the past 2 years in Antwerp, I've been followed by a White Rabbit. And this very week stumbled across another.

It's the same artist... I think. But it always appears to get closer to me each time... The first time I found him. Now, he seems to be finding me.

The closest thing I have to a name is Nightwalker.

Who is it? What is it? And why?

UPDATE: Here he is. Nuage.

Whichever the answer, it's quite delightful, mystical treat.

See:

I fought a lesbian and won.

She stared at me gobsmaked. As if she could not believe I had just done what I just had. To be honest, I could not believe it either. And neither could the ten or so onlookers, who were doing what onlookers are known to do, but from the safety of their bar stools.

Through her stare, I could tell that she was slightly upset, too. This was possibly to do with the fact that my right foot was firmly lodged in the crevice of her posterior. Possibly not the best place to lodge a foot, granted, but it’s trajectory and intention was firm and resolute. I had planted it there for a good reason.

That’s right. I kicked a lesbian. Right up her bum. Thwack.

I had my reasons and am unrepentant. Not that I am a lesbian hater. On the contrary. She could have been a donkey. The fact that I use the word ‘lesbian’ to describe her is neither here nor there.

Let me explain. I have inserted flights of fantasy in appropriate parts to make me feel better about the whole affair.

In my local bar, there is much tom foolery. Tom doesn’t appear to mind. But notwithstanding this, much is said and done in jest. I love it.

I was (innocently?) minding my own business (which means I was drinking my sixth or seventh Duvel, telling jokes to the barman), when the lesbian in question, also drinking Duvel, seemed to take an instant disliking to me. Sometimes my jokes are really bad and unfunny – which is what Duvel can do – so I almost empathised with her.

But anyway. She just seemed to not like the very presence of me. Call it a chip on her shoulder. Call it a dislike of bald, slightly chubby men drinking Duvel. Call it what you want.

I cannot fathom a reason for it; she just did not like me.

She began a bout of name calling. Now, as a native English speaker, I am particularly fond of the creative use of the language. Nothing thrills me more than the apt selection of words to accurately describe what you feel. When you convey, accurately, what you feel to another, and that other accurately understands what you intended, you can consider yourself a good communicator. Well done.

So I was rather disappointed when all she could fathom to speak was “Hey, gay boy!”

Strange. I suppose I should be impressed by her wonderful ability to state the obvious. But as a veteran bar-goer, I have learnt that such uninteresting jibes are best left on the bar floor. Which only seemed to incite the lesbian more.

She continued her verbal hissing, summing up her English vocabulary as best she could and continued with her attempted torment.

No problem. I had been abused by bigger, uglier and fiercer people than her. And perhaps she was letting off a little steam, and I was the whipping boy. Again, no problem. The world is surprisingly peaceful with a glass of Duvel in your hand.

However, things began to escalate when she repeatedly walked past me, bumping in and knocking my jacket and jumper on the floor. Repeatedly. Now, I know that my dress sense is perhaps somewhat lacking in that there is no sense, but to express it in such fashion was somewhat misplaced, I felt.

It was at this point that I became vaguely irritated. It was my favourite pink jacket that she was disrespecting. Call me what you like, but disrespect The Pink, and I become slightly perturbed.

“Just ignore her,” came the support from the barman. Ignorance I do particularly well. But repeated ignorance is difficult for me. As is silence.

At which point my transformation occurred. From gentile bar-goer to therapist.

Yes. Therapist. An attitude adjustment therapist. And I believed that my services were indeed required.

I then promised myself, that the next time she performed her usual trick, I would enquire as to the nature of her disagreement. Which meant I would ask her what the hell her problem was.

When she passed my way again, she did the same again as expected. I quickly got up; but then she began to run!

A glorious chase ensued. Which was quite impressive and amusing, as both my legs were far drunker than I had originally thought. And someone seemed to have installed a glass door which I had not noticed before. She ran outside, and I struggled with the new found door with an impressive amount of speed.

Anyhow, I caught up with her, just outside the front of the bar. And without hesitating for moment, lodged my foot into her backside.

It seemed to have the desired effect. I walked back in. To some degree of applause and cheering. And the barman shouting out at the lesbian that she was not welcome back inside.

But for the next few hours, up until now, I felt pangs of guilt for kicking a woman.

What a ghastly and utterly detestable thing to do. But then again… if a woman can forget to be a woman, then can a gent forget to be a gent?

And perhaps, some people only understand a thwack. No amount of patience, talking or cajoling will achieve the speedy, quick result of a thwack. It gives clarity to a bad situation.

But I don’t think it will make me popular with the pacifists.

It does make for a good bit of story telling, though.

Go take a flying leap

Whatever happened to honesty?

I’ve lost patience with the people who practice patience and try to ‘protect’ feelings. Whatever happened to honesty?

Everyone just accepts everything from anyone, these days.

I have a friend who has a sexually transmittable disease. It is fatal, if untreated. Or if you don’t know that you actually have it. Yet he sleeps without protection with many, many people. But he says nothing. Knowing full well what he has. He is killing the innocent. Or even the semi-innocent, depending on your view.

I have another friend who is having an affair with a married man. She thinks it is cute and lovely and fabulous to have a man who “loves” her in return and spends good money on her, purchasing lavish gifts. But sweetie, there’s a clue in the title. How can you trust and dedicate your love to a man whom you met whilst he was cheating on his original love? Do you think, honey, that faithfulness is a particularly strong character trait in your new love? On the other hand, do you know what it would feel like to be the wife of a man who cheats on you? Can you imagine how utterly destructive and worthless that would make you feel?

I know another who has an attention deficit disorder. Whose family dumped him when he was very young. Whose aunt had to raise him instead. People understand that he “had a hard life”, and are thus very accepting and forgiving of him. But this of course now gives him an excuse to be disruptive wherever and however he finds himself. This of course gives him an excuse to be socially inept. This gives him an excuse to behave in an inappropriate way in circumstances that absolutely depend on appropriate behaviour (whatever that is). Many words are spoken by this man. But there is little substance. He craves for attention. He gets it. But again, there is little substance to this man. The performance he gives on a daily basis is fake and based on the past. The long, forgotten and perhaps not so bad, if even, unnatural past?

I know of another friend, who craves for a relationship. She is 31 years old. Yet she has spent most of her lived and living life with her parents. Or failing that, locked in her own house. Trying to meet the man of her dreams. But locked away – by her own choice – in her living room. Watching TV on a Saturday night. But, at every opportunity that she gets with me, she will complain, cry and be frustrated that she is still alone. Still not met the man of her dreams. Or the father of her children.

“Do what you’ve always done and you’ll get what you’ve always got,” I tell her. She doesn’t seem to get that, just yet. However, when she does – if she does - , she may be 63, and too old to do anything more about it without assisted help.

I know even another friend. Who has been violent with the very people whom he tells me that he loves. He has been violent not once. But thrice. Violent. Physically. The people he loves (or loved) then carried visible bruises, blood and broken bones.

And yet not one says anything. Nothing.

For fear of upsetting. For fear of hurting their feelings. For fear of ‘getting involved’.

Before I go any further, you should know, if you don’t already, that I am not Mother Theresa. And I could be one or all of the people I have just described.

“They are grown folk. Let them sort it out on their own.” confident and trusted advisors tell me.

But I am tired of being sweet. Of being nice. Of being considerate. Some things just need to be said.

Am I the one to say them?



Far too many people are taking the horse-whisperer approach. Whispering sweet nothings to the injured, sick horse who really needs good, solid help. Without which it will surely die.

That horse really does not need a soft whisperer, but the sight of a cocked, loaded gun point to its head.

The time is short, and this fairy tale that you live in is all but about to end unless you realise that the crap that you believe or are performing on another r is hurting someone. It could be you, it could be someone else.

Bottom line is that somewhere, somehow, someone is going to die, whether physically, mentally or even just a part of their incomplete character. Unless you change what it is you are doing.

If you listen, you can at least take the responsibility for causing the extended, happier life of someone. Instead of impending doom and / or unhappiness. Which, if prolonged, I believe ends in doom anyway.

Can we… should we… be a just a little bit more honest with each other? The cost could be high. But the cost of not doing so is, I am almost certain, even higher.

I could use your honesty. Could you use mine?

See the world through someone else's eyes

http://www.pangeaday.org/

Le grand content

Hauntingly beautiful with just a slight hint of madness

Prescilla




Moon and moon




Whats a girl to do?

Because citizens are people, too

Far be it for me to criticise the all-knowing Seth Godin, but this is just getting ridiculous. His latest post is about what to call people that marketers interact with. I'm serious. That's how silly it's become.

The marketing illuminati settled on the word 'citizen'. Unbelievable.



gapingvoid

Marketing is now a theoretical, academic discussion that has lost touch with reality. It's not about actually going out to speak to people, listening, selling, and treating others as your equal.

These folks have lost touch. If the grandest of marketers has resorted to calling the people he interacts with as "citizens", then I'm hanging up my marketer's hat.

Smurfs, my hat and the cravat

I once met Jean Claude van Damme. He was in South Africa to promote a new movie, and I was on the PR crew to publicise it. He was an impressively short man. Smurf-like. But with biceps. And not blue.

In any event, during one of the interviews he gave, he said something which stuck with me ever since. He was asked about how and why he keeps so defined, muscular and fit. He spoke, “Some people invest in cars, in houses or art. I just choose to invest in my body.”

Clever man. I invest in my body, but in a completely different way. But of course one man’s investment is another man’s squander.

A few nights ago, I was at a club where some young thing began dancing and gyrating in front of me with his T-shirt off. Nipples like bullets, abs like tire tracks, pecs like small climbable hills and biceps like peaches (Australian ones, not French).

It was an impressive sight to behold. I tried to communicate this to the said young thing, but only managed to slur something and then pass out. The floor was impressively soft, but in a very hard kind of way.

And it was while I was comfortably lying on the dance floor that I began to reflect on the issue of one’s body and how you can take care of it.

I am very impressed and respect these men and women of muscle. It looks attractive, and the amount of time and discipline that it takes to get and stay that way is surely quite noteworthy.

Could I do it – get it - too?

I don’t know. I think I may just lack the discipline gene. Anything that requires repetition, a bit of effort and discipline is somewhat lost on me. Mind you, that’s not completely true. The only thing that I do with discipline is not doing anything that requires discipline at all.

Which brings me to the subject of hair. I am victim to what they call ‘male pattern baldness’. This of course implies that there is some shape or design to the actual baldness. Which is complete and utter bollocks, if you don’t mind my saying.

Male pattern baldness has no pattern at all. If anything, it is a haberdashery of disorganised follicles that cannot grasp simple concepts, like growing in a straight and consistent line.

And so, I’m giving my hair one last chance. It’s swansong. To shine, to grow. Because it’s worth it. I’m wearing a hat in this interim period to cover my shame. Which has opened a whole new world of strange behaviour from friends and onlookers.

What is it about a hat that makes other people want to take it off when they see you? If you’re wearing a scarf, do I try to take it off to compliment your neck? If you’re wearing trousers, do I quickly pull them down because I want to glance at your knees? Do you see how silly this notion is? If I’m wearing a hat, please leave it on my head. Unless you want me to return the compliment and glance at your knees.

Interesting, too from one friend, who preferred that I remove my hat when eating. Why? I’m not using my hair to eat, so it can remain covered, yes? Similarly, I don’t use my bum when I eat (this part, I’m sure you already realise, comes later), so it too can remain covered. I’ve very fond of the gent who said it to me, but relations were strained when I suggested that he remove his cravat when we ate. Not for any other reason. Other than it was cravat. And that is ridiculous.

More to come... I promise.