Yesterday we had our monthly waste of a morning: the departmental meeting (the meeting where you enter sane and depart mental … yeah, I know I've done that one before but it still makes me laugh).
Actually, it was much shorter and far more enlightening than usual; having spent five minutes dealing with business we sat around talking about biscuits.
The boss was on some golf course enjoying what he described as a "strategic away-day".
We spent a few minutes discussing whether that phrase might possibly be translatable into English and the only meaning we could ascribe to it was that the boss not being here is good for the office.
I tabled that and it was unanimously agreed on and entered into the minutes.
We will now discover if CJ actually reads his minutes or just files them without bothering.
An hour's discussion of the merits of different types of biscuit and a vote on his uselessness might make interesting reading for him.
As soon as we'd finished off all the food we broke up the meeting and so had a much more productive day than usual, thereby confirming the efficacy of the "strategic away-day".
When I next see the boss I might suggest that he take a "strategic away-life", which would improve our efficiency no end.
Right.
Back to the fragmented, day-by-day meme of the songs that are "shaping my summer".
This is the time of year when I find myself listening to "commercial stuff" that I would sniffily reject at any other time of the year; stuff that some of you might actually like (though that could well change later in the week).
So here's a happy, smiley, summery tune from the lovely Gary Clark; mostly of Scotland but occasionally of Richard's flat in Norwich.
I've not seen him in years (the bugger got married and went to live in France) and this video dates the track appallingly, but it's still a lovely song and I've lately found myself breezing along the Embankment beside the Thames singing it at passers-by.
It's called "Freefloating" and it does what it says on the tin.
Find it on the CD "Ten Short Songs About Love." It's still available.
Sing along:
"I love somebody wild and young and free … etc."
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Monday, June 09, 2008
Monday Memes
A couple of memes for a Monday.
One from Betty and one from Maria.
First up:
Betty's musical meme:
Post seven songs that you're really into right now.
It doesn't matter if they're crap, but they should be the ones that are shaping your summer.
Seven songs are a bit much to listen to one after the other while you're cruising blogs, so I'm going to post mine one at a time in the hope that somebody will actually take the time to listen to them.
I'm also selling out and simply posting YouTube clips. Don't worry; it's only for a few days.
I checked the recently played songs on my iPod to see what has been "shaping my summer" and was pleasantly surprised to find this up near the top.
So … I'll start my intermittent and stuttering "meme spread over a week or so" with the man I have idolised since 1963 and a gorgeous song to start anybody's summer: "Bless You".
This was on the wonderful "Walls and Bridges" album in the mid-seventies, though the guy who made the video obviously only has the Menlove Avenue compilation CD.
If you've not got them already, go and buy either album and make me (and Yoko) happy.
This is luscious, gorgeous and reeking of warm summer days. It also has Jesse Ed Davis on guitar which is always a good thing.
Sit back, chill out and start your summer here.
Now while you listen to that, it's Maria's turn.
Much more meme-ish … A bunch of stupid questions for a Monday morning.
TECHNOLOGY
Q: What is your wallpaper on your computer?
Which computer?
I have seven Macs on the go at the mo. I have a bunch of my 3D work on most of them, some Japanese scenes at work, but my favourite desktop is on my old indigo iMac in the studio and is this wonderful shot I stole from Katie's blog.
Q: How many televisions do you have in your house?
I didn't have any for around fifteen years.
Now I have a big, flattie in the living room to play GTA4 on and watch old movies and a tiny old portable in the bedroom to get the news at five in the morning while I'm drying my hair.
I can only get four channels and those intermittently, so as soon as they turn the analogue signal off in a year or so I'll go back to having no TV.
I hate TV.
Though I did enjoy watching Harrison Birtwhistle's new opera "The Minotaur" on BBC2 on Saturday night. Sure, it was on the radio, too, but the cozzies were worth watching, so yes, I guess I'm still a TV slut until things go all-digital.
BIOLOGY
Q: Are you right handed or left handed?
Right handed.
Q:Have you ever had anything removed from your body?
Appendix, bits of teeth and jaw, some yucky fluids, but mostly I just get the piss taken out of me.
Q: What is the last heavy item you lifted?
My fat ass out of bed this morning.
Q: Have you ever been knocked out?
Yup. By a door, a car, a motley selection of hard surfaces and several anæsthetists.
BULLSHIT-OLOGY
Q: If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die?
I'll be choosing that day, so yes, I'll know it in advance.
Q: If you could change your name, what would you change it to?
Something else.
Possibly Slartibartfast.
Probably not Chet or Marylou.
Q: What color do you think looks best on you?
Black looks least bad.
Q: Have you ever swallowed a non-food item?
Hell, yes. Where's the fun in just eating food?
DARE-OLOGY
Q: Would you kiss a member of the same sex for 100 dollars?
Of course I would. And I'd bang Johnny Depp for free.
Q: Would you allow one of your little fingers to be cut off for 200,000$?
Not a chance. I'm a musician, for fuck's sake.
Q: Would you never blog again for 50,000$?
I'll stop blogging when I get bored with it.
Besides; $50,000? What's that gonna buy these days? A tank of gas?
Q: Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for 1,000$?
Bring it on! This is the man who loves chili eating contests; my record is sixteen raw, scotch-bonnet chilis, well munched before swallowing (I only stopped because I ran out of chilis).
If food isn't hot enough to make my eyeballs bleed I don't wanna know.
Q: Would you, without fear of punishment, take a human life for a million dollars?
No, but I'd do it for fun.
When we played the game "If you were a serial killer, who would you kill?" I decided I would be "The Comb-over Killer".
I'd target men with comb-overs and simply walk up and shoot them in the head.
Those fuckwits don't deserve to live.
It would be a mercy killing and a valuable service to taste and decency.
No jury would ever convict me.
DUMB-OLOGY
Q: What is in your left pocket?
I have no idea. I'm naked and my pockets are upstairs in the wardrobe.
Q: Is Napoleon Dynamite actually a good movie?
Ask someone who gives a shit.
Q: Do you have hardwood or carpet in your house?
Carpet. I live in a cold climate.
Q: Do you sit or stand in the shower?
Who the fuck sits in a shower?
I stand.
Unless I've slipped on my ass, of course. Then I'll sit and run through a few choice phrases from my Profanisaurus.
Q: How many pairs of flip flops do you own?
None.
Life's too short to be seen in flip-flops.
Unless you're Joy … she even wears hers in the snow!
LAST-OLOGY
Q: Last person who texted you?
Nobody has ever texted me, and nobody ever will. Nor will I ever text anybody.
The word "text" is not a verb on Planet Dive.
There are no mobile phones here, either.
Don't try to bring one into my house unless you're feeling particularly frisky and it is well greased, 'cos it's going straight up your ass.
Q: Last person who called you?
Gosh, I can't remember.
I think it was Chris, around three weeks ago, to tell me he was on his way over to pick me up when we went to the Aussie Pink Floyd Show at the university.
You know I have my phone on mute most of the time.
I hate telephones.
Q: Last person you hugged?
Lucy, Saturday.
FAVOURITE-OLOGY
Q: Number?
13
Q: Season?
Spring. So that's my enjoyment over for another year.
Q: Color?
Black.
Stupid question, really.
CURRENT-OLOGY
Q: Missing someone?
I never miss.
Q: Mood?
Black with the occasional flash of blue.
Q: Listening to?
Nothing.
It's absolutely silent out here today. Not enough wind to stir the trees and the birds are too busy feeding chicks to sit and sing.
No cars, no planes, no stupid fucking people …
Lovely.
Q: Worrying about?
Nothing.
What the fuck is the point of worrying about anything?
Shit will happen.
You will cope with it or you will die.
Why worry?
Q: Wearing?
My saggy old skin. A frown. Oh, and my glasses.
RANDOM-OLOGY
Q: First place you went this morning?
The bathroom.
Q: What can you not wait to do?
Well, I've got the ironing to do later.
Then there's death.
The rest I'll just take as it comes.
Q: Do you smile often?
Not so much that it would unnerve passers-by.
Q: Are you a friendly person?
Of course. I love everybody unreservedly.
La-la-la. Happy, friendly me.
Yeah, right.
That's your lot.
Enjoy your Monday.
One from Betty and one from Maria.
First up:
Betty's musical meme:
Post seven songs that you're really into right now.
It doesn't matter if they're crap, but they should be the ones that are shaping your summer.
Seven songs are a bit much to listen to one after the other while you're cruising blogs, so I'm going to post mine one at a time in the hope that somebody will actually take the time to listen to them.
I'm also selling out and simply posting YouTube clips. Don't worry; it's only for a few days.
I checked the recently played songs on my iPod to see what has been "shaping my summer" and was pleasantly surprised to find this up near the top.
So … I'll start my intermittent and stuttering "meme spread over a week or so" with the man I have idolised since 1963 and a gorgeous song to start anybody's summer: "Bless You".
This was on the wonderful "Walls and Bridges" album in the mid-seventies, though the guy who made the video obviously only has the Menlove Avenue compilation CD.
If you've not got them already, go and buy either album and make me (and Yoko) happy.
This is luscious, gorgeous and reeking of warm summer days. It also has Jesse Ed Davis on guitar which is always a good thing.
Sit back, chill out and start your summer here.
Now while you listen to that, it's Maria's turn.
Much more meme-ish … A bunch of stupid questions for a Monday morning.
TECHNOLOGY
Q: What is your wallpaper on your computer?
Which computer?
I have seven Macs on the go at the mo. I have a bunch of my 3D work on most of them, some Japanese scenes at work, but my favourite desktop is on my old indigo iMac in the studio and is this wonderful shot I stole from Katie's blog.
Q: How many televisions do you have in your house?I didn't have any for around fifteen years.
Now I have a big, flattie in the living room to play GTA4 on and watch old movies and a tiny old portable in the bedroom to get the news at five in the morning while I'm drying my hair.
I can only get four channels and those intermittently, so as soon as they turn the analogue signal off in a year or so I'll go back to having no TV.
I hate TV.
Though I did enjoy watching Harrison Birtwhistle's new opera "The Minotaur" on BBC2 on Saturday night. Sure, it was on the radio, too, but the cozzies were worth watching, so yes, I guess I'm still a TV slut until things go all-digital.
BIOLOGY
Q: Are you right handed or left handed?
Right handed.
Q:Have you ever had anything removed from your body?
Appendix, bits of teeth and jaw, some yucky fluids, but mostly I just get the piss taken out of me.
Q: What is the last heavy item you lifted?
My fat ass out of bed this morning.
Q: Have you ever been knocked out?
Yup. By a door, a car, a motley selection of hard surfaces and several anæsthetists.
BULLSHIT-OLOGY
Q: If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die?
I'll be choosing that day, so yes, I'll know it in advance.
Q: If you could change your name, what would you change it to?
Something else.
Possibly Slartibartfast.
Probably not Chet or Marylou.
Q: What color do you think looks best on you?
Black looks least bad.
Q: Have you ever swallowed a non-food item?
Hell, yes. Where's the fun in just eating food?
DARE-OLOGY
Q: Would you kiss a member of the same sex for 100 dollars?
Of course I would. And I'd bang Johnny Depp for free.
Q: Would you allow one of your little fingers to be cut off for 200,000$?
Not a chance. I'm a musician, for fuck's sake.
Q: Would you never blog again for 50,000$?
I'll stop blogging when I get bored with it.
Besides; $50,000? What's that gonna buy these days? A tank of gas?
Q: Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for 1,000$?
Bring it on! This is the man who loves chili eating contests; my record is sixteen raw, scotch-bonnet chilis, well munched before swallowing (I only stopped because I ran out of chilis).
If food isn't hot enough to make my eyeballs bleed I don't wanna know.
Q: Would you, without fear of punishment, take a human life for a million dollars?
No, but I'd do it for fun.
When we played the game "If you were a serial killer, who would you kill?" I decided I would be "The Comb-over Killer".
I'd target men with comb-overs and simply walk up and shoot them in the head.
Those fuckwits don't deserve to live.
It would be a mercy killing and a valuable service to taste and decency.
No jury would ever convict me.
DUMB-OLOGY
Q: What is in your left pocket?
I have no idea. I'm naked and my pockets are upstairs in the wardrobe.
Q: Is Napoleon Dynamite actually a good movie?
Ask someone who gives a shit.
Q: Do you have hardwood or carpet in your house?
Carpet. I live in a cold climate.
Q: Do you sit or stand in the shower?
Who the fuck sits in a shower?
I stand.
Unless I've slipped on my ass, of course. Then I'll sit and run through a few choice phrases from my Profanisaurus.
Q: How many pairs of flip flops do you own?
None.
Life's too short to be seen in flip-flops.
Unless you're Joy … she even wears hers in the snow!
LAST-OLOGY
Q: Last person who texted you?
Nobody has ever texted me, and nobody ever will. Nor will I ever text anybody.
The word "text" is not a verb on Planet Dive.
There are no mobile phones here, either.
Don't try to bring one into my house unless you're feeling particularly frisky and it is well greased, 'cos it's going straight up your ass.
Q: Last person who called you?
Gosh, I can't remember.
I think it was Chris, around three weeks ago, to tell me he was on his way over to pick me up when we went to the Aussie Pink Floyd Show at the university.
You know I have my phone on mute most of the time.
I hate telephones.
Q: Last person you hugged?
Lucy, Saturday.
FAVOURITE-OLOGY
Q: Number?
13
Q: Season?
Spring. So that's my enjoyment over for another year.
Q: Color?
Black.
Stupid question, really.
CURRENT-OLOGY
Q: Missing someone?
I never miss.
Q: Mood?
Black with the occasional flash of blue.
Q: Listening to?
Nothing.
It's absolutely silent out here today. Not enough wind to stir the trees and the birds are too busy feeding chicks to sit and sing.
No cars, no planes, no stupid fucking people …
Lovely.
Q: Worrying about?
Nothing.
What the fuck is the point of worrying about anything?
Shit will happen.
You will cope with it or you will die.
Why worry?
Q: Wearing?
My saggy old skin. A frown. Oh, and my glasses.
RANDOM-OLOGY
Q: First place you went this morning?
The bathroom.
Q: What can you not wait to do?
Well, I've got the ironing to do later.
Then there's death.
The rest I'll just take as it comes.
Q: Do you smile often?
Not so much that it would unnerve passers-by.
Q: Are you a friendly person?
Of course. I love everybody unreservedly.
La-la-la. Happy, friendly me.
Yeah, right.
That's your lot.
Enjoy your Monday.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
The Devastating Man
Laydees and gentlemen … I give you:
The Devastating Man that is my baby brother Phil - aka Full, The Monkey God.
He has a birthday today!
Yaaaay!
And probably Woohoo, too!
To celebrate this momentous occasion, I will risk his eternal wrath and present you with a pictorial snapshot of the evolution of The Monkey God, from small animal sacrifice to full blown simian deity.
Big Pants!
One day I woke up to find this strange, frog-like balloon alien in the pram.
In olden days, nappies were lead-lined and got changed once a month.
There's about a fortnight's worth in there.
Don't fuck with me!
Not long after the end of rationing, in post-war austerity Britain, iced lollies were made from offal, putty and grit.
Phil's admirable food-snobbery started here.
Those gloves again.
Back then, masturbation deterrence started early.
That was a seriously great trike, though.
And then it all went wrong …
How did that cute little boy grow up to become the founder member of splendid rhythm and blues combo The Dubious Brothers?
And skinny, too!
What a bastard!
Phil is a drummer.
But he's also an excellent bassist - as seen here … if a little studious-looking - and a totally awesome guitar player.
Anyhoo …
Happy Birthday, Phil!
My baby brother.
You know I hate YouTube, but I couldn't resist this.
Skip the first minute or so (unless you're a gay man in which case simply revel in the fabness of Babs).
It's around a minute and a half in that this gets very wrong indeed and veers off into pædo-pervy territory in a quite hilariously inappropriate manner.
So to honour Phil's birthday, sing along with Babs as she belts out one of my favourite songs of all time:
"I'm five,
I'm five,
I'm a big girl now,
I'm five,
etc …"
Then pop on over to Phil's blog and wish him a happy birthday.
The Devastating Man that is my baby brother Phil - aka Full, The Monkey God.He has a birthday today!
Yaaaay!
And probably Woohoo, too!
To celebrate this momentous occasion, I will risk his eternal wrath and present you with a pictorial snapshot of the evolution of The Monkey God, from small animal sacrifice to full blown simian deity.
Big Pants!One day I woke up to find this strange, frog-like balloon alien in the pram.
In olden days, nappies were lead-lined and got changed once a month.
There's about a fortnight's worth in there.
Don't fuck with me!
Not long after the end of rationing, in post-war austerity Britain, iced lollies were made from offal, putty and grit.Phil's admirable food-snobbery started here.
Those gloves again.Back then, masturbation deterrence started early.
That was a seriously great trike, though.
And then it all went wrong …
How did that cute little boy grow up to become the founder member of splendid rhythm and blues combo The Dubious Brothers?
And skinny, too!What a bastard!
Phil is a drummer.But he's also an excellent bassist - as seen here … if a little studious-looking - and a totally awesome guitar player.
Anyhoo …Happy Birthday, Phil!
My baby brother.
You know I hate YouTube, but I couldn't resist this.
Skip the first minute or so (unless you're a gay man in which case simply revel in the fabness of Babs).
It's around a minute and a half in that this gets very wrong indeed and veers off into pædo-pervy territory in a quite hilariously inappropriate manner.
So to honour Phil's birthday, sing along with Babs as she belts out one of my favourite songs of all time:
"I'm five,
I'm five,
I'm a big girl now,
I'm five,
etc …"
Then pop on over to Phil's blog and wish him a happy birthday.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Ribbit
I've been looking after Charlie and Fern for the past couple of weeks while Jerry's been away in Germany.
He's back now and brought me some lovely bottles of wine as usual.
Then I got home today to find Fern waiting for me on the doorstep.
As I opened the door she jumped inside and deposited The Gift Of Frog on my carpet.
I love frogs.
This one was totally unharmed, so having thanked Fern and shooed her out I carried it down the the bottom of the garden and let it go under some damp, dense shrubbery.
The reason for today's utterly pointless post (pointless for non-frog-fetishists, anyway) is that I am preparing a doozy of a post for tomorrow.
Be warned.
Wear appropriate protective clothing.
He's back now and brought me some lovely bottles of wine as usual.
Then I got home today to find Fern waiting for me on the doorstep.
As I opened the door she jumped inside and deposited The Gift Of Frog on my carpet.
I love frogs.This one was totally unharmed, so having thanked Fern and shooed her out I carried it down the the bottom of the garden and let it go under some damp, dense shrubbery.
The reason for today's utterly pointless post (pointless for non-frog-fetishists, anyway) is that I am preparing a doozy of a post for tomorrow.
Be warned.
Wear appropriate protective clothing.
Friday, June 06, 2008
The Oboe: What The Fuck Is That All About?
Thank goodness for Maria. She rides to my rescue again, armed with yet another meme to cure my bloggers' block.
The Alphabet Meme.
A is for your age:
Forty-nine.
Shit!
B is for your burger of choice:
Gack!
I've never been in (let alone put into my mouth) a Mc.D. Or a KFC or a Pizza Hut or any other junk food craporium and I never will.
So "burger of choice" would be "none".
C is for the car that you drive:
Small. Black. Cute. Sexy.
D is for dog's name:
I'm a dogless person so I'll choose my favourite blog-dog: Hassan's wonderful, übercute eater of Savannah's glasses (twice), Ghostface Killah.
E is for an essential item you use each day:
The Interweb.
F is for your favourite television show:
I don't do telly.
I do, however, have a bunch of DVDs of shows I watch on my Mac.
From the States: Frasier, The Simpsons, Buffy.
From the UK: Black Books, Green Wing, Phoenix Nights.
Choose from one of those.
G is for favourite game:
Usually chess, though Scrabble if I'm feeling pedantic and I want to yell at stupid people.
Oh, and GTA4 when I get home from a shitty commute … There are times when one simply has no option but to tool up and gun the fuck out of the world.
H is for hometown:
Imtarfa in Malta, according to my birth certificate, but I don't remember it. My current hometown is anywhere with no mobile phone reception.
I is for instruments played:
Everything except the oboe.
I can't raise a squeak out of one of those fuckers, even with Dizzy Gillespie cheeks.
I don't think anyone can actually play the oboe; they're just faking it. They sit there and mime while somebody under their chair squeezes farts out of a rat.
Any oboe players out there want to give me a clue how to get the stupid thing started?
J is for favourite juice:
Why, lady-juice of course.
Hee hee … OW!
K is for what you'd like to kick:
Everything and everybody.
Hard!
L is for last restaurant you dined at:
The new Wasabi that just opened on Victoria Street in Westminster. Andy treated me as thanks for teaching him how to cheat at work.
M is for your favourite Muppet:
Beaker.
Suave, sophisticated. I model my dating technique on him.
N is for number of piercings you have:
None.
I have sufficient holes in my body, thank you very much. They cause enough trouble as it is.
O is for overnight hospital stays:
Sheesh. Er … One biggie when my appendix burst and I got peritonitis. That was a whole bunch of no fun.
And several more for various things. I'm too old to remember most of them.
P is for people you were with today:
The usual idiots on the train.
The usual idiots on the tube.
The usual idiots in the office.
Nathalie in the deli.
Q is for what you do in quiet times:
Read. Chill. Vegetate. Concentrate really hard on trying to grow fins.
R is for regrets:
Holy crap! I have the world's largest collection of regrets. I manage to pick up several new ones every day.
Let's just say "life."
S is for status:
Fat, ugly, balding, middle-aged sad bastard who lives alone and is likely to stay that way.
T is for time you woke up today:
Don't remind me.
4:40AM as usual; just before the alarms start shrieking at me.
U is for what you consider unique:
My cheery, optimistic view of the universe and my deep love of the people in it.
V is for favourite vegetable:
I kinda like Keira Knightley.
W is for your worst habit:
Blogging. Or kidding myself that one day a woman will find me attractive enough not to point and laugh.
X is for x-rays you have had:
I think I've managed to collect the whole set over the decades.
Y is for yummy food you ate today:
It's not lunchtime yet, so fat all. Today, it'll be a toss up between sashimi and seafood noodles; depends on which places have the shortest queues.
Z is for zodiac sign:
I don't do star signs.
What month is the sign of the Grumpy Old Fucker? That'll be me.
The Alphabet Meme.
A is for your age:
Forty-nine.
Shit!
B is for your burger of choice:
Gack!
I've never been in (let alone put into my mouth) a Mc.D. Or a KFC or a Pizza Hut or any other junk food craporium and I never will.
So "burger of choice" would be "none".
C is for the car that you drive:
Small. Black. Cute. Sexy.
D is for dog's name:
I'm a dogless person so I'll choose my favourite blog-dog: Hassan's wonderful, übercute eater of Savannah's glasses (twice), Ghostface Killah.
E is for an essential item you use each day:
The Interweb.
F is for your favourite television show:
I don't do telly.
I do, however, have a bunch of DVDs of shows I watch on my Mac.
From the States: Frasier, The Simpsons, Buffy.
From the UK: Black Books, Green Wing, Phoenix Nights.
Choose from one of those.
G is for favourite game:
Usually chess, though Scrabble if I'm feeling pedantic and I want to yell at stupid people.
Oh, and GTA4 when I get home from a shitty commute … There are times when one simply has no option but to tool up and gun the fuck out of the world.
H is for hometown:
Imtarfa in Malta, according to my birth certificate, but I don't remember it. My current hometown is anywhere with no mobile phone reception.
I is for instruments played:
Everything except the oboe.
I can't raise a squeak out of one of those fuckers, even with Dizzy Gillespie cheeks.
I don't think anyone can actually play the oboe; they're just faking it. They sit there and mime while somebody under their chair squeezes farts out of a rat.
Any oboe players out there want to give me a clue how to get the stupid thing started?
J is for favourite juice:
Why, lady-juice of course.
Hee hee … OW!
K is for what you'd like to kick:
Everything and everybody.
Hard!
L is for last restaurant you dined at:
The new Wasabi that just opened on Victoria Street in Westminster. Andy treated me as thanks for teaching him how to cheat at work.
M is for your favourite Muppet:
Beaker.
Suave, sophisticated. I model my dating technique on him.
N is for number of piercings you have:
None.
I have sufficient holes in my body, thank you very much. They cause enough trouble as it is.
O is for overnight hospital stays:
Sheesh. Er … One biggie when my appendix burst and I got peritonitis. That was a whole bunch of no fun.
And several more for various things. I'm too old to remember most of them.
P is for people you were with today:
The usual idiots on the train.
The usual idiots on the tube.
The usual idiots in the office.
Nathalie in the deli.
Q is for what you do in quiet times:
Read. Chill. Vegetate. Concentrate really hard on trying to grow fins.
R is for regrets:
Holy crap! I have the world's largest collection of regrets. I manage to pick up several new ones every day.
Let's just say "life."
S is for status:
Fat, ugly, balding, middle-aged sad bastard who lives alone and is likely to stay that way.
T is for time you woke up today:
Don't remind me.
4:40AM as usual; just before the alarms start shrieking at me.
U is for what you consider unique:
My cheery, optimistic view of the universe and my deep love of the people in it.
V is for favourite vegetable:
I kinda like Keira Knightley.
W is for your worst habit:
Blogging. Or kidding myself that one day a woman will find me attractive enough not to point and laugh.
X is for x-rays you have had:
I think I've managed to collect the whole set over the decades.
Y is for yummy food you ate today:
It's not lunchtime yet, so fat all. Today, it'll be a toss up between sashimi and seafood noodles; depends on which places have the shortest queues.
Z is for zodiac sign:
I don't do star signs.
What month is the sign of the Grumpy Old Fucker? That'll be me.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Let's Make A Racket - X
Back to the blues.
This time with Michael on electric piano and vocals.
A version of B.B. King's "The Thrill Is Gone" from one of the Sunday Blues Club sessions.
I love this version because Laurie plays such a subtle, sublime, sensual, sinuous, sexy sax solo.
He is a master of understatement and his phrasing at the start of the second verse of his sax break gives me the chills every time I hear it.
I'm playing Old Les on this one in case anyone's remotely interested.
Next week - or maybe even before, if I can't think of anything else to write about - I will be dipping into the box of strangeness that I found up in the attic for more of the musical prehistory of Dive.
Be warned.
No photo of me this week, you'll be glad to hear.
Instead, here's one of mum taken last night with Martin Taylor, one of the world's finest jazz guitar players and a hero of mine.
You'll know from the past that mum is a member of The Mad Bints and is always off at gigs. When she phoned me to say "I'm off to see Martin Taylor. Have you heard of him? What's he like?" I almost died of jealously!
I played her his "Kiss and Tell" album and she went "Wow!"
It was too late to get me a ticket by then, but next time I'll be there to see him.
In the meantime, enjoy Laurie's lovely sax on The Thrill Is Gone.
This time with Michael on electric piano and vocals.
A version of B.B. King's "The Thrill Is Gone" from one of the Sunday Blues Club sessions.
I love this version because Laurie plays such a subtle, sublime, sensual, sinuous, sexy sax solo.
He is a master of understatement and his phrasing at the start of the second verse of his sax break gives me the chills every time I hear it.
I'm playing Old Les on this one in case anyone's remotely interested.
Next week - or maybe even before, if I can't think of anything else to write about - I will be dipping into the box of strangeness that I found up in the attic for more of the musical prehistory of Dive.
Be warned.
No photo of me this week, you'll be glad to hear.
Instead, here's one of mum taken last night with Martin Taylor, one of the world's finest jazz guitar players and a hero of mine.You'll know from the past that mum is a member of The Mad Bints and is always off at gigs. When she phoned me to say "I'm off to see Martin Taylor. Have you heard of him? What's he like?" I almost died of jealously!
I played her his "Kiss and Tell" album and she went "Wow!"
It was too late to get me a ticket by then, but next time I'll be there to see him.
In the meantime, enjoy Laurie's lovely sax on The Thrill Is Gone.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Rainy. Busy. Boring.
I'm way too busy to write anything coherent, let alone ranty today, so here's a photo of the rear end of Westminster Abbey in the rain yesterday to illustrate the joys of an English summer.
For anyone remotely interested, if you threw a rock over the tree on the left you'd probably break a window in my office … unless you throw like a girl.
Normal service will be resumed tomorrow.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Disco Boy
Yup; another lyric title; this time good ol' Frank Zappa.
"Disco Boy … Run to the toilet and comb your hair."
To take my mind off the pain in my foot, Katie had me singing "Disco Inferno" at three o'clock this morning (see yesterday's comments).
Which kinda helped …
But it also reminded me that I have never really understood the strange beast that is the "discotheque."
Of course, back in the golden age of my youth there was no such thing and life was blissful in the Garden of Eden.
People danced to live bands.
They talked and socialised in the intervals between sets.
Life was intercoursingly groovy.
People even wanted to listen to a bunch of teenagers playing Mahavishnu Orchestra, Yes and Focus songs.
And then it all went poo-shaped.
I remember the first time I met a discotheque.
It was the early seventies and we had been having problems in the band with girls inexplicably wanting to listen to David Cassidy and "go down the disco" in preference to watching a spotty kid in glasses play a twenty minute guitar solo.
I still can't figure that one out.
Sigh …
Much against my better judgement I decided to see what was so wonderful about this "new craze" that would drag girls away from real music.
So I got dressed up in my best flares and a flowery shirt with a collar that would not look out of place billowing from the mast of an America's Cup racing yacht.
To which spectacular sartorial splendour I added the indescribable aroma of Brüt (the ad for which had elderly boxer Henry Cooper growling "Splash it on all over!" … probably not the most alluring image for teenage girls).
Thus rendered as irresistible as I could be to the fair sex I ventured forth and … er … bicycled into town.
Where I forked over perfectly good money (something I still resent having had to do) only to find myself in a large, dark room with some flashing lights and somebody playing records loudly.
What the fuck?
People were actually PAYING to have someone play records at them?
I could go home and do that.
With far better records!
So I did.
I've never been in another one.
My drummer couldn't figure it out either.
"I mean what the fuck's that all about? It just goes THUD - CLAP - THUD - CLAP on and on and on. Where's the skill in that? It could just as well be a bloody machine."
Prophetic words indeed. I have quite a collection of drum machines.
Years later I found myself booked to play in a grown-ups' disco, or what was termed a "night club".
It's the only time I've ever been in one of those, too.
My idea of a good time would never even come CLOSE to … er … jigging up and down in a sweaty crowd in the dark, having people scream into my ear to be heard whilst paying more for a round of drinks than I did for my car.
Somebody PLEASE tell me: What the fuck is the point of discos and nightclubs? Why do people go there?
To scream at strangers in a dark room?
To get covered in beer and sweat?
It can't be to socialise as you can't see or hear one another.
Help me out here.
What's the story?
It's not just that I'm old; I felt the same way at thirteen.
Sometimes I feel that not only was I born in the wrong decade, I was born into the wrong species.
"Disco Boy … Run to the toilet and comb your hair."
To take my mind off the pain in my foot, Katie had me singing "Disco Inferno" at three o'clock this morning (see yesterday's comments).
Which kinda helped …
But it also reminded me that I have never really understood the strange beast that is the "discotheque."
Of course, back in the golden age of my youth there was no such thing and life was blissful in the Garden of Eden.
People danced to live bands.
They talked and socialised in the intervals between sets.
Life was intercoursingly groovy.
People even wanted to listen to a bunch of teenagers playing Mahavishnu Orchestra, Yes and Focus songs.
And then it all went poo-shaped.
I remember the first time I met a discotheque.
It was the early seventies and we had been having problems in the band with girls inexplicably wanting to listen to David Cassidy and "go down the disco" in preference to watching a spotty kid in glasses play a twenty minute guitar solo.
I still can't figure that one out.
Sigh …
Much against my better judgement I decided to see what was so wonderful about this "new craze" that would drag girls away from real music.
So I got dressed up in my best flares and a flowery shirt with a collar that would not look out of place billowing from the mast of an America's Cup racing yacht.
To which spectacular sartorial splendour I added the indescribable aroma of Brüt (the ad for which had elderly boxer Henry Cooper growling "Splash it on all over!" … probably not the most alluring image for teenage girls).
Thus rendered as irresistible as I could be to the fair sex I ventured forth and … er … bicycled into town.
Where I forked over perfectly good money (something I still resent having had to do) only to find myself in a large, dark room with some flashing lights and somebody playing records loudly.
What the fuck?
People were actually PAYING to have someone play records at them?
I could go home and do that.
With far better records!
So I did.
I've never been in another one.
My drummer couldn't figure it out either.
"I mean what the fuck's that all about? It just goes THUD - CLAP - THUD - CLAP on and on and on. Where's the skill in that? It could just as well be a bloody machine."
Prophetic words indeed. I have quite a collection of drum machines.
Years later I found myself booked to play in a grown-ups' disco, or what was termed a "night club".
It's the only time I've ever been in one of those, too.
My idea of a good time would never even come CLOSE to … er … jigging up and down in a sweaty crowd in the dark, having people scream into my ear to be heard whilst paying more for a round of drinks than I did for my car.
Somebody PLEASE tell me: What the fuck is the point of discos and nightclubs? Why do people go there?
To scream at strangers in a dark room?
To get covered in beer and sweat?
It can't be to socialise as you can't see or hear one another.
Help me out here.
What's the story?
It's not just that I'm old; I felt the same way at thirteen.
Sometimes I feel that not only was I born in the wrong decade, I was born into the wrong species.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Fucking Ow!
Er …
I was just draining the potatoes and somehow contrived to spill boiling water over my foot.
It is not pretty and it fucking hurts.
If it gets any nastier I'm off to the NHS drop-in centre (I'm buggered if I'm going to wait three hours at the hospital, watching the flesh peel off).
I'll let you know the result tomorrow.
In the meantime amuse yourselves with "hopping" jokes at my expense.
Hey ho.
Fucking ow!
I was just draining the potatoes and somehow contrived to spill boiling water over my foot.
It is not pretty and it fucking hurts.
If it gets any nastier I'm off to the NHS drop-in centre (I'm buggered if I'm going to wait three hours at the hospital, watching the flesh peel off).
I'll let you know the result tomorrow.
In the meantime amuse yourselves with "hopping" jokes at my expense.
Hey ho.
Fucking ow!
Sunday, June 01, 2008
The Hope And The Hopelessness
Yeah, I'm always a sucker for a Joni Mitchell lyric, especially off the incomparable Hejira album.
What is it with using lyrics as post titles?
Yesterday it was Country Joe at Woodstock; today, Joni … Shit, I'm old.
Anyhoo …
Saturday afternoon: off I toddled into the city for the Young Voices Film Festival, a fantastic project organised and compèred by Blogville's own inexhaustibly busy Joy.
Officially "A celebration and showcase of films produced by young black and minority ethnic film makers in Norfolk," it turned out to be one of the most uplifting and inspirational evenings I can ever remember having enjoyed.
It was held in what used to be the Noverre Cinema; a part of Norwich's glorious old Assembly House.
I love that place. It is great for concerts and exhibitions and just generally chatting and meeting friends. The cinema is in the later right hand wing of the photo; an elegant and all-original Georgian ballroom.
Anyhoo … I'd run into Joy and Thom on the train home from London earlier in the week and Joy had dangled the added bait that the event would attract lots of pretty women.
So …
Joy is always right (she's a woman; it comes with the territory), and of course there she was at the entrance to the Noverre, meeting and greeting and looking fabulously glamorous in a gorgeous powder blue gown.
I wish I'd taken my camera!
Meanwhile, Thom was being the dashingly handsome superhero and getting everything done behind the scenes.
The place was packed.
Being such an excellent and worthy project the hall was chock full of the city's leftist intelligentsia; a crowd with a ludicrously high proportion of beautiful women.
After drinkies your correspondent found himself sitting with three lovely and talkative women: two a little older than me (but a whole lot better looking); a doctor and a psychiatrist, and a younger, spiky-haired film-maker and human rights campaigner.
Happy me!
Joy and her colleague (whose name I forget, to my shame) compèred the event splendidly and there were short and entertaining speeches from the producer of BBC Voices and later, the Chair of the Heritage Lottery Fund, who helped Joy's Norwich Mind organisation to make the project possible.
But let's get to the films!
We started with six short films made by 12 to 15 year olds who have moved here from Europe, Asia and Africa in the past few years and have been given a film-making workshop and asked to make movies of their feelings about being here and their hopes and dreams.
I had expected serious little films about the hard issues of immigration, about bullying and ostracism, about racism and isolation.
Instead we were presented with fantastic (and often brilliantly imaginative and funny) little movies about friendship and hope that were without exception upbeat and optimistic.
It was a wonderful, life-affirming and uplifting experience to watch them.
These kids had been uprooted from their old lives; from their families and friends and brought here to a strange, cold, rainy country where they didn't speak the language.
Yet within a couple of years here they were, standing on a stage in front of a huge audience, confidently fielding questions in perfect English.
They had studied tremendously hard and were doing well in school.
One Lithuanian girl was working toward a career as a legal translator, two young boys were studying to become engineers.
A Palestinian girl wanted to become a doctor so that she could return home and help heal the wounds of sixty years of the brutal ethnic cleansing that her people have suffered.
And the star of the show, little Dony, a 12 year old kid from Africa said his favourite place in Norwich was the library, because (wide-eyed with wonder) he could read books for free!
He also gave the advice in the Q&A session that it was important to be yourself; to retain your identity.
This was a recurring theme in the evening: embracing diversity.
Immigrant families are so often forced to "integrate"; to abandon their cultural heritage and adopt "English" ways, but these kids were bringing some of their own culture here and sharing it. And it was wonderful to see.
Where would we be if we had forced the post-independence influx of families from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh to "integrate"?
They brought their own culture and they shared it.
The national dish of England is chicken tikka marsala, for goodness sake!
Where would we be without curry?
I'm being flippant, but the theme of retaining cultural identity and of sharing its benefits recurred throughout the films.
When one Polish girl bemoaned the fact that when she first moved here she missed Polish food my mouth watered at the thought of the pirogis that Aga makes and brings to work for me to eat.
I shop in Portuguese and Polish and African and Asian stores because I love the food and the culture and the people and feel strongly that sharing is far better than forced integration.
The young film-makers left the stage to huge applause and then one of them, 14 year old Viktorija, came back on with her guitar and sang two songs in Lithuanian (the second was one of her own poems set to music).
Her voice was so beautiful it moved me to tears.
The second part of the evening consisted of a mosaic of the other recent films made with local immigrant kids by BBC Voices and was as good as the first half; indeed one Korean boy's "superhero" movie was worthy of an Oscar.
In fact every film shown displayed a phenomenal amount of skill in editing, soundtracks and the actual craft of film-making, as well as showing that these are young people with intelligence and imagination who are capable of communicating their ideas in an entertaining way.
In a language that most of them couldn't speak just three years ago!
To use the old movie reviewers' cliché: "You'll laugh; you'll cry; it will change your life."
It was a wonderfully, heartwarming and uplifting evening, full of the hopes and the dreams of hard-working, decent families who are making their - and our own - futures brighter.
The food promised to be amazing; African, Thai and Mexican all being prepared as we watched the films and tantalising aromas wafting into the room to torture our tastebuds exquisitely.
However, much as I wanted desperately to tuck into the spinach and peanut butter curry in particular, I realised with horror that to get to my car I would have to go through Riverside and so I thanked Joy and Thom, made my excuses and did a runner.
I so rarely go into Norwich at night these days that I had - without thinking - parked my car in my usual spot at the station and walked across the city, enjoying the balmy late spring sunshine.
In the afternoon, Riverside and Prince of Wales Road are harmless places and I am used to walking them in daylight, but on a Saturday night …
Until the recent spate of knife attacks around London Prince of Wales Road was officially the most violent street in Britain and seemed proud of it.
I left the film festival early because I wanted to get home without being stabbed; to walk down Prince of Wales Road while it was still light enough for the phalanxes of riot police to see me.
It is a war zone down there.
This is the binge-drinking Hell of drunken violence that English teenagers call "fun".
These are not the immigrant kids; the inspirational and studious schoolchildren of hard-working, tax-paying families from Europe, Asia and Africa that I had just met.
No.
These are the people who set fire to immigrant families' houses.
These are the people who want to "send the bastards back! They're only after our jobs and our benefit money."
These are the people who claim to be patriotic, hard working and God-fearing but are in fact the violent, thuggish, binge-drinking benefit-fraudsters and tax-evaders who are strangling the hope out of this country's future.
These are the people who make me sick to my stomach at the sight of my own national flag, draped out of windows on sink estates across the land.
Racists. Ignorant, cowardly bullies.
To get to my car I had to go right through that area.
Even as early as this the street was full of drunken louts, jeering and fighting.
As I passed, one thuggish neanderthal in the inevitable beer-soaked "England" teeshirt ran across the street and lunged at me, screaming into my face.
Like gorillas in wildlife documentaries, he stopped inches away from me and just screamed his lungs out; all spittle and filthy teeth, and then ran back to his jeering mob of friends, seemingly happy that he had proved his intellectual superiority.
I ignored him, wiped off the spittle and was followed down the street past the riot police, ambulances, "SOS" and "Rape Trauma" vans (how much does it cost the taxpayer to fund every Saturday night of "fun" in British cities?) by a torrent of abusive threats and laughter.
A thousand "English patriots" like these are not worth one little African boy like Dony with his love of the library where he can "read books for free".
How many of these thugs will ever read a book?
How many of these filth will ever become doctors or engineers or learn to speak a language other than hate?
This country is suffering from the oft-quoted "demographic time bomb".
Since the end of the baby boom we have not been producing anywhere near enough children to grow up and take jobs and pay the tax and National Insurance that will finance our pensions.
We desperately need immigrants like those we met yesterday evening.
Hard working, tax-paying, decent people who come here to make a future for their families and to share their wonderful cultures with us.
We do NOT need the sickening, subhuman, drunken nationalist/fascist thugs that are white England's disgusting and shameful legacy.
Yet our right-wing politicians spout "integrate or go home!" and enforce immigration quotas. It is an imbecile policy that will prove disastrous for the economy and the cultural future of Britain.
I cannot thank Joy enough for showing me that there is indeed a hope for the future and that it involves embracing diversity.
I'll take the hope over the hopelessness, please.
What is it with using lyrics as post titles?
Yesterday it was Country Joe at Woodstock; today, Joni … Shit, I'm old.
Anyhoo …
Saturday afternoon: off I toddled into the city for the Young Voices Film Festival, a fantastic project organised and compèred by Blogville's own inexhaustibly busy Joy.
Officially "A celebration and showcase of films produced by young black and minority ethnic film makers in Norfolk," it turned out to be one of the most uplifting and inspirational evenings I can ever remember having enjoyed.
It was held in what used to be the Noverre Cinema; a part of Norwich's glorious old Assembly House.
I love that place. It is great for concerts and exhibitions and just generally chatting and meeting friends. The cinema is in the later right hand wing of the photo; an elegant and all-original Georgian ballroom.Anyhoo … I'd run into Joy and Thom on the train home from London earlier in the week and Joy had dangled the added bait that the event would attract lots of pretty women.
So …
Joy is always right (she's a woman; it comes with the territory), and of course there she was at the entrance to the Noverre, meeting and greeting and looking fabulously glamorous in a gorgeous powder blue gown.
I wish I'd taken my camera!
Meanwhile, Thom was being the dashingly handsome superhero and getting everything done behind the scenes.
The place was packed.
Being such an excellent and worthy project the hall was chock full of the city's leftist intelligentsia; a crowd with a ludicrously high proportion of beautiful women.
After drinkies your correspondent found himself sitting with three lovely and talkative women: two a little older than me (but a whole lot better looking); a doctor and a psychiatrist, and a younger, spiky-haired film-maker and human rights campaigner.
Happy me!
Joy and her colleague (whose name I forget, to my shame) compèred the event splendidly and there were short and entertaining speeches from the producer of BBC Voices and later, the Chair of the Heritage Lottery Fund, who helped Joy's Norwich Mind organisation to make the project possible.
But let's get to the films!
We started with six short films made by 12 to 15 year olds who have moved here from Europe, Asia and Africa in the past few years and have been given a film-making workshop and asked to make movies of their feelings about being here and their hopes and dreams.
I had expected serious little films about the hard issues of immigration, about bullying and ostracism, about racism and isolation.
Instead we were presented with fantastic (and often brilliantly imaginative and funny) little movies about friendship and hope that were without exception upbeat and optimistic.
It was a wonderful, life-affirming and uplifting experience to watch them.
These kids had been uprooted from their old lives; from their families and friends and brought here to a strange, cold, rainy country where they didn't speak the language.
Yet within a couple of years here they were, standing on a stage in front of a huge audience, confidently fielding questions in perfect English.
They had studied tremendously hard and were doing well in school.
One Lithuanian girl was working toward a career as a legal translator, two young boys were studying to become engineers.
A Palestinian girl wanted to become a doctor so that she could return home and help heal the wounds of sixty years of the brutal ethnic cleansing that her people have suffered.
And the star of the show, little Dony, a 12 year old kid from Africa said his favourite place in Norwich was the library, because (wide-eyed with wonder) he could read books for free!
He also gave the advice in the Q&A session that it was important to be yourself; to retain your identity.
This was a recurring theme in the evening: embracing diversity.
Immigrant families are so often forced to "integrate"; to abandon their cultural heritage and adopt "English" ways, but these kids were bringing some of their own culture here and sharing it. And it was wonderful to see.
Where would we be if we had forced the post-independence influx of families from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh to "integrate"?
They brought their own culture and they shared it.
The national dish of England is chicken tikka marsala, for goodness sake!
Where would we be without curry?
I'm being flippant, but the theme of retaining cultural identity and of sharing its benefits recurred throughout the films.
When one Polish girl bemoaned the fact that when she first moved here she missed Polish food my mouth watered at the thought of the pirogis that Aga makes and brings to work for me to eat.
I shop in Portuguese and Polish and African and Asian stores because I love the food and the culture and the people and feel strongly that sharing is far better than forced integration.
The young film-makers left the stage to huge applause and then one of them, 14 year old Viktorija, came back on with her guitar and sang two songs in Lithuanian (the second was one of her own poems set to music).
Her voice was so beautiful it moved me to tears.
The second part of the evening consisted of a mosaic of the other recent films made with local immigrant kids by BBC Voices and was as good as the first half; indeed one Korean boy's "superhero" movie was worthy of an Oscar.
In fact every film shown displayed a phenomenal amount of skill in editing, soundtracks and the actual craft of film-making, as well as showing that these are young people with intelligence and imagination who are capable of communicating their ideas in an entertaining way.
In a language that most of them couldn't speak just three years ago!
To use the old movie reviewers' cliché: "You'll laugh; you'll cry; it will change your life."
It was a wonderfully, heartwarming and uplifting evening, full of the hopes and the dreams of hard-working, decent families who are making their - and our own - futures brighter.
The food promised to be amazing; African, Thai and Mexican all being prepared as we watched the films and tantalising aromas wafting into the room to torture our tastebuds exquisitely.
However, much as I wanted desperately to tuck into the spinach and peanut butter curry in particular, I realised with horror that to get to my car I would have to go through Riverside and so I thanked Joy and Thom, made my excuses and did a runner.
I so rarely go into Norwich at night these days that I had - without thinking - parked my car in my usual spot at the station and walked across the city, enjoying the balmy late spring sunshine.
In the afternoon, Riverside and Prince of Wales Road are harmless places and I am used to walking them in daylight, but on a Saturday night …
Until the recent spate of knife attacks around London Prince of Wales Road was officially the most violent street in Britain and seemed proud of it.
I left the film festival early because I wanted to get home without being stabbed; to walk down Prince of Wales Road while it was still light enough for the phalanxes of riot police to see me.
It is a war zone down there.
This is the binge-drinking Hell of drunken violence that English teenagers call "fun".
These are not the immigrant kids; the inspirational and studious schoolchildren of hard-working, tax-paying families from Europe, Asia and Africa that I had just met.
No.
These are the people who set fire to immigrant families' houses.
These are the people who want to "send the bastards back! They're only after our jobs and our benefit money."
These are the people who claim to be patriotic, hard working and God-fearing but are in fact the violent, thuggish, binge-drinking benefit-fraudsters and tax-evaders who are strangling the hope out of this country's future.
These are the people who make me sick to my stomach at the sight of my own national flag, draped out of windows on sink estates across the land.
Racists. Ignorant, cowardly bullies.
To get to my car I had to go right through that area.
Even as early as this the street was full of drunken louts, jeering and fighting.
As I passed, one thuggish neanderthal in the inevitable beer-soaked "England" teeshirt ran across the street and lunged at me, screaming into my face.
Like gorillas in wildlife documentaries, he stopped inches away from me and just screamed his lungs out; all spittle and filthy teeth, and then ran back to his jeering mob of friends, seemingly happy that he had proved his intellectual superiority.
I ignored him, wiped off the spittle and was followed down the street past the riot police, ambulances, "SOS" and "Rape Trauma" vans (how much does it cost the taxpayer to fund every Saturday night of "fun" in British cities?) by a torrent of abusive threats and laughter.
A thousand "English patriots" like these are not worth one little African boy like Dony with his love of the library where he can "read books for free".
How many of these thugs will ever read a book?
How many of these filth will ever become doctors or engineers or learn to speak a language other than hate?
This country is suffering from the oft-quoted "demographic time bomb".
Since the end of the baby boom we have not been producing anywhere near enough children to grow up and take jobs and pay the tax and National Insurance that will finance our pensions.
We desperately need immigrants like those we met yesterday evening.
Hard working, tax-paying, decent people who come here to make a future for their families and to share their wonderful cultures with us.
We do NOT need the sickening, subhuman, drunken nationalist/fascist thugs that are white England's disgusting and shameful legacy.
Yet our right-wing politicians spout "integrate or go home!" and enforce immigration quotas. It is an imbecile policy that will prove disastrous for the economy and the cultural future of Britain.
I cannot thank Joy enough for showing me that there is indeed a hope for the future and that it involves embracing diversity.
I'll take the hope over the hopelessness, please.
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