Parting is such sweet sorrow…

Well that’s it people. This blog is over, partly because I can’t be bothered to do it anymore with the absence of any kind of assessment and partly because I’m talking into blank space, rendering my digressions pointless. Thus, this post is to be a memorial. So if anyone has any good memories of this blog, please post here. If this blog proves popular enough (unlikely), I might be persuaded to come out of my pre-mature retirement, though I’m reasonably satisfied at having the same number of episodes as Star Trek the Original series, possibly the greatest program in the world ever. Maybe one day I’ll have the same cult-following as that show did and one day people have conventions in my honour! But then, maybe I have ego issues! So now I say: Goodbye cruel world, I’m off to go into teaching!

How’s that?

Incredible game at the Oval yesterday and for the only time in my life I can say: I was there. It was beautiful weather, a little too beautiful actually. The sticky feeling a sun-cream was a bit uncomfortable. Especially when it mixes with hot sweat. It was quite an experience. One of the main things I noticed was how small the cricket pitch looks in real life. On television it looks absolutely huge, but in reality hitting a six wouldn’t be too difficult with the right ball. The fans were rather strange though. Most of the game they seemed to be the antithesis of supporters with some imaginative individual calling Ian Bell a bell-end, whilst one fan implored Ryan Sidebottom to “hit the stumps you f***ing hippie!” The ”sing-when-your-winning” attitude that some “fans” take towards their players amazes me, especially when the opponents are no slouches as New Zealand were. It was interesting to see how the stewards responded to any sign of activity in the crowd, almost as if we were just waiting to become riotous in an hot-headed drunken rampage. Of course, I had to remind myself that though I found this “babysitting” amusing, the possibility of such an incident was admittedly plausible considering the way that some people drink throughout the day. Now, considering play started at 10:45 in the morning and finished at nearly 7, most people were yelling slurred sentences by the end of the day.

Now you may be wondering how on earth people sat through 8 hours of cricket. Some tried to start a Mexican wave, booing those who wouldn’t join in, some bounced a ball around, beer spilling everywhere until a steward confiscated one ball. The story of the game however was an interesting one. England were in bat first and started well, batting at a good rate until Wright went out bringing in Kevin Pietersen, who no one seems to like for some reason. He went for a second ball duck (i.e. zero runs after two balls) hoisting a ball aimlessly into the air for a catch. That was when Ravi Bopara came in and along with unlikely hero Owais Shah built up a good total for England. However when Bopara recklessly skied a well-caught effort the England tail (people in team for their bowling ability) didn’t stand up. Matters weren’t helped when Shah insisted on taking a needless second run and promptly got run out. However, Sidebottom and Andersen were unlikely heroes and held out to bring England’s total to 245 before being bowled out on the 3rd ball of the 50th over (that’s the last over for non-cricketers, One day cricket, not to be confused with test cricket, each side have one innings, a turn at batting, that lasts 50 overs, 50 sets of six balls).

England bowled well to start with getting out New Zealand’s best batsman Brendon McCullum for just 1 run. Sidebottom then got Taylor caught to take New Zealand to 17 for 2. That was when Scott Styris came in and really turbo-charged New Zealand’s innings. However, he could have gone for a duck immediately when Jimmy Anderson, normally inconsistant but on a good day today, bowled a fast one that Styris edged for a routine catch for Owais Shah, England’s batting hero earlier. However, somehow he dropped it and Styris went on to make more than 60. He was dropped off another bowler Stuart Broad twice more. When Styris was bowled out, he had already formed good partnerships with Jamie How who went for just under 30, and Flynn, both got out by spin bowler (a bowler that relies on guile and trickery instrad of out and out speed) Graeme Swann. Following this Styris had created an explosive partnership with Jacob Oram who catapulted New Zealand into a winning position. Once Oram was caught by England sub Alastair Cook, Styris was run out and this created a tight finale. England, having bowled badly and not kept a maiden (an over with no runs) all game, suddenly found some tight bowling and managed to get dangerous captain Daniel Vettori out with not much trouble. A Controversial run-out where England rather unsportingly stumped Elliott who was down on the floor injured following an accidental collision with Sidebottom brought England needing two further wickets, whilst another Tim Southee run out meant that England needed one wicket to win, whereas New Zealand required 12 to win off three overs (18 balls). From this point every ball was clapped and there were no distractions from the game, except for the cheering of fans between each ball. Cue the first maiden of the game bowled by Swann, to make it 12 to win off 12 balls. England captain Collingwood took this over and bowled a few dot balls before being crashed for a six by New Zealand bowler Kyle Mills to bring the score to 6 off 8 balls. Three more runs brought New Zealand to two behind England on 243 with one over (six balls) remaining. Having run out of bowlers (as each bowler can only bowl 10 overs maximum) Luke Wright, England opener and all-rounder, was called in to keep it tight. Kyle Mills scored a single off the first ball, to bring the Kiwis to one behind England. Then Wright bowled superbly to keep New Zealand on 244, 1 behind, until the last ball. All three results were still possible after 8 hours of play. A maiden or wicket would see an unlikely England win, a single, a tie, where as two runs or more would see the Kiwis victorious. It was extremely tense and I could feel myself shaking in the heat. The ball was good to tail-ender Gillespie who could only block it a short way. However, because they knew that they needed a run to avoid defeat the Kiwi pair began haring off desperately. Swann, a hero just three overs earlier gathered the ball and aimed for the stumps for a run out which would win the game for England. Everyone in front of me stood up in jubilation and my view was blocked, then subdued cheering. It was then I realised that the men in front of me were now holding their heads in disbelief and as they dropped dejectedly to their seats, some New Zealand fans a few rows in front, one of whom was Elvis reincarnated, were celebrating. Paul Collingwood stood their with his hands on his head on the field. I had to wait for the main screen to confirm my fears, “Congratulations New Zealand”.

Let’s freeze frame for a minute. Let’s focus on Swann aiming for the stumps. It was an absolutely pivotal point of the game. If he had hit the stumps, England win, if he had simply held onto the ball, England would have tied and the series forced to a decider. On the other hand, as he missed the stumps, the ball trickling away from the fielders gave the New Zealanders time to gain the time they needed to gain the second run which resulted in the game being a victory. You could ask why didn’t a fielder back up the throw to protect a draw, but if Swann had hit the stumps that argument would have been redundant. It was heat of the moment, this wasn’t an audit, it was a moment of destiny, of chaos. How fine was the margin of victory that day? Sometimes I see fans simplify sport down to winning mentalities and losing mentalities, but when something like this happens surely you can’t put it down to this. This was a penalty miss in a penalty shoot-out. This was getting the bullet in Russian Roulette. Sometimes, though humanity doesn’t like to admit it because it gives them a lack of control, fate and luck can play a bigger role in the outcome of an event.

The Rise and Fall of the Great Saundini Part VIII

Welcome for the final time to one of my readings of the future, that is, my own future. Unfortunately, I can only see sadness and death in this part so I implore the squeamish to beware. Let us delve for one final time and see what can be seen…

I feel scared. Fear. Shadows are all around me laughing. The smell in the dark alley is damp and pungent of fish. I have just been told that to stay in this relatively safe area, I’d need to earn my rent by stealing. I look around at them. “Please ta meet cha lad”, this one had a long red beard, “me name’s Fagin, Fagin Fagin”. “A la Oliver Twist? You’re joking”, I tell him. “You calling my name a joke boy?”, “I’m 38!”, “Shut up!” The shout was from a man who looked mean and I noticed he had a nasty looking dog. “Let me guess” I asked, “Sikes”. “Shut up! Me name’s Dikes!” Reluctantly, I agree with him. “Look kiddo! you’re comin’ with us!”

And at that, the barking dog gnawing at my ankles, I am frogmarched by Dikes through up to a grand house just outside central London. I feel so hungry. My legs ache. “Where are we going?” I ask. “To a club my boy, a club”. “Stop calling me a boy!” “Shut up!” We sneak up to the Window. “Hey I recognise this place!” I tell him, “We’re in Chertsey, this is exactly the house which Oliver breaks into in the Dickens novel”. “Shut up!” came the predictable reply. “Now climb in boy and open the front door for me”. “Why would I do that?” I ask. He shrugs sarcastically before thrusting a gun from his pocket and clicking off the safety. “You make a convincing argument Mr Dikes” I tell him and at that I climb into the house.

It is grand, with fine pictures everywhere and a smell that reminds me of my one true love. I figure that now I’m inside I can just call the police and get rid of this man Dikes, however I realise that I haven’t finished treatment still technically so I may well end up prison myself as a result. “Hey!” I hear a sound behind me and see Dikes poking his revolver through the window. The moonlight behind him making his head a silhouette. I start walking to the door and reflect on my life. I’ve abandoned most of my principles, been a coward in the face of danger and failed in everything that I have done, why should I resist allowing my standards to slip any further? But then comes the voice, a heavenly voice in my head that tells me of unconditional love and that we always have a choice. I could hold on to my life, or compensate for a lost life by losing it to a glorious death. And yet I am scared. After all, there is never any guarantee of how I’ll be treated in the after life. I give myself a compromise that I need to learn more, and so persuade myself to go ahead with this. That’s when I stumble over a welcome mat and slap down onto the laminate floor. On getting up I see a frame, and inside the frame I see that I can’t rob this house. The picture is one of my love.

I thought that she still lived in Bristol, but it doesn’t surprise me that she has a place nearer the English National Opera in London. Adrenaline starts coursing through my arteries and smell iron. I go to the door, tears welling in my eyes and apply the chain lock, turning round in defiance. At this comes the gunshot and my stomach forces me backwards clattering into the door. I look up gasping in pain, a pain which is numbing as I start to lose blood and life. I see my love coming down the stairs in a nightie brandishing a violin fiercely. “Who’s there?” she yells aggressively before seeing me, she screams in fear and stands still there. A silence follows, the blue moonlight shimmering off her brown hair. “I thought you were dead” she tells me. I simply splutter back and my attempts to talk hurt me as I try to respond in a way that I don’t know how. I clutch my stomach and begin to see stars, but remembering a last duty I remove my love-letter from my pocket and hold it out to her. Lactic acid is eroding my arm as she finally takes it and reads:

“My dearest love, I want to say,

that I adore in every way

that this simple and cliched tripe

could never show in its bold type,

my final breath is coming now

But for your own peace, don’t ask how,

I am a casualty of earth

And no ambition has had it’s birth

In my heart and the world appauls

My only place is with St. Paul.

Please find new love and new success

Try not to grieve and obsess

And I will always watch you on high

In never-ending bliss, I die.”

“Oh, the Great Saundini”, she weeps, my eyes not open, “can you not understand? As you love me just as I am, I love you. It doesn’t matter what job you do, so long as you are you! That’s real success! I’d love you, tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. Do you see Saundini? Saundini?” And then silence. I start to see my own body on the floor, blood spilling out of my gut and creating a red lava pool on the laminate floor. My love runs to the telephone and calls an ambulance, but it’s all in vain, the Great Saundini is dead. I fly through the ceiling and up into the night sky and suddenly a flash of white.

I’m back, though not for long. It’s amazing how much life is about to change, obviously based on the fact that I have had this vision of the future now in the present, the future will not turn out like this and be consigned to being an alternative reality, but rest assured, if I hadn’t written this, that is exactly how the future would have turned out! Incidentally, isn’t it weird how scientists seem to actively go about trying to recreate sci-fi futuristic horror films? In honesty it would put me off breaking laws of nature in the name of science. See 6th Sense and I-Robot and watch this space. Well done, faithful blog readers, whoever you are, if you have read this far. Thursdays blog will be the last. I’m off into the working world, a world in which not many care too much about what I write! So unless there’s much demand, I’m signing off. Ta ra til Thursday!

Greed and Poverty

I find the stereotype that we’re a greedy nation, because we own many of the world’s resources a strange one sometimes. Often projects like band aid, comic relief and Make Poverty History seem to try to guilt-trip us into investing in their product, as if it’s our fault the world is so unequal and that we need to give money to help address this balance. In other words, if we give our money the scales will even out and everyone in the world then ends up well off.

I realise this is not the intention of such projects, indeed they are simply looking for donations and trying to show that investing will make a big difference. I also would never deny that there is truly a huge gulf in wealth worldwide between the rich and the poor. However, it’s the individualistic attitude and blame culture I object to, which I feel charities and projects exploit for their own interests. After all, though charities wish to appear vocational, it must be remembered that they’re still a cut and thrust business competing with lots of other companies trying to brainwash us into splashing the cash. Our blame though seems to me grossly unfair sometimes though and this obvious attempt to sway me often puts me off getting out my wallet and giving Terry Wogan a call.

First of all, it seems to me that no amount of money-shifting can make a quick and permanent difference to poverty in the third-world as their poverty is based on industry and economy in the country. Thus, even if an over-paid footballer did give all their money to Moreover, Fair Trade, a process of artificially raising prices for goods from those countries, could mean that companies may be forced to turn to alternative sources to keep up with supply, because of competition, and demand and isn’t really sustainable. Moreover, much of the extra profit given with Fair Trade may not necessarily go to the people that are really suffering, but to the industries instead. Simply not buying imported products will cause a collapse in the economy and disaster. The reason we are so well off, seems more to be a by-product of the British Empire than any real day to day faults.

Moreover, many people in Britain don’t seem to be too selfish. Whilst looking for jobs, I came across the charity sector and found it very competitive, and in one of the world’s largest charities it seems virtually impossible to even find a paid vacancy and the website has reached the point where they are asking surfers not to send in a CV to express their interest. In other large charities there’s more applicants for jobs than the companies can use or afford. The simple truth is that British people are constantly looking to give back to the community, but that there often isn’t the opportunity. Moreover, millions upon millions of pounds are given by the British public to charities on an annual basis. I would say, only a small minority of people don’t care about other people in the world in the midst of their wealth, though it may be fair to point out that many can lose perspective in the stress (as if I know the meaning of the word!) of our day to day routines. 

I am not for a moment using this blog to try and tell people not to give to charities, as they can make a real difference in the world and this is worth the donations. What I am advocating is a guilt-free type of giving. After all, a gift feels better when it’s freely given.

The Rise and Fall of the Great Saundini Part VII

Welcome back fellow viewers of the future. Unfortunately, death seems to be on the cards, both for this blog and for my future self. A death that only rememberance can revive. And yet the rest is blurred. Let us delve into what happens next. The waves are, after all, here once more…

I come round and see the sky. The birdsong drowned by stale air and traffic noise. The cold windchill nipping at my goosebumped skin. Somehow, I’d managed to escape. It had been one long and painful year that I had spent in the hospital. Unbearable sickness followed me wherever I went. It was like having treatment for cancer, except that there was nothing wrong with me. I even began to doubt, at one point, my own innocence. There had to be a reason for my suffering. But here I am now suddenly outside in Hyde Park, London. What had happened? I walked around London for a bit, glad to see the outside of the hospital. As I walked past Goodge Street where a black man gave me a copy of the London Metro. The main headline was: “Bye Bye Blues – Chelsea relegated” and went on to explain Chelsea’s terminal decline since the unveiling of Scolari as their new manager, an event which saw a catalogue of different managers, Chelsea drifting to mid-table and Abramovich losing interest. However, further inside I saw another smaller headline: “Hyde Hospital Hopeless - Overcrowded Hospital lets patients escape”, apparently overcrowding meant that the criminals with minor offences were left around Hyde park this morning in an attempt to free up pressure that the government is putting on them. After all, patients still need to be treated. As a result the Labour party leader has spoken out about it and is looking for power to return to them, so they can sort out this mess.

You would think I would be happy to be out of my prison, but in truth I am not. The fact is, that despite my treatment, at least I got care there. I have nothing out here and no jobs will employ me with my criminal record. As a result, I am forced to beg on the streets and live homeless. I have always enjoyed whistling, so I take that up and busk for money on Oxford Street, before I am escorted away by police. Things look extremely bleak for me. And by nightfall I have only managed to raise £1. With night falling it all looks fairly hopeless. People just walk past me and think that I’m stupid or something, that I’m only on the street because I want to be. I remember what I’d always been taught and recognise that they may well be suspicious of what I might use the money for. The D-word is a bit taboo around these parts at the moment. I remember that the station is usually a good place to go for shelter, so I try to find a step that I can rest my head on and lie there trying to sleep. My feet are so cold, I find it impossible and consider that I’m lucky it’s June.

Suddenly I’m gripped up by the scruff of my T-Shirt. “Oi! What you doin’ on my turf!” My head is pounding and I can’t open my eyes. I’m cold and stiff as if I was already dead. Thinking so, I don’t reply as dead men can’t talk. “I down’d recognise you”. “My name’s Saund… Saund-ini” I think about saying my adopted name, but I decided that I couldn’t let on that I was rich once or I’d get butchered. “Right” he replied a crooked white smile. It was blurred behind a black silhouette, all that I can see. The smell of fags is suffocating my tight sinuses. He continued his face thick and white, “Well you won’ last long ‘ere if you don’ respec’ people’s property”. A skull grinned in front of me. “How’s about you do some work for me. Then I let you stay.” Its eyes are glaring red and seemed to envelop me. I want to say “No”, but what choice do I have? So I say nothing until his grip drops me; his message made and my flashback fades.

A Staines Railway Station Anecdote

I waited for the doors to shift open and stept out into the hot Sunday Afternoon. Staines station. As I paced away from the train snatches of people oozed through its doors in an inconsiderate and ironic attempt to enter the carriage as quickly as possible. I on the other hand stepped up the footbridge and heard the whistles and squeaks as the train set off behind me. Getting to the other side I looked at the electronic board: “2nd Windsor ER —- 19.07″. Below this read the time, which was 18.40 and 36 seconds and counting. How annoying I thought as I looked for a place to sit. People were waiting for the train to Reading coming at 19.45 so, though the station wasn’t heaving, it was too full to find a free seat. The Reading train came and went, albeit late. And soon a free row of seats came up, so I sat in wait; watching seconds tick slowly by and surveying my surroundings. Advertising boards filled blank subconscious space around the station attempting to advertise the latest film and book (why are they only at train stations?) releases, the birdsong and chatter the main sounds that could be heard between trains. Then I heard some hearty laughter and and a croaked chuckle. “Hey is anyone here an adult? Which train is to Reading?” Walking up my left were two men, who seemed totally out of their heads. One was short and old with a even yet bristley white beard, whilst the other was younger, taller and slimmer. He had two cuts on his head; scars. Both of them were smiling, the younger man’s teeth decayed brown by what I assumed must have been tarred by cigarettes. “You’re on the right platform”, I told them, confidence bolstered by my improving social skills following a schooling scheme, “the train arrives 19.15″. “Thanks mate, It’s been a confusing day”, Slim grinned. “Really? What have you been up to?” I asked, excited at the prospect of a story. “You wouldn’t believe us if we told you,” he assured me. I gave him a look as if to say that there was scarce a story I wouldn’t believe and the pair began a narrative, beginning with a headline:

“Well,” Slim started, “we’ve just escaped from being kidnapped”. “Really?”. “Yeah, this fella” he said pointing to his old companion, “has been locked in stable for six months, made to do all the chores with the animals and given no hot water or phone calls or nothin’”, his friend nodded in agreement. “That sounds like some story”, I said. “It was this Irish fella. A mafia man. I was like really out of it from smoking weed and I came across this car that stopped for me and the man inside offered to take me in. He had kids in the back, so I felt a bit weird, but in the end I thought okay. And I ended up in a stable with this guy. I managed to escape in the end. The Irish guy threatened me, telling me he had friends, but I was like, you want to go back to Oxford with me and I’ll show you what real powerful friends are, because some of those homeless people would kill for me, almost without question. You see, I work with the homeless. I used to be homeless myself.” At this point he began to roll up a couple of cigarettes. “What was that like?” I asked. “Being manic depressive?” his face had suddenly turned experienced and cold, “Crap”. “No, I’m sorry I just…”. I tried to change the subject back, “So are you headed back to Oxford now?”. “Yeah”, he replied. “After I managed to escape, I told the police about this guy and then I came back for this guy and got him out of here”. Slim lit his cigarette and gave one to his friend. “Is that how you got your scar?” “This?” he said pointing to his forehead, “nah. I got it through falling down the stairs didn’t I mate,” to which the quiet and jovial man nodded still half reserved as if he were still a captive. “Yeah, my ex-girlfriend left glasses at the bottom of the stairs and fell into them and cut my head. It was bad for weeks. Actually, my ex, she was nice, at least when she was sober, but she had this ex-boyfriend. When he got out of prison he came and started messing with our relationship. I had a word with him, you know a ‘man to man’, but he wouldn’t have any of it. When I came back from work one day, she was gone. That was when it started; my manic depression. I lost my job soon after that and then my home and soon I was on the street”. His grey eyes glimmered sadly as he put his cigarette to his mouth. “You know you have to question you know, I can see you come from quite a privalleged background, but what if that was to come crashing down? How would you know who you are? You’ve got to think sometimes” he sat flicking the butt off his cigarette blowing smoke into the air. Meanwhile, Oldie was shuffling with his cigarette as well. “When they found me from the streets they diagnosed I had three weeks to live max. It’s buggered up my teeth.” At that I was reminded how hideous his teeth were, it looked as if they were wooden; the smell of smoke increasing my sense of disgust, but his words made me sympathetic. “Eventually, I got the job working for the homeless.” Slim puffed once more. “What about you?” I asked Oldie. “Well he was a high flying businessman he was”, continued Slim, as if it were still his story, “but then his wife died. He lost a lot after that, cause he invested a lot in her treatment and all. It’s a long story.” I was interested to hear more, but he continued with me:

“Look, have you heard of the Celestine Prophecy by James, erm… what was it?” “Red…” guessed Oldie. “Red…ford…field. James Redfield?” “No”, I replied. “You should, you know, it’s like a Bible to life. You know, I talked to you just now because I saw something in your eyes, it’s difficult to explain.” He shuffled enthusiastically now in preach mode. I was sure this conversation had lasted longer than the amount of time it should take for my train to come. “When I was on the street I had this connection with this black man when I was going down a street. He stared at me and I stared back, just for a second and I immediately felt this connection with him. He came over to me and told me he was religious-like, a Christian. And he asked if he could pray for me. I let him and he said a few quiet words. Then he said to me these words: ‘God is with you now’. And from that moment on, I began to feel a new peace in my life. Who knows without this, I would never have gone on to meet and help this guy. There was a meaning why I survived.” I looked at him for a moment feeling as though I could sympathise with this belief. “I am a Christian too actually, so I believe in a spiritual world outside this one, which interacts intimately with our own reality.” I was wondering whether I was meant to talk to him or simply listen, but then he continued. “Well make sure you read the Celestine Prophecy, James Redford I might have a copy in my bag, or maybe…” Slim looked slightly confused for a moment, before Oldie mentioned, “no you have a copy in your bag”. “No,” replied Slim without changing expression, “that’s ‘The Guide to the Celestine Prophecy’”. “Well I’ll probably remember anyway”, I said humouring him. “Trust me”, he assured me confidently, “it’s the perfect guide for life, it gives you all kinds of insights into how the world works, it’s amazing and it’s changed my life.”

At this the announcer mentioned my train and I knew my time listening was near an end. “I’ve got two pieces of advice for you”, Slim told me. “First of all, make sure you travel the world and make sure its on your own”, and at this Slim got affirming noises from his cerebral friend. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was already engaged. “Second, if you make eye contact, or share a smile with anyone, make sure you talk to them, because it all happens for a reason. Just like I’ve talked to you.” We stared at each other for a moment, I not knowing what to think, but intrigued all the same, he looking the casual philosopher. “The most intelligent people I’ve ever met are the homeless. They’ve seen everything. Experience and pain is in their eyes. Next time you see one of them, talk to them, you won’t regret it”. In my background vision I saw the train to Windsor start to crawl in. “That’s my train” I told them. “Well it’s been good talking to you” said Slim and Oldie murmured in agreement, “I can see you’re intelligent and you’ve taken that in. I hope you all the best.” At that I took his hand and shook it, “Good luck in your journey”. Then I stepped onto the train, the doors closing behind me. I tried to find a red seat in the tube chamber that was the carriage. Soon enough the train squeaked into action and glided away from a conversation resonating in my mind, but slipping away drowned by the clunks of shuttling sounds of returning home.

The Rise and Fall of the Great Saundini VI

Hello again faithful readers. If there is anyone left. I don’t know why I continue with this since I am writing to what is empty space, except that I really want to get to the end of my future, so I will continue…

Here come the waves again… that’s write, writing, I’ve got a letter in my hand and I am about to hand it to my beautiful ex-wife. However, en route I see a friendly looking dog-walker cooing at her pet as I walk down the road beside her. However, this is strange because the dog is a big fierce looking alsation with glaring sharp fangs. They feel painful as they grip my leg extremely tightly. Politely I turn to ask the kindly dog owner if she can call her snarling pet off me before it rips off my leg, but she just smiles back and reassures me that “he wouldn’t hurt a fly, he’s a very gentle dog”. However, I am starting to disagree as the blood starts to become cut off from my leg and I feel my bones starting to click. A red hot pain courses violently through my body. “Really” I tell her “I need my leg to deliver something to the woman I love”, but her face turns to that of anger, “Don’t be so stupid, boy!”. By now I start to panic and my sense escapes me overriden with a sense of flight. When the dog starts shaking my leg in his mouth, I suddenly flip over backwards and land a huge kick right in the jaw of the beloved pet, knocking the dear alsation unconscious with a sudden whimper. I lie face-up on the floor, my right knee feeling like it was aflame, wincing at the dusky sky. Suddenly into view pops an angry face followed by a handbag, which hits me again and again picking at my face and lips. “You monster! Just because you’re rich makes you think you can do whatever you want! I’ll sue you! I’ll sue! Mark my words I’ll sue!”

Eventually the police were able to restrain her and I, with my face bleeding and my leg below my knee cap dangling by a thread of ligament, am taken to hospital. So disgusted are the staff with my animal cruelty that they refuse to give me anaesthetic for my operation, thus making my amputation as unpleasant as possible. After a few uncomfortable weeks in hospital, I go to court in a rusty wheelchair and sit trial. Having looked at the price fee to hire a professional lawyer I decide to defend myself and lose my fortune, absolutely all 2.5 billion pounds worth of it (bare in mind by this time inflation has made this seem more than it actually was). The two most decisive bits of evidence, my obvious wealth and my innate evil as a result of my richness (money being the root of all evil), which inspired many a church pastors sermon, as well as the unliklihood of my defence considering animals. There were plenty of witnesses, whom I thought would validate me, but the questions asked of them were so leading that they could only validate the fiction that the opposition presented. I was guilty. My punishment: Hospital therapy (jails of course being so overcrowded became abolished and instead used as council estates to solve the housing crises around the country) and the relinquishing of one half of my fortunes to the ruling political party RSPCA and the other to the “victim”.

Hospital therapy was horrible. Effectively, the treatment consists of making me violently ill until I learn my lesson demonstrated by filling in a forests’ worth of paperwork explaining my sorrow for the sins I have committed and how repentant I am, complete with a signiture at the end. A signiture of course means that there is absolutely no possibility that they haven’t reformed. Ater all anyone can act, can’t they? Some people had spent years in these mental institutions before they finished filling in the necessary documents. And then every dreaded evening the medicine was given to us. I see the nurse enter my chamber, I being strapped down onto the bed by my arms with velcrow straps, a little peg leg where my lower limb once was. She’s carrying a spoon. And here comes the small metallic aeroplane, containing it’s corrupting oily shipment about to make my temperatures rise and my stomach stormy. My neck is strapped down and if I resist two burly men will inevitably come and force open my jaws, and my first experience told me that I didn’t want that to happen again. I give in swallowing the sickly liquid and suddenly my eyes go swimming.

How predictable, the end of my vision. I’ll be back next week, you probably won’t, but I will be! Bye!

The Curriculum Code

Since Monday I have been participating in this Student Associate Scheme, which is effectively a posh means of saying School Work Experience for Students. That’s right, I’m thinking of being a teacher! Regular blog readers may be afraid that I may drastically misinform any class that I take potentially driving some to even go as far to exclaim: Thank goodness for the curriculum!

As you can probably guess from my snide sideswipe (check out that sibilance!), I’m not a huge fan. Anything that restricts teachers from doing their jobs by being to prescriptive is going to be a bad thing. On the other hand, a rough guide is needed to make education more uniform. It’s no good people knowing the meaning of life if they can’t read for instance. However, in honesty, my opinion in the whole “exams getting easier” debate is that they’re not, despite what our jealous older generation and the Daily Mail argue, but neither are the latter generation higher achievers as our spin-doctoring government seem to want us to believe sometimes. For me the main difference in 50 years (my knowledge of course is based on that fundamental resource That’ll teach ‘em!) is that what children learn is much more goals orientated to get them through the sausage factory, as opposed to helping children to have a more rounded knowledge and common sense essential in making them better human beings. I suppose this is best embodied in the two History Boys teachers (a play by Alan Bennett, if you haven’t seen it, don’t worry). Thus, people come out with better grades but less general knowledge. Mind you that’s just my opinion. I know this is a stupidly short article that displays no sources, but it stirs debate using the second lowest common denominator (slightly higher than sex) and did I mention it’s short?

Discuss!

The Rise and Fall of the Great Saundini V

Hello and welcome to the next section of my vision. Is anyone getting bored yet? I have to admit I couldn’t really care less what happens to me now, but lets have a look now? Let us journey through time and space into the future! My future!

I see… a beach. Ah, yes. I remember. Our ship hit Guernsey and I washed up on the shores of erm… wherever I am. I look up and see a villager running to me, he is filthy in the clothes mother nature gave him. He has a wild look in his eye and he runs over to me roaring loudly. In my best possible English voice I reply: “Can I help you sirrah?” “Well now that you mention it”, he replies, “you could come quietly, so that us here cannibals can eat your flesh and gnaw on your boney sinews”. “Well” I reply, “since you ask so nicely I don’t see how I could possibly refuse”. And so we amble, I following he through into the mainland.

Eventually we reach the tribe who are doing a strange dance around a big black boiling pot. It suddenly occurs to me that losing their clothes has turned these islanders into savages! I am hoisted up in the air by a burly man from behind and dunked into the chamber pot to the sound of a raucous cheer. I pray to God as I kneel in the cold water before suddenly realising something. “Hey!” I call to them. “You’re not seriously going to eat me undercooked are you? You need hot water to boil me alive!” “That’s right” the cheif signals his tribe to stop their noise, “I remember now. We need to make a fire to make the pot. Why, sir, you must be a God. Everyone bow to the… errr…”. “Le Grand Saundre” I tell him. “Mon Dieu! a French God, we really are in trouble!” his brow is sweating. “Please forgive us, Lord Saundre for betraying your chosen nation, we are your humble slaves”. At this the whole tribe is bowing in worship. From this point on, they were my slaves and in La Angleterre Francaise, I built my dynasty, an industry selling the wonder of fire to every home. With my writing ability it is easy to take the credit for being the sole inventor of such a product and the fellow islanders soon all work for me counting their own wages out. Only in this country could you possibly make a living by complaining and criticising people and then offering no viable alternative. Soon I am so rich I am importing clothes again and selling them on for terrible prices. Normal behaviour in La Angleterre francaise, is soon restored (or is that disguised?) and I soon have so much influence in the French board that I use it to make Britain an independant nation again.

My pride restored I search for my beloved wife again. Earlier I had told her that I had died to cover my shameful wartime actions, but now I feel I have restored my pride and I search for her. I manage to find her living in Bristol, but she’s now with another man. She doesn’t see him much, she has gone into opera. Fortunately the nudist craze has now nullified the “nudity is art” fad on the stage so she doesn’t have to do any humiliating stripping in front of thousands as she sings. I am glad she’s happy, so I write her a poem addressed from me. I don’t want to spoil the illusion that I am dead, so I date the poem from the time I was on the front (makes no sense I know) and post it through her letter box using an official military seal (using my influence again). I post it there and then retire to my mansion in Windsor. Did I mention I was King? Hold on this sounds like a dream…

Yep. Ignore that bit. Now where was I… Darn, lost my thread. Oh well, until next week, you know the drill.

Judging a CD by it’s Band-Name

We’ve all heard the old adage, you can’t judge a book by it’s cover, to the point that it’s become cliched (probably the most overused word on my blog), and yet it’s the most universally ignored proverb out of all the ones that come to my head. Possibly this could be due to the fact that a piece of wisdom is only wisdom if not many people take it on board. Christianity’s greatest theological mind, Christ himself puts it best when he quotes the prophet Isaiah, “they have eyes but they will not see, they have ears but they will not hear”. In other words, knowledge is fundamentally different to understanding. However, I am digressing badly here, so to take it back to topic…

Despite all the messages bombarded at us from childhood along the lines of “true beauty is on the inside” (effectively the same saying applied to a person instead of an object), we actively ignore the meanings and continually judge everything by image. The strength of the fashion industry is testament to this as well as the tragic pressures on women and men alike to become this beautiful stereotyped artificial image. The message even becomes actively resented and parodied. The prevailing attitude, indeed, seems to be ”that’s just something ugly people say”.

The world of media is also affected by this. Despite some very good “male” chick-flicks such as Definitely Maybe and What Women Want, some men will still reject a film based on it’s genre or intended audience. Alternatively, the adrenaline rushes of Vantage Point and Predator are just discarded by some in the opposite gender. Moreover, age certificates seem to have a large impact on how a film is perceived. Any film with an age rating lower than 12 seems to be asking for trouble. As a result, gratuitous violence and sexual scenes seem to be inserted into most films, seemingly just to avoid the dreaded PG rating, worse than a 1 star review. This just does not follow sometimes though: My fiancee and I, being fans of Winnie the Pooh, watched Piglet’s Big Movie the other day and were frankly not expecting it to be that good. In honesty, I cried the whole way through. No film has connected with me in such a powerful way before that and as a result I feel only shame. In basic terms, the plot itself centred around Piglet’s friends learning how much they took him and his role in the group for granted. Describing it in such a way doesn’t sum up the film adequetely though. Piglet is a character who has a good heart to serve his friends regardless of whether he is appreciated or not, though he does yearn for acknowledgement sometimes, but he can never receive it because his small size is that isn’t noticed. The message is simple and similar to the classic It’s a Wonderful Life: that the small things matter and our real achievements are the things that are under the surface. The country sounds of Carly Simon, who wrote much of the soundtrack, did nothing but add to the emotion of the film watching experience. In retrospect it was a really special film, but we came very close to not watching it on the grounds that it would be too simple and boring.

Music too is less about musical or lyrical prowess, and seemingly dominated by image. Now you may predict that I am going to launch into a tirade about Popular music, but if anything this is the music which is criminally underrated, whilst bands who are more amateur in abilities tend to get heaps of undeserved praise. McFly is an excellent example of the first of these. Sure, McFly enjoy success that people resent, having already achieved 10 No. 1 singles and a few chart-topping albums, but because of their status as a boy-band that are similar in image to Busted, a much worse band musically, they do not get the respect they deserve as artists.

No one will agree with me just on this argument alone, but please try to put prejudice aside and look objectively at the evidence. Unlike many boy-bands and pop-artists, McFly write all their own music and lyrics. Someone making a snide comment might smirk “It shows”, but again this is a show of resentment against their image. Their lyrics do not merely spout cringy cliches, but tackle unusual and diverse themes in their music, including old age (The Ballad of Paul K), humility in fame (Room on the 3rd Floor) and Halloween (Transylvania), as well as different aspects of love such as being reunited with an old flame (Memory Lane) and the bread and butter apology song (Sorry’s not good enough). Their music is heavily influenced by the Beatles, Queen and the Beach Boys (who are all streets ahead in credibility) and it can easily be heard. Moreover, it invariably reflects the mood of the song in a powerful way. Star-girl, whilst a bit corny (though no more corny than Jamiroquai’s excellent Cosmic Girl), has a space-theme which is reflected in the music strongly, whilst Ultraviolet is tranquil as a beach and Please, Please is more typically upbeat and rocking.

Compare the music, lyrics and artistry of McFly to more popular and more respected bands like the awful Scouting for girls, Oasis, Blur, Franz Ferdinand and a number of others and it’s mystifying how the latter bands are so much more popular. Scouting for Girls are among the worst bands I have ever heard. I’m sorry, but a song that has the lyrics “she’s flirty and thirty, isn’t that the age when they get dirty”, is just not credible. Juvenile is a far better word. You’d think that with no lower bar to how bad their lyrics can be that they’d have no need to repeat some of them endlessly. Just think “She’s so loverly”, which they seem to keep saying until they remember what lyrics come next. It’s not just their lyrics, their songs are so endlessly repetitive to the extent that you would question whether they can play more than four guitar chords. It’s hard to see what the band have apart from image and a penchant for vulgarity, which unfortunately seem to go hand in hand. Franz Ferdinand lack the ability to write anything, so rely either on covers or write one-dimensionally about how “evil” they are. Oasis and Blur’s lyrics don’t make sense either, though to their credit they at least make up for that with some brilliant melodies. This hardly means that their music is higher calibre however, though I am a fan.

Even our Rhythm and Poetry masters in the field of Rap can’t seem to muster more than one theme, namely how good they are, how rich they are, how they get all the chicks and how they and their homies are going to bust you up. Okay, make that four. I find it ridiculous how these guys can be respected by so many people and other acts that work hard on their lyrics such as McFly and Will Young are just discarded as chart-topping trash.

Ultimately, I am convinced that image plays as large a part in this world as anything else. It’s a shame, but it overall it is a natural attribute of human nature. However, if you are able to put prejudices aside and look under the surface and “don’t judge a book by it’s cover”, you’ll be doing something very abnormal. You’ll be sharing an attribute with one of God’s own. It’s supernatural.