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.

The Rise and Fall of the Great Saundini IV

Well, it’s been three weeks now since we first traversed the fourth dimension and here, as predicted, comes the very next wave of psychic consciousness…

Ah, I see croissants, stale bread-sticks and Le Marseillaise (or at least if it were possible to see a sound). That’s right. I ended up a French Prisoner of war. Now you may think that this may have been unpleasant and you’d be right. The smell of cheese and sound of the french titter becomes unbearable after a while. On the plus side, I don’t get tortured at all, at least deliberately. This is because I have enough desire to survive and disloyalty to my country that I answer every question they ask without fuss. Some of the expressions that my occupiers have on their faces are drenched in pure disgust. I try to argue that I am partly Native American and therefore am innately cowardly (please note that this is a lie to make me come across better), but they decide to pretend they don’t speak English to thrust my obvious inferiority in my face. A week later the war is over, and I cannot help but feel partly, if not wholly responsible. England is renamed La Angleterre francaise. As a result of my shame I write home to my wife and tell her I love her, before deciding that the only way that I can keep her love and pride is to feign my own death and attain a new identity. So I go into a farm, rustle a goat and break it’s neck, possibly feasting on the meat around it’s vertebrae, but actually not doing such a thing at all. To seal my death I smear blood on my uniform and send it by mail to my wife herself. I am now Le Grand Saundre and appropriately grow a thin black moustache and buy an onion chain to go around my shoulders.

Looking for a job, I decide with my army experience, being a sailor should be a piece of cake. I apply for a post on a ship sailing the channel. He likes my accent (did I mention I magically become a fluent French speaker, a la the Simpsons), he keeps on sniggering, so I am hopeful. However, to my grief I am rejected. Apparently, my CV isn’t good enough. Not having swimming as a skill is a particular hindrance for some reason. It’s just as well I didn’t put reasons for leaving alongside my work experience! However, I am so persistant that eventually they make me cabin boy, if I can somehow lose a foot of my height and talk in a high voice. This I do with the help of really big shoes, which are now in fashion in France, the nudist movement being totally crushed down and by strapping a helium tank complete with mask to my back. I look like a bit of a clown, but I am an employed clown.

Anyway, as with my previous careers, the good times couldn’t last, or even begin. My first job is on board the FNS Souris, which is rather ironically very big. In fact, they say that it is unsinkable even for God at the time, which I have heard somewhere before. Our job is to sail to La Angleterre Francaise to bring clothing supplies back into the country. I have just got started delivering messages and being slapped round the head in a really camp way by various officers of the crew, when suddenly there is a massive “thud” sound. It transpires that en route to La Angleterre Francaise we have somehow crashed into Guernsey, because our ship was too large. The island creates a huge dent in the hull and as a result the boat begins to sink. Fortunately everyone escapes safely onto the land they are so close to, but still fashion-lovers in France and Europe mourn for the loss of so many valuable clothes. So many clothes which were hand-crafted and created for hours by the third world and would have been sold for such profit, but such low low prices in stores of my clothingless-striken homeland. The tears of those sorrowful people, the tears of my wife.

I sit on an empty beach and watch the tide go in and out and think and wonder what I am going to do next. My eyes start to water, no wait, that’s just the vision fading again. Oh well, next week I predict a bit more rising. I apologise for such a tragic ending today, it all seems a bit depressing. Oh well, I’ve talked to my careers advisor now, so things are looking up. Maybe I can prevent this future. Maybe I can do things differently. Maybe I should just get on with job-hunting instead of all this blogging.

Searching for Atlantis…

Atlantis is regarded very much as a myth for many; a legend that came forth from the dialogues of Plato, who may have lived 4th century BC. According to Timaeus and Critias it was a continent housing an advanced civilisation, which an earthquake caused to sink beneath the ocean in the year 9500BC following an attempted invasion on Athens. It was separated from the rest of the known world permanently by what is described as an impassable mud shoal. It was furthermore described as larger than Libya and Asia combined. However, the rise of the tectonic plate theory, which suggests that it is impossible for a land plate to slide below an ocean one makes Atlantis seem unlikely to scholars, historians and scientists alike, so the preferred explanation that Plato was using the continent as an illustrative metaphor became the dominant viewpoint. One Plato scholar puts it that Plato’s misrepresentation as a historian when he is a poet is a perfect example of the dangers of Poetry expressed in his Republic, that it is essentially deceit and therefore immoral. However, she forgets that, essentially, very little is known about Plato, so little that scholars cannot really be certain that Plato was just one individual, or a group. How then can the assessment be made that Plato is not in earnest when he writes that Poetry is immoral? That he writes fiction and not history? It’s a ridiculous assumption to make. Thus, how is it that the concept of Atlantis has been written off when there is evidence that seems to support its existence?

The reality of Atlantis seemed to be divided even in Greek times: whilst historians and philosophers such as Crantor, Xenocrates, Solon, Herodotus and Proclus seemed to argue for it’s existence, others like Aristotle and Theopompous, who parodied Plato’s account, seem more cynical. However, there is second-hand evidence that no longer exists, which seem to support the views of the former. For instance, Crantor reportedly travelled to Ancient Egypt and found hieroglyphics giving a total independent mention of Atlanteans and their countries. In addition to this, Solon found “something” else that could be taken to hand.

As the great Portuguese and Spanish explorers of the late 14th century began to explore the oceans and map the world, Atlantis, though still debatable in existence began to seem more unlikely. It remained however in public consciousness in Utopian literature, as well as dystopian tragedy. Some 19th century scholars said that it was related to Mayan and Incan civilisations in America. Surely, it would therefore follow that, America could possibly have been what was known as Atlantis. The Nazi’s were particularly interested in finding it, using the myth to confirm their own views of their cultural heritage. They were described by these theorists as “Nordic supermen”.

By this point “evidence” (I use the term broadly) had been gathered to suggest another two sunken continents: the continent of Mu and Lemuria. Mu was thought to be a lost continent in the Pacific Ocean and it’s idea originated from a traveller’s translation of some Mayan writing that describe such a continent. This was a continent pre-dating the ancient Egyptians and Greeks. It’s thought to be found just off the coast of a Japanese island known as Yonaguni, although this is a controversial finding. It was also suggested that Easter Island may be the destination of Mu, because of an apparent road which leads into the sea, but this was later discredited as lava flow.

Lemuria, on the other hand, was invented as a Victorian explanation as to why an identical species of lemur was found in Madagascar and India exclusively (not in neighbouring Africa or the middle East) when they are separated, by so much Ocean. As a result, there was a lost continent that was theorised to have connected the two countries at some stage. This idea was cutting-edge science at one point: it was even suggested that the ‘missing link’ for proving Darwinism existed on this island. This can even be connected to classical Southern Asian accounts of a sunken Kingdom called “Kumari Kandam”. Like Mu and Atlantis however, this theory has also gone out of fashion due to plate tectonics.

The evidence for any of these “lost” kingdoms is spurious to save the least, but it seems to me, slightly ironic that inevitably we take scientific law over the accounts of individuals nearest to the perceived realities of these continents. Science is supposed to be out exploring possibilities and developing understanding, and yet in this case the idea of the sunken continent is constantly rejected for a tidy theory with all the logic of a clergyman sentencing a man who says that the Earth revolves around the sun to death. The most compelling argument towards the idea of the sunken continent is one that I haven’t even mentioned yet: the like have already been discovered.

In addition to what was thought to be Mu off the coast of Japan, which seems to be irrationally cast aside, there is evidence of two such sunken continents in Zealandia (Tasmantis), covering modern day New Zealand and various various islands of Oceania, as well as the Kerguelen Plateau in the southern Indian Ocean. The main difference between these continents and the more problematic ones: these continents can be explained by tectonics, whilst the others challenge it.

What happened to science that embraced change? That loves anomalies? What happened to science without an agenda? There have been past instances where contemporary science has discredited mysticism and human experience dogmatically, only to end up revising the assessment later. One thing that never changes throughout history is a fundamental disrespect of the intellegence of our ancestors. The Mayans and the Greeks alike were intelligent civilisations and it would be rash in the extreme to cast out ideas that emerge from them without strong evidence that they were incorrect. After all, there is no more real account than the unreliable personal account. As far as I’m concerned, the search goes on…

If there are any plate tectonic experts who I have offended with any ignorance, I apologise. I should point out that various wikipedia pages are my main source. Do you think Atlantis exists?

The Rise and Fall of the Great Saundini III

Well, the psychic wave came later this week than I expected, but it’s arrived now. Thus, let us delve further into the cloudy unknown that is what hasn’t happened yet! Hold on a sec…

Here we go, I see lots of nude people. That’s right, following the success of “I love you cheesy do” came the World Nudist Movement, swarming first through America and the England. India and China, become freer to build in other industries as a result of the lower output of their fashion and this goes alongside the natural shift in balance of power to make these countries world powers. This forms a super-Tourism as a result goes down in Western countries and our economies collapse because no one wants to trade with nudists. Eventually, people aren’t naked because it is the trend, but because no-one in our country can afford clothes at all. With the government in dire straights, the decision is made that democracy is now a bit useless in a struggling nation. As a result, free-will is dispensed as a necessary evil and it is claimed that this is a time for ’strong leadership’. As a result, Adam Hillier becomes Prime Minister of Britain and restores the nation’s economy and self-belief, that being British makes one superior to all other nations, particularly the French, and begins building, preparing for desperate war against France to regain a foothold in the world.

Having lost my job to the Nudist movement, I have in the mean time been struggling for work and suffering under the inevitable hyper-inflation that has occured. As a result, I jump out of unemployment via conscription, which all men must sign up to. There is an inevitable feminist protest at the fact that the women are left behind, but ultimately this is down-trodden with violence in abundance and future generations are persuaded through specialist schools of the important role of the British mother in ensuring the stability of the Second British Empire. My wife was still jealous though, that while I was going away to fight for glory in France, she would be slaving away back at home.

Anyway, training at the Windsor Barracks is fairly basic; the sergeants seemed to want us out of there as quickly as possible. By the end of five weeks of training I could do 10 push-ups, a single lap around the field and could load a gun. Wearing helmet’s seemed to compromise some nudists’ beliefs, but I am fairly happy wearing something. We sail across the English channel on a large boat and then soon into small metal soldier carriers, as in Saving Private Ryan. As we get to the shore, there is no one firing at us, primarily because we have not declared war and the French haven’t had any intelligence of us since no one wanted to enter our country for modesty’s sake. We go to a village and are ordered to ransack it by our captain, a man with a cockney accent, stubbled head and yellow teeth. However, at this point I have an attack of conscience and ask him if I can be excused. I am surprised at his response: “You bloody muppet! Do as I say Private or I’ll chew yours for me dinner!” (Sorry, a bit Carry On, that pun). Instead I run into the village behind all the other people and get out my gun. It is a manic scene… people are swinging by, kicking in doors, torching houses, ransacking shops. The villagers meanwhile look-on with horror, afraid that their weaponary will be used. The smell of ash and the sound of weeping is in the air. Just as I look on at all the carnage, I suddenly feel a metallic crash around the back of my head and am hauled off the ground by an elderly french lady. She is pointing a gun to my head. Fortunately, just as I am preparing for death, I feel her body slump over me. I turn to see a comrade knocking her down and then firing at her head, glaring at the other villagers. His eyes are brown and angry. “Pay attention, or you’re going to get us all killed!” Eventually, the villagers are cornered and we leave with the necessary supplies and move on.

The times of war are difficult for me. Sleepless nights and damp-stale clothes dominate my days. Eventually, trench warfare set in. And the troops stagnated in the cold and wet. Gunfire rattles on into every night and wet and cold are my bedfellows, why I only managed to keep myself sane by concentrating on the popcorn song (http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=9N4ckFN96-k).  Unfortunately this was to prove my downfall, as eventually I become so engrossed in the majesty of such a tune, I fail to acknowledge that the camp is under attack until I feel a cold slap across my face from my comrade. He hands me a gun and I prepare to face the front line. I poke out towards the trenches and see men scampering across muddy plains towards me. Unfortunately, as I am about to defend position, I begin to think about the families those men have and how I am going to ruin people’s lives. I hesitate. Then I see a chunky boom-stick pointing towards me and instinctively I duck. A machine gun bullet rattles just above me. I hide under there and watch lines breached and colleagues die. A Frenchman jumps into the trench and I aim my weapon at him as he turns towards me. “Freeze!” I call to him. His hair is noir and eyes dark. With a gallic white-toothed smirk he shrugs arrogantly at me. “I mean it!” I call. However, rather than being taken aback, he strides before me. No alternative present, I shoot. However, there is no effect, and as in a dream he continues towards me. I fire again, and hear the trigger click, but no bullet pumps through my weapon. I suddenly realise that I have left the safety on, but it’s too late, as he is now to close. He smacks the gun out of my hand with his own and chuckles. “Tu es une petite idiot”. At that he thwacks me across the back of the head and I am out. A French prisoner of war.

Then… Um… Actually I’ve got nothing more. My brain feels soggy. Too late at night now, for me to concentrate any great psychic energy to this. We’ll find out what happens next, next week. In the meantime, here’s a clip of something cool I found on youtube, http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=Ll2kajMH2u0. We’ve got to have an English version of this one!

The Living Dead

Hello blog-readers to the latest post of the Great Saundini! If you’re new here, I’d like you to wave your hands and twirl around. Alternatively, you can just ignore my wishes, which may or may not be dying, as you never can tell. Why, only today my mother told me to watch out for a birth-mark on my back, which may or may not be cancer (please note: I do not have cancer). So ignore this wish at your peril. I am merely trying to save you from the overwhelming guilt that you would almost certainly feel! By the by, apologies for people reading this hoping to read about zombies, this is a totally unrelated topic, possibly.

Funerals have always seemed a funny concept to me. For instance, in context with my Christian upbringing, why feel sad if we believe that a person is going to the best place in the universe? Now the bog-standard solution to this, at least the one I quickly learned, was that we mourn loss on the behalf of the people still alive. This seems to make sense for me. Mourners are suddenly having to live without loved ones whom they are accustomed to seeing regularly, leaving a hole in their everyday routine. This even translates to the tragedy of a young death, as the family around them do not expect to lose the years that seem pre-destined for them. However, I wonder sometimes if this reason accounts for all the feelings associated with mourning.

I remember when a friend of mine committed suicide when I was 17.  It was a bit of a shock and it felt like such a waste of potential. He had played in my Steel Band and I had known him since First School. I remember going to his Birthday parties as a boy, playing that cops and robbers game when the robbers have to draw arrows on the floor and the cops have to follow them. He even gave me my phobia of Wasps (not the Rugby Union club that have just made the Premiership play-offs) in one fateful P.E. lesson by over-reacting to being stung. Now I can’t even muster the courage to open a window to let wasps out, instead opting for the ‘waiting outside and hoping everything will be okay when I get back’ method. Anyway, I remember the Will Young hit “Leave Right Now” was played at the end of the service, which I thought was some unintentional black humour. Of course, I didn’t venture to laugh out loud, though I found this funny. Much of the service beforehand however, I spent wondering why I wasn’t more upset about this. True, it was shocking and sad news, but it seemed as though the convention of how I was supposed to be reacting contributed to my actual mood.

I know in this case I was relatively distant from the case, but in other death’s I have mourned the same dilemna and feelings have been present. Culture seems to have a large say over our reactions to death. It was really interesting to hear details of Sylvan Historian’s poetry project last term, particularly in reference to the different culture’s different attitudes towards death. From what I gather from various sub-conscious sources, China, with it’s bulging population, seems to have a lower view of human life than the Western world and this therefore has a bearing on how death is perceived. The Hindu’s, owing to their belief in re-incarnation, do not even allow for mourning as they fear this slows the progression of the soul into rebirth. I can’t remember the other examples, so maybe Sylvan can help me. My proposal however is that maybe our declining death rate and longer life expectancy because of the improvements in modern medicine, alongside our increasing athiesm and emphasis on free-thinking education, is causing us to fear death more rather than less having become so unaccustomed to it.

For me, the Hindu attitude to death seems much more healthy than our own, though some may argue that it is a repressive attitude. My counter-argument would be however that my lack of Hinduism limits me in my understanding and that it could well be that grief is something that is more prevalent in a culture such as ours that nurtures it. Essentially, death is a natural part of life. It’s a cycle. Although we should not neglect the memories of our loved ones, I think we should honour them by remembering the good memories and enjoying them instead of dwelling on sadness and absense. After all, every day seems to me a type of death. We can never get a day back once it’s gone. We’re just left with the memories of it. I will never be able to enjoy the days of courting my fiancee again, though that summer I remember being the most glorious and exciting of my life. It’s obviously better looking back than living through it. That’s the nature of nostalgia. However, I seem to go through life constantly missing out on the present because I look back too much. The unappreciated present, in the meantime, takes refuge in the past and becomes idolised itself. Nothing ever will be the same again. In turn, everyone who dies gets eulogised. Could it be that death is simply a rubber-stamp of the trauma of time passing? If this is true who is really dead out the corpse and it’s mourners?