Freak powered brunch

I saw a competition recently to win a year's supply of coffee.  As a famous non-drinker of coffee -- with notable exceptions of a holiday in Rome last year, and very occasional after a meal -- it seems like a strange contest to want to enter.  The simple explanation is, of course, it's about a girl.  And not just any girl, but the girl, for whom I'd do most things.

To win this grandest of prizes you had answer a simple question -- what 3 people, living or dead, would you like to have brunch with, and why.  Not as simple as the ones where you copy and paste an answer from a block of text you have to read, but worth a go.

The trouble is, the competition expired before I was able to think of three people.  And I still can't.

I thought of the first one easily: Carol Ann Duffy, the poet laureate.  An openly bisexual Scottish single mother, who just happens to write some of the best poetry I have ever read -- and I include Pablo Neruda in this.  I would expect her to be opinionated and interesting and intelligent, and I know from having met her she is a warm person.  She would be able to comment on contemporary issues, both domestic and foreign, and share interesting stories of her own life and travels.

I figure that's a great place to start, someone who brings controversy to one of Britain's most conservative roles, and with whom I have a great personal affection.

A contrast, then, would be the late Hunter S. Thompson.  I have no less affection for Dr Thompson, in case that is unclear, and I suppose in many ways he shares key traits with Ms Duffy -- both being talented, engaging writers, and both being controversial figures.  But I wonder if they would get along?  Thompson who spent years on the campaign trails, the pioneer of "freak power" and who saw into the hearts of the Hells Angels and the American Dream.  What would he make of a contemporary Scottish poet?  What did he feel about poetry at all?  What would Duffy think of Thompson's writing?  Would the two of them fight like cat and dog, or would they get along famously?


A third guest is even trickier.  Having two literary figures -- however different -- surely means the third has to be someone completely different.  Ideally it would be interesting to have someone with whom I disagree or dislike, but it seems pointless to try and pick someone on that merit alone.  All the usual targets I know or imagine would be disliked just as strongly by existing guests as by myself.  I can't think of a worthy adversary, someone I disagree with but respect. 

On the other hand, I wouldn't want it to be a circle jerk of mutual appreciation and adoration.


Considering my first two are also both white and English speakers, I feel as if I should have some kind of diversity -- not for its own sake, but to bring a different angle and different discussions.  This suddenly makes me realise how little I know outside of my own comfort zone, speaking only English fluently -- but that's no excuse, when major works are frequently offered in a variety of translations. 

So instead, I open it up to my readers -- in an effort to avoid this whole thing descending into an exercise in complete pretentiousness by citing thinkers or writers or rebels of places I know little about, who would you suggest as a third person?  Someone that would react or complement in some way with the existing two I have chosen, but also widen the cultural net?  I'll invent some award to give to whoever comes up with the ideal third guest, and hopefully in the process give me someone whose life I should know more about.


Perhaps there should be a scientist or a soldier?  Maybe I should have an astronaut or a farmer or just a relative of yours?  There needs to be more audience participation around these parts -- since I appreciate anyone coming here at all, I should maybe involve you more.


It must be said at this point I can't imagine either of my guests having "brunch", but that's by the by.

The compassionate life

I've been thinking about compassion a lot recently.  I guess, in some ways, the concept has been a recurring theme in my blog since I first read about Zen and Buddhism however-many years ago, and I've been intrigued for a while about a book called The Compassionate Life, although I've never got any further than the sample chapter you can read on Amazon.

Compassion is, without a doubt, the one thing "that there's just too little of".  I'd say this more so than love, since people will kill for love but you rarely hear of anyone killing for compassion.  I read somewhere an anecdote about the Dalai Lama being asked about compassion.  The questioner had said they struggled with universal compassion, finding it difficult to feel compassionate about a man they had seen beating a dog, in the street.  The Dalai Lama had replied you should feel the same compassion for the man as you do for the dog. 

To many people that must sound far too liberal, too soft, and ridiculous.  It's beautiful, but is it practical?

I read in the news today about a 4 year old girl who is learning and teaching people about compassion.  Sophie Gallagher wouldn't accept there was nothing she could personally do to help people sleeping rough in these exceptionally cold nights (and it is far, far colder where she is than it is here, I'm sure) -- and now she will be donating about 100 blankets and soft toys she has collected.

The Novelista Barista recently appealed for blankets for the dogs at the shelter where she volunteers.  I was inspired by it to want to help.  Because I live in a different country, sending blankets wasn't a very sensible option, but I wanted to feel more proactive than donating money.  Instead, I researched animal shelters in London, and have contacted Battersea Dog's Home -- who have graciously accepted an offer of donated blankets.  The girl and I have exactly the blankets in mind to donate, too -- so will be dropping some off either this week or next.

Earlier this year, I raised £4,000 for Macmillan Cancer Support in memory of my aunt who had lost her own battle with cancer a few years back, and everyone else affected by it every day.

I don't mention these examples of compassion because I want people to say what a good person I am -- but because I find the trouble is with all of these things are is nothing ever feels like enough.  I know that something is better than nothing, intellectually at least -- but what's £4,000 when you can raise 5?  What's a couple of blankets compared to as many as you can carry -- or as many as you can fill a car with?  And what about the people in the street begging for change I walk past every day without donating to?  I justify it by saying to myself that they are probably junkies, but does that make them less worthy of compassion?  Does that mean they will feel the cold any less?  Maybe I should be buying them coffees, giving them blankets?

When Vanessa Galagher explained to her daughter about charities that help people who are homeless, Sophie didn't accept this as good enough.  Perhaps the concept is too abstract for a 4-year-old?  Try and explain how if you give one person a blanket you keep that one person warm, but by making regular contributions to a recognised charity you could help many more people in a variety of ways...  If you give someone begging a few coins, maybe they will buy a coffee, maybe they will buy drugs, but you are doing nothing to get them off the streets.  But again it comes back to how much is enough?  You can help one charity, or you can help five, or fifty-five -- but you can't see where it stops, so instead you don't do anything.  I don't know what the Dalai Lama would have to say about it, perhaps he'd mention something else I clearly struggle with: acceptance.

Back finally to compassion.  In the news recently is controversey about the use of reasonable force in protecting your home.  While some newspapers like the Daily Mail are crying the world's gone mad when a man is jailed for defending his home and family, they tend not to mention that while this man and his family were terrorised by violent intruders, he did then chase one of them down the road, and when the intruder fell to the ground, proceeded to beat him with a cricket bat, leaving him with permanent brain damage.  This isn't in the same league as the Croc-Wrestling Wife Lobber and his catapult.  Perhaps both would benefit from compassion.

Ernesto 'Che' Guevara once said the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love, and I think this brings the post full-circle in the debate on compassion.

Bollocks to the Middle

There's an advert currently showing on TV here, I know it's for a reduced calorie spread made from vegetable oil -- as most are -- but what brand it is for, I can't remember.  I'm not its target market, so the advertisers could care less if I remember the specifics. 

They would probably be pleased that I am going to devote a blog post to it, however.

The ad says how wonderful "the middle" is, in that their product isn't "full fat butter" or "skinny marg".  I only know that these spreads aren't margerine from once working on an account doing PR for one such brand -- and having to explain to journalists that it was a misconception.

But it's got me thinking; is the middle really all that great?

We are taught as children it is.  The story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, other than being about trespassing or squatting, is about finding that elusive middle area, where things are "just right" -- not too hot or too cold and all the rest.  And sure, moderation is a wonderful thing -- but only in moderation.

You know what the middle says to me?  Middle of the road.  Bland.  Boring.  Inoffensive.  I say here's to the extremes.

Here's to Iggy Pop's album Raw Power -- apparently originally produced by the rock iguana himself.  The story goes that he would be pointing out dials to the sound engineers and demanding to know why this one or that one wasn't in the red.  The album is Iggy Pop at his best, in my opinion -- full throttle, no-holds-barred, and filled with a kind of apocalyptic passion.  It's not the Iggy Pop of today who advertises car insurance.

Here's to not taking things easy sometimes.  Here's to burning the candle at both ends of the day, every once in a while.  Here's to going out late when you have work early the next morning, or planning on one quiet drink and stumbling home in the early hours.  Here's to going to see the Sex Pistols, getting completely trashed, completely missing the support band, part of the start of the Sex Pistols, standing so far back that it could have been anyone on that stage, and being generally so completely out of it that you can barely remember the show at all.

Here's to reading a book cover to cover in one sitting.

Here's to procrastination and leaving things until the last minute.

Here's to the days where it isn't just right out -- but instead cold, incredibly cold, run from the bus stop cold, or the other end of the spectrum -- the days where washing hung outside is dry practically before you get back indoors.  And how on both days you don't want to leave the house.

It isn't always about excess, either.  It can be here to going out on the town on a Friday night and not drinking at all -- not drinking in moderation, but nothing at all.

Here's to being early for work. Hell, here's to being early for anything.

Here's just approaching life as all-or-nothing, sometimes.

Ce no quiero librame

It's funny, isn't it?

You spend months redundant, out of work, a faithful member of the dole queue, and you dutifully apply for jobs. Lots of jobs.  Big ones, small ones, awesome jobs you aren't really qualified to do but that you try and talk your way into anyway, jobs in Starbucks even though you don't actually drink coffee, and after what seems like forever, you land a job.  You feel like a rock star in your dark suit and Tom Wolfe shoes.

Then a little more than a month into the job, the rot sets in.  The glow of having a job to do, knowing you are being paid and being taken out to lunch a couple of times in the first week, it all fades.  You look at yourself and think, am I really a salesman?  Quitting is not an option.  Jobs are too few and far between to just be given up, but you start thinking in terms of authenticity.   What is the real you, the authentic you?  Maybe it's too soon to know.  Maybe 3 months in, 6 months in, you'll be smiling to yourself as you rake in the commission and you'll say bollocks to "authenticity".  But maybe you won't.

You go to a job interview on the sly -- making up that you have a doctor's appointment, a believable enough story, since the day before when you were feeling particularly unsatisfied with the job people kept asking if you were feeling okay -- but before the interview feel disloyal, feel like you would be better off staying put.  Then the interview seems to go well, you are reminded why you wanted it, and you forget about feeling disloyal -- you don't owe anyone, anything. Other than the student loans company.

Your boss sits down next to you one day out of the blue and asks you how you are finding things, if you have any questions or anything you want.  You bring up training.  There was none for this job, a couple of days of learning how to use the software but that was all -- so you say how you would like training.  Not just in sales but in other things -- web design, marketing.  Your boss tells you as nicely as possible, that's not your job.  We have people to do those things, you are here to sell.  Don't remind me, you think.  So what?  That's what spare time is for.  There must be books you can teach yourself with.  If you have a "teach yourself" guide to Zen, there must be one for CSS out there.  Although it will probably not be any easier to get through.

But you're left with a choice just the same.  Stay put, stay as long as humanly possible -- which should really be more than a year, given your bad luck with work, hope that the focus shifts from sales to marketing, hope that with time you will be able to move sideways in the company, or at the very least you get good enough at your job to not care.  Or else look for better.  Look for the job you wanted to begin with, while keeping this one -- look to move as soon as possible to make it clear that this was only to get you back into work.

What's funny is how quickly being back at work turns into looking for something else.  Maybe what you seek is inside yourself, maybe you need Zen more than CSS and need to learn acceptance.

Tonight I dream of home

I dreamed the other night I won a round-the-world ticket.

Generally speaking, I am opposed to the idea of writing in my blog about dreams I have.  However crazy and funny dreams our may seem to us, their intended audience, generally once we start writing about how we had this dream that we were totally at the mall, but there was a lion there, and suddenly it wasn't a lion after all and everyone was in school doing detention... it becomes something worse than just inane.

But I will make an exception just. this. once.

Because I didn't just dream I had won a round-the-world ticket, but I dreamed I was going to have a grand adventure.  And that I was going to take my uncle Patrick with me.  My uncle Patrick is probably somewhere in his late 40's these days, he has multiple sclerosis, and is in a care home.  It wasn't meant to be a zany and wacky idea in my dream, but perhaps I just thought that I really wanted him to see the world?

The dream wasn't really anything more than just that simple concept.  But I woke up unexpectedly, and as is often the case was filled with a strange manic idea that this dream was the most brilliant idea ever.  It happens a lot, where I'll be convinced that the dream I just had will make an excellent plot for a book, or a film.  In this case, I went one further -- I thought it was a fantastic idea to act out.  And so what if I hadn't actually won any competition?  I would contact the relevant PR departments of companies like Virgin and pitch them my idea -- they should give me a pair of round-the-world plane tickets, and in turn I would take my uncle with me and blog about this incredible journey we would then take.  No doubt I would also be showered with fame and fortune and never have to do an honest day's work ever again. 

I fell back asleep with delusions if brilliance running through my head, of how I could say he was swapping Clacton-on-Sea for Cape Town, for Casablanca, for Calcutta, for California...

...and I woke up again an undetermined time later with a slight feeling of foolishness, like when you wake up with hazy memories of drunken stupidity.  In the sobering daylight my brilliant idea had some major flaws: my uncle is disabled and he is in a care home.  Somehow I don't think he is in a suitable position for making long journeys by air, on the semi-regular basis such a trip would involve.  He would probably also need at least one carer with him, and I expect a large supply of prescription medication.  Aside from any of that, he probably wouldn't even want to go on such a journey -- I can't really imagine it being top of his things to do list.  While I am sure he would like to see the world in theory, in practice he probably wouldn't enjoy it.

I am bemused as to why my subconscious immediately seized upon the idea of the two of us like some kind of fucked up buddy movie.  I guess something sensible like dreaming I was going on such an amazing journey with the girl would have been all too obvious.  I can sort of see in some ways what it was saying, there is a genuine desire in me to help people along with a craving for adventure and excitement, so I guess my uncle in this case was symbolic.  The dream's themes make a whole lot more sense than my half-asleep manic delusions though, and I think I'll stick to daydreaming about travel with the girl instead -- and maybe I'll send my uncle one of my photo art prints from Peru or something for Christmas.