Nothing to write home about.

  It's funny how the past can reach into the future at a moments notice and, uninvited, snatch you away from the perception of now.  Or at least replace one perception with another.
  Just for a moment my senses confuse hot for cold and cold for hot as I open the back door of our house at midnight.
An icy blast of east Lancashire air, snaking down from the bleak moorland above  hits the back of my neck and somehow is stiflingly hot, rather than pitifully cold.  It is the kind of heat that Brits abroad know nothing about as they complain and redden beneath a Portuguese noonday sun:  Oooh it's toowot f' me ere our Tommy.  Ah couldn't live ere me y'know.  S'alreet forra 'oliday.  But ah couldn't live 'ere.
  No.  This is hotter than uncomfortable.  It is more humid and unforgiving.  It is sticky and warm as blood and suddenly I am back in West Michigan in the summer of 2007, standing on the back door step of the old split level on Jericho Road.
  I can smell the cereal cooking over at the Post plant; I marvel at the deafening sound of Cicadas chirruping all around as though a hundred million of them live right inside my ear drums.  Mostly though it is the falsehood of the heat, it is the momentary synaptic cock up that sends me hurtling backward in time to another place and another life, standing inside the body of another person and looking out into another night.
  And as quickly as the past had stolen me, it just as sharply dumped me back on terrafirma.  All of a sudden the hot air is cold again and my poor grey matter has found an even keel to cling to.  But in that millisecond a thousand memories have invaded me.  And how sad it all seems.
  Did it really happen?  Did I live one time in country so far removed from my own that I often, drunkenly, became confused about the distance between here and there.  Didn't I want to call a cab one night, or borrow a bicycle to take me from a trailer park in Michigan to a street in Salford 6?  Didn't I learn to drive in a ten year old Pontiac with dents up and down the side, and two hundred thousand miles of America under it's hood and on its clock?  Didn't that sticky bloody heat almost make me faint when I stepped out of an Escalade at an apartment complex in Kalamazoo?  Was any of that real?
  Well of course it was.  It was real as the raccoon in the yard I would feed hot dogs.  It was real as the black girls on the bus chattering away like movie stars, or even the bus itself with the word 'downtown' announcing it's destination.
  Downtown!  The Downtown Bus!!  How thrilled I was by that.  How very American it all was.  In England buses had numbers on the front.  26, or 464.  They went 'into town'.   Not downtown.  Downtown was a cool place.  Downtown was a place that had previously only existed in books about private detectives and films with Keanu Reeves.  Downtown was more of an idea than anything else.  And it was real.  And I was there.  Or at least somebody masquerading as me.  Not the me I know now.  But I was there in some form or other.  A me in the making you might say.
  How very odd that all of this should assault me for no reason.  How strange that it should come and go so quickly because of a breeze, hot or cold or indifferent.  And how very, very sad that I couldn't catch it by the tail and ride it for a moment or two longer.   Or, maybe, never let go at all.

Goodnight.

Cead Mille Failte

For some reason today I was put in mind of a woman I knew in my distant past.  I was living in Amsterdam at the time and the woman was Ghanaian.  She lived with an acquaintance of mine, a guy twenty years her senior with a raging coke habit and delusions of gangsterism.  He wasn't a bad bloke.  In fact, he was quite decent in many ways. He and his wife gave me a place to lay my head for a while for which I will be eternally grateful.  He was prone to flying off the handle now and again, and his paranoia was sometimes difficult to put up with, but he wasn't a bad geezer - just another lost soul in a complicated world perhaps, if you don't mind me waxing poetical.

His chemically assisted temper was no threat to the Ghanaian lady I should say, who was twice his size at the best of times (those being the few months between coming home from prison and wrecking his system with Marching Powder all over again).  He was no physical threat at least.  There is the question of how detrimental his rather skewed world view may have been however.

I recall a time during one of John Lennon's death anniversaries (or birthday anniversaries, or the anniversary of him farting or something) when they made a big thing of the 'Bed Ins' at the Amsterdam Hilton.  It was a fun time.  For an entire week the TV was full of all things Lennon and a lot of whacky baccy was smoked - well, more than is usual in Amsterdam I would guess, or more than was usual by me in Amsterdam I would guess.  By the time this all finished, my gracious hostess was of the unshakeable conviction that not only had Yoko Ono physically split up the Beatles, but also that she had had John murdered and may have had something to do with the Kennedy assassination too.  This was not idle speculation or conspiracy theorism.  To her it was fact and all the patient explaining in the world would be to no avail.  She had been told this by her husband, and in lieu of any other real avenue of information in a foreign and alien environment, she took it as fact.  What choice did she have?

Well, why do I mention this incident at all?  It's a good question.  The answer is something to do with the way this woman, who was intelligent enough, seemed to be constantly in a state of confusion.  Kind of 'not there', but all the time.  It was a sad thing to see in a way that I can't quite explain.  She went through the daily rituals of life in the West; hoovering the floor, washing the dishes, making the food, watching TV etc, but she handled things like they might blow up at any moment.  The hoover was treated the way you might treat a psychotic house guest whose mood you could never quite predict, and the Yoko incident spoke volumes about how hard it must be to gather reliable information about the world around you when you are not of it.

I don't know how she'd wound up in Amsterdam and married to this  mostly harmless old coke head, but you got the feeling she hadn't quite grasped the enormity it all.  I imagined the life she had in 'The Dam' must have been better than the one she had left behind, though I was young then and didn't really know much about anything.  Perhaps she had arrived in in Europe following a whirlwind romance with my acquaintance while he was on one of his apparent and oft romanticised smuggling missions.  Perhaps he had been wearing a lightweight white cotton suit and fedora hat when they first met, with cigarettes in a silver tin and a moustache like David Niven.  A large part of me doubts this scenario, but you never know.  Stranger things have happened.  The point is, recalling all this brought something home to me:  there is a huge difference between an immigrant and an ex-pat.  From the point of view of the native population I mean.

While living in America, I was somewhere in between.  As an Undocumented Alien I spent a lot of my time living in a real or imagined fear of  'la migra' coming through the door in the dead of night and carting me off.  And while I didn't have to put up with the associated racism which constantly follows those unlucky enough to have traipsed off around the globe in search of a better life, it did give me a certain unpleasant insight.  Not that had I traipsed off in search of a better life of course.  I wound up in America for much the same reasons as I wound up in Amsterdam - I just kind of went along with things and assumed stuff would pan out okay if I didn't think too hard about it all.  And I am white.  And English.   And so guess what?  Things did pan out pretty well.  I never had anybody tell me that I was bringing down America, or spit on me in the street, or try to beat me up for taking American jobs.  Just as my American wife has never been racially abused here in the UK.  We are white so we have some god given right to go anywhere without too much fear of abuse.

So I was lucky I suppose.  Shit, I was born lucky.  Literally.  Being white and British I was born into a tiny group of some of the luckiest people on the face of the earth and at any time in history.  I was never an illegal immigrant, I was only ever an Undocumented Alien.  Push come to shove, I could get away with being an ex-pat.  The Mexicans working at Main Street Market could never pull that one off.  They would never be elevated to the grandiose status of first class citizen, a status so casually gifted to me through no other reason than sheer spermicidal good luck.

Well, I seem to have drifted a bit.  But what the heck, it's Christmas and I am full of fine food and fine thoughts.  But I was wondering what may have happened to my African hostess in the port of Amsterdam.  I wondered if she ever got the hang of being largely unwelcome in a foreign land despite her best efforts, or if she just upped sticks and went home, which at the end of the day is the dream of all immigrants.

Home is where the heart is after all, even should the body be conscripted by fate to wander.  And no amount of tower block flats in European ghettos, and no amount of welfare cheques or badly paid jobs, or even the knowledge that you probably wont be carted off in the night and killed for no real reason you could point to will ever change that.  I think we either choose to forget, or refuse to believe the fact of that basic premise:  Home is where the heart is.  It is also the place, I believe,  where you welcome tired strangers.  As I have been welcomed more than once.  Despite everything.  Even myself.

Goodnight.

Lest We Forget

Peelian Principles

I wonder if these principles are taught to British police officers in training.  I wonder if they are taught and the meaning and the weight behind the meaning.  I saw a fellow dragged from a wheelchair last night on the news by a gang of thugs dressed as police.  He was protesting against the government.  It wasn't in Chille or China or South America.  It was in London, England - 2010.

The Peelian Principles, attributed to Sir Robert Peel, speak of a police force where rampant lawlessness and vile Mafia-ism would never thrive.  But alas, in much the same way as the Catholic Church has for many years provided a perfect hiding place for paedophiles to wreak havoc, so the British police force has become the perfect place for thugs, criminals and bullies of the worst kind to hide out.  This is what happens when we forget the Blair Peache' and Jean Charles De Menenzes of the world.  WIll somebody please remind them: You cannot enforce the law and break it at the same time.  That way lies fucking chaos!!!

1. The basic mission for which the police exist is to prevent crime and disorder.
2. The ability of the police to perform their duties is dependent upon the public approval of police actions.
3. Police must secure the willing co-operation of the public in voluntary observation of the law to be able to secure and maintain the respect of the public.
4. The degree of co-operation of the public that can be secured diminishes proportionately to the necessity of the use of physical force.
5. Police seek and preserve public favour not by catering to public opinion, but by constantly demonstrating absolute impartial service to the law.
6. Police use physical force to the extent necessary to secure observance of the law or to restore order only when the exercise of persuasion, advice, and warning is found to be insufficient.
7. Police, at all times, should maintain a relationship with the public that gives reality to the historic tradition that the police are the public and the public are the police; the police being only members of the public who are paid to give full-time attention to duties which are incumbent upon every citizen in the interests of community welfare and existence.
8. Police should always direct their action strictly towards their functions, and never appear to usurp the powers of the judiciary.
9. The test of police efficiency is the absence of crime and disorder, not the visible evidence of police action in dealing with it

The Bore War

Bill Hicks, ‘61 – ’94 (American comedian, social commenter and all around genius) was on the money when he said, regarding the Gulf War - “I guess it was pretty amazing, to see a missile fly down an air vent”. Indeed it was, especially when it was an American missile NOT flying down the air vent of a British army tank (Zing!!) Ahem. Anyway.

He was right of course, it was pretty incredible. After a while though, as we may recall, it all fizzled out like a damp firework on a wet November night. Until, that is, 9/11. Yes, 9/11 (or 11/9 for those of us who still drive on the correct side of the road) provided George Bush Jr with the excuse he needed to pick up where his old man left off.

Almost immediately the Gulf War was rebranded the Iraq War, which became the Afghan War, became the War In The Middle East and finally settled on the all encompassing ‘War on Terror’. Suddenly we were at war with fucking EVERYTHING (spiders, mice, pumpkin pie, alligators, terrorists,) and it looked like things were hotting up again. The air vent missiles were forgotten and cool new science fiction type ordnance took over: Drones. Imagine android flying machines with little red dots going back and forth like Cylon raiders as they hone in on startled, yet evil looking men in evil looking Arab clobber. Yay for Drones.

And despite the fact that six thousand miles away servicemen and women were developing PTSD after guiding these red, white and blue drones of freedom into schools it was still, as Bill said ‘pretty impressive’.

At this point, I should say that this isn’t a diatribe on the evils of war. Nor upon the evils of George Bush and his cronies, the evils of guiding missiles into hospitals and schools or even the general evils of imperialistic military intent. It is all about the wearisome and depressing effect of a very boring war. And this has been a boring war – or not war, or whatever they're calling it this week.

Even the films have been cack. How bad must it be if they can’t make a watchable movie when they already have a kick ass title like War On Terror? Imagine it being spoken in a deep, foreboding American voice from massive speakers in a darkened cinema – WAR ON TERRORRRRRRRRR!!!! You see? Your date would be huddled up to you in no time.

But no. We got Green Zone. A far fetched bit of over-simplified tedium with Matt Damon tramping about the desert and failing to find WMD, only to discover what the entire world has known from day one – there weren’t any. Yawn and fade to black.

And what was Jarhead for? Not ‘what was it about?’ – but why was it? I faded to black within half an hour and never bothered again. But I guess it is hard to make good movies about a war where the enemy comprises kids and old men who have more experience milking goats (can you milk a goat?) than they have wielding Russian made automatic weapons. A good war movie needs freaks in black leather and death's head insignia – or at least black pyjamas and bamboo cages in unpronounceable deltas full of rats.

The only real high point has been Team America, but that wasn’t really about The War in Iraq. That was more about the ridiculous right wing media created idea that a highly organised and structured army of terrorists (generally evil people who have no reason to be evil other than they like it) are hiding somewhere out there. Probably in the same place as the WMD.

But let's call a spade a not spade: This whole war has been a bit of a let down from a mass entertainment point of view. It’s been dreary. No WMD, no evil overlords, no black leather and no good reason for being there. Nobody can really justify it so it’s hard to make a film that paints us as the good guys, and if we’re not the good guys then we must be….shit. No wonder it’s unpopular. No wonder the films are all crap; it’s us. We’re the baddies. We’re wearing the death's heads and the black leather pyjamas!!! It’s a war Jim, but not as we like it!

All that said, who really cares. The nature of entertainment is changing and that has never been more apparent. Instead of war movies that inspire kids to happily take the kings shilling, after spending long summer afternoons running around with sticks and shouting – drrrrraaa drrrrrraaaa – at each other, we have Call of Duty. Nowadays kids can tell the difference between a Barrett ‘Light Fifty’ and a Russian made semi automatic Dragunov. They know the fire rate of a Famas Assault Rifle and how many rounds you can speed load into a Colt Python. (Okay, that’s easy. We all knew that. Didn’t we?)

Which begs the question: If this whole thing really is all about peace, freedom and democracy, couldn’t we have just pointed nukes at 'them’ (the terrorists, the spiders, whatever) and said – we’re all playing Modern Warfare! Winner gets the oil, the minerals and installs a puppet government. Loser gets a new job title and nothing else changes. Are you in or do we press the button? After all, we have some pretty good 12 year old players here in the West and you can get Xbox live for less than £25 a year. It could change overnight from the ‘War on Terror’ to the ‘War on Terribly Expensive Equipment’. Which, let’s face it, the MOD isn’t paying for anyway. Sorry lads.

But, I digress. Outside of COD,  Modern Warfare 1, 2 and Black OPs – its all been a bit dreary and tiresome. Money is made and spent. Young men, women and children on all sides die and lose limbs while praying to Gods who seem to have forgotten them, and we all feel safe in our beds from the hordes apparently hiding behind every tree, just waiting to pounce. Go us. We really do rock.

In which case, I guess when I next want to feel good about death, destruction and slaughter on a vast scale, I’ll whip out the Band Of Brothers box set I got last Christmas and enjoy an accurate reproduction of a good old fashioned and wholesome war. ‘When I was a lad’, I’ll say to my daughter, ‘all this was wars, wars as far as the eye could see. Proper wars mind!’

Either that or I’ll follow the advice of that late, great American Mr William Melvin Hicks when he said, and I’m paraphrasing - ‘Can I suggest, instead of a war to feel good about yourself…..six to eight glasses of water a day? Sit ups? Maybe a fruit cup?.......’

God rest ye Bill.

Cut To Snow!!!

The news in general is so god awfully bad all over this week, that the BBC are interviewing snow - What do you say to people who accuse you of being cold and a bit slippery.
Speaking for snow, I for one am tired of being demonised. What about the banks in Ireland ? Isn't that more newsworthy?
Cut to rain. Cut to rain. Don't mention the banks!!!!

If only the truth were told on ‘the news’ and in terms we could actually make sense of without having to wade through a fucking morass of media black flag operations and misdirection.   I for one might be happier.  I might not of course, but at least it would be one less thing to think about.  I want to see Sian Williams at 6am on a cold, wet morning in Old Blighty, sitting there with Bill - good old reliable, believable Bill - telling the nation:

"Good morning, and here at the BBC we really are sick to death of all the sleight of hand and smoke and mirrors with which we are forced to befuddle you, dear loyal license paying viewers, every single day.

Yes, there has been a bit of snow along the East Coast of Northern England overnight, but on the other hand Irelands economy has dropped back to pre-Roman levels of poverty and hysterical desperation.  A chicken is now worth the same as a loaf of bread in Zimbabwe and North Korea are shelling the shit out of South Korea.  Meanwhile the US have responded by sending in an aircraft carrier because she is busy fighting at least two illegal wars in the Middle East and doesn't really have time to sort out a potential world war three scenario (thank God).  I don't know about you, but here at the Beeb we're hoping Kim Jong Ill will go and have a little lie down and wake up in a better mood.

Meanwhile, across the pond, the nation seems to be gearing up to vote a brain dead Alaskan to the White House because the middle class refuse to accept free health care until it is conclusively proven that praying doesn't work for cancer.  There also seems to be some confusion at grass roots level about the difference between 'social health care' 'social responsibility' and 'social-ism', but that's another story.

In Australia the England cricket team are.....well....playing cricket (wake me up at tea time) and Shawn Rider has you all looking the other way on I'm a celebrity.  In the meantime dear viewers the coalition government in the UK are about to take the food, not from your table, but right out of your fucking drooling mouths while you sit there glassy eyed wondering what colour Kate and Wills' bridesmaid dresses will be.

At 7am we'll be speaking to some bloodthirsty bondage freak baby eating boy buggering Tory backbench bastard nobody has ever heard of, who will answer a pre-agreed set of questions his office fed to us last week like a bottle of cold tea to a Glaswegian toddler.  There will be no serious prodding or investigation of the absolute fucking lies he spews before we move on to some kid from the Midlands who got an A in maths but who only has one eye.  Then it's the weather again and we're off.

I could go on.  And on and on and on.  If you know me, you'll know this to be true.  But it's late and I have work in the morning.  I hope it's Natasha Kaplinski tomorrow.  She's got better legs.