nickhereandnow

Dishonesty

2012-01-26T18:20:00.005Z

Come on, admit it, you're a wee bit dishonest, aren't you? Only a wee bit. Just now and again.

According to this handy quiz*, I'm extremely dishonest. Or that's how they see it. As I see it, I bend the rules when I think it's justified. Being systematically dishonest is something quite different.

Anyhow, how would you score for dishonesty? Do you think the following are ever justified?

1) Fare-dodging on public transport
2) Cheating on taxes
3) Speeding
4) Keeping money found in the street
5) Lying in your own interests
6) Not reporting accidental damage to a car
7) Dumping litter in a public place
8) Driving under the influence of alcohol
9) Inventing things on a job application
10) Buying something you know is stolen

I don't think 6,8, 9 or 10 are ever acceptable, but I think the others are sometimes okay, depending on the circumstances. If I find a £10 note in the street, and it's highly unlikely anyone would bother to claim it at a police station, then I pocket it. So would 80% of the population. Of course it's technically dishonest but in reality it's unimportant.

I think the type of dishonesty that really matters, and which funnily enough they don't mention, is dishonesty to your loved ones and friends. To lie to your partner about a secret bank account, or a secret lover, or a secret porn stash, is pretty shabby. That I would never do, not that I have any of those anyway. But without complete trust between you and those close to you, relationships are fatally damaged.

As for dishonesty among prominent public figures, which seems to be increasing at an alarming rate, let's not even go there. We'd be at it all day.

* Shamelessly and dishonestly filched from The Independent

Under a cloud

2012-01-23T18:53:00.006Z

Can you imagine what it's like to be falsely accused of murdering your son for 25 years before you're finally cleared of all wrongdoing? It must be sheer hell.

The police questioned Elizabeth Watkins of Winston-Salem, North Carolina, immediately after her son's death in 1987 but then released her without charge. That wasn't good enough for the locals, who were convinced she had killed her six-year-old son Nicholas.

Her other son and his father were also convinced of her guilt and broke off contact with her.

After 25 years of living under a cloud of suspicion, it must be a colossal relief to at last be free of it.

A new inquiry into her son's death has concluded that he wasn't murdered but was killed by a pack of dogs. How tragic that detectives didn't investigate more thoroughly at the time and discover the non-human cause of death while unhealthy suspicions could still be nipped in the bud.

But just imagine the festering feelings of injustice and rage and despair that must have addled her life and crushed the sort of enjoyable, freewheeling existence that most of us take for granted.

And the sick feelings of betrayal and humiliation as relatives, friends and acquaintances all refused to believe her declarations of innocence and continued to assume she was capable of slaughtering her child.

And the feelings of burning impotence as she could find no way of proving to the outside world that she had nothing to do with the death. Presumably she had no alibi for her movements at the time.

Now she has somehow to put all those miserable years behind her and try to recreate a more normal life in which she is once again an unblemished and respected member of the community. Without an awful lot of sincere regret and generosity on other people's part, that's going to be quite a struggle.

Pic: Elizabeth Watkins

Rough sleeper

2012-01-20T18:25:00.004Z

No, there's not an epidemic of insomnia, there's just a lot of people out there obsessed with getting "a good night's sleep."

Take no notice of all those "experts" with their miracle cures and relaxation techniques. Ignore all those warnings that if we don't sleep for eight straight hours, our health is in jeopardy.

It's all a load of bollocks. Even if we only get two hours' sleep, we can still function well enough the next day. And sooner or later our body will catch up on the missed sleep if it needs to. So throw all the dire warnings in the bin and relax.

I'm finally taking this more laid-back approach after years of erratic sleep patterns and failed attempts to get the vaunted "proper night's sleep." Instead of cursing the fact that I've woken up at 2am and trying in vain to doze off again, I've at last accepted that waking up doesn't actually matter and I may as well just stay cool and use my unexpected wakefulness to read a book, surf the net or send a few emails. And have a cup of tea and a biscuit. Maybe after a while I'll nod off again. Or maybe I won't. It doesn't really matter.

I know perfectly well that I've had nights of minimal sleep and spent the next day just as alert as if I'd slept like a log. If my brain rejects sleep, then perhaps it doesn't need it. But the idea of "a good night's sleep" is deeply embedded in our childhood by solicitous parents.

In the past I've tried sleeping pills but they were useless. I didn't fall asleep any quicker, and when I finally awoke I was so groggy it took me hours to get my brain properly focussed. Since then I've never tried any other "remedies" and I've gradually learnt to go with the flow instead of trying to force my body and brain to do what they don't want to do.

Wide awake at dawn? So what?

Bad dreams

2012-01-17T18:37:00.005Z

I have a problem. It's my dreams. They're not what I expect them to be. They're seriously dysfunctional. They're totally out to lunch.

What I want my dreams to consist of:

1) Glimpses of paradise
2) Sun-kissed oceans
3) Snow-clad mountain peaks
4) Golden beaches
5) Tropical islands
6) Lush rain forests

What they actually consist of:
1) Missing the last bus
2) Losing my way
3) My house collapsing
4) My teeth falling out
5) The car exploding
6) Being chased by a shadowy figure through a derelict building

I've put in an official complaint. This simply isn't good enough. The price I pay for my annual dream package is astronomical, and then I don't even get what I signed up for. I don't even get the requested number of dreams per night. I'm supposed to have a hundred and it's more like half a dozen. And then they're in black and white instead of colour. What do you have to do to get a decent service, eh? I might as well not dream at all.

Now there's an idea....

Local knowledge

2012-01-13T19:18:00.008Z

What a difference it makes to a holiday when you're not just an ignorant tourist but you know one of the locals who can guide you to all the special places you would otherwise have missed.

As a typical tourist you're entirely reliant on travel guides and what you happen to hear from hotel staff, bus drivers or other semi-ignorant tourists. You end up in places that are popular but not very interesting, and in eateries that are adjacent but hardly mouthwatering.

In Melbourne we were very lucky to have our good friend Kath who was endlessly generous with her time and local knowledge and took us to one fabulous place after another. To the wonderful Mornington Peninsula, the Dandenong Ranges and the Yarra Valley, where she led us to a brilliant out-of-the-way art gallery and the Domaine Chandon winery, where we sampled some excellent wines (and I got pleasantly light-headed).

Not only that, but she also introduced us to her family and several friends, who gave us all sorts of insights into Aussie lifestyles and interests that don't make it into the travel guides. Her brother told us all about his work as an immigration officer interviewing new entrants to Australia.

She also took us to all the best local cafés, restaurants, burger joints and ice cream parlours, as well as a superb bookshop (Readings).

What more could we want? At the end of the week I was starting to feel like a native Melbournian rather than a clueless visitor trying to find my way around. I felt completely at home, connected to the city much more strongly and intimately than before.

So thanks for everything, Kath, you added so much to our visit. It was really hard to drag ourselves to the airport and return home.

Spirit of Oz

2012-01-10T20:15:00.009Z

Okay, it's about time I satisfied your burning curiosity as to where I've been. The answer is, to Australia! A week in Adelaide, a week in Sydney and eight days in Melbourne. In Sydney Jenny and I met the wonderful Kylie and the equally wonderful Helen (again) for a catch-up over a Turkish meal.

So how do I sum up our latest Aussie adventure? Well, how do Aussies compare with the Brits? Some big differences come to mind:

1) They worry about bushfires and are ready to evacuate their homes in a hurry.

2) They worry about water shortages and keep their water use to a minimum.

3) They worry about skin cancer and slap on litres of sunscreen. Which is why they're mostly as pale-skinned as the Brits.

4) They love beaches, barbecues, surfing and swimming. Just as long as the sharks keep their distance.

5) They love anywhere that has ice-cold air-conditioning, though if it's a fashionable restaurant or café steaming heat is no obstacle.

6) White Aussies are taking more interest in aboriginal culture and giving it the same importance as the settlers' culture. Unfortunately many aborigines are rejecting their own culture in favour of alcohol, drugs and child abuse.

7) They take space and sprawling homes for granted, unlike us Brits in our cramped, congested cities. Oz is a big, big country with space galore to spread out in.

8) They're competitive about their cities. Sydney's better than Melbourne. Melbourne's better than Adelaide. Tell you what, guys, every city has its own charms and failings. Why the jockeying for position?

9) Most Aussies are only interested in Oz. Other countries seldom feature in the news unless there's some strong Aussie link. The eurozone crisis seems to have passed them by.

10) They're seriously devoted to wine. There are hundreds of wineries and cellar doors (shops), all bristling with afficionados sampling what's on offer. But how come their home-produced wine is so pricy when they're overflowing with the stuff?

I felt very at home in Oz this time round. Maybe because I've been to all three cities before. Maybe because Aussies are so keen to enjoy themselves - unlike all those British tightarses.

I didn't want to go home. And not just because of the gruelling 20-hour flight. The Spirit of Australia is more than a Qantas catchphrase.

Undesirables

2011-12-11T11:11:00.006Z

Do you ever contemplate all those things that should never have been invented, never seen the light of day? Here's my very own list of ten things the world could do without....

1) Ties. Utterly pointless and unattractive. Politicians and car salesmen are no more plausible in a knotted thing.
2) Shoelaces. Come undone when you're out walking. Get knotted when you're trying to undo them.
3) Binge-drinking. What's the big attraction of drinking yourself senseless and getting liver disease?
4) Powerpoint presentations. Telling you what you already know, or don't need to know, in a soporific visual format.
5) Chat shows. Thinly disguised advertising in which evasive celebrities trot out predictable personal clichés.
6) Plastic surgery. Self-mutilation as the answer to self-loathing. How weird is that?*
7) Starters. Two or three expensive mouthfuls of some trifling little "delicacy". I'd rather get stuck into a proper plateful of food.
8) The colour orange. Hideous on just about anything except the fruit. Orange means "I have no taste."
9) Musak. Shops that play mind-numbing background music. I'm straight out of the shop before my brain turns to mush.
10) Family trees. I couldn't care less about my great great grandfather or my second cousin twice removed. I don't care if they were millionaires or tramps. It's what's happening now that interests me.

Okay, don't tell me, you like nothing better than binge-drinking after your plastic surgery, wearing your bright orange pants and your bright orange kipper tie. If that's the case, I don't like you any more and I shall have to exclude you from my inner circle of suave and enlightened intimates. Please don't darken my doors again.

* I should add that I have nothing against plastic surgery for sound medical reasons like correcting disfigurements.
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I won't be blogging for a while. Nothing to worry about, in fact something very very exciting! Will tell you all about it later....

Deathbed regrets

2011-12-08T07:37:00.006Z

If you're on your deathbed, the chances are you'll be reflecting on your life and how well or badly it went. And in many cases, you'll be regretting something or other you didn't do, or didn't do whole-heartedly enough.

An Australian woman* who spent many years looking after dying patients and listening to what they said about their lives has come up with a fascinating list of the five major regrets they mentioned most often.

1) "I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me."
2) "I wish I hadn't worked so hard."
3) "I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings."
4) "I wish I'd stayed in touch with my friends."
5) "I wish I'd let myself be happier."

How sad that so many people feel their life was a false one and they repressed their real self, hid their feelings and stifled their happiness. We still think far too much about other people's expectations, or imagined expectations, and feel we have to change our own behaviour accordingly. It's very hard to just be yourself, however bizarre or outrageous or inappropriate this might seem to others.

How common too that people wish they hadn't worked so hard and spent more of their time enjoying their own personal pleasures, or doing things with their partners or children. Sometimes this is our own fault, chasing after perfection and unachievable goals. Sometimes it's the nature of the job and long hours are necessary simply to get the work done. But either way, it's not healthy.

And how difficult it can be to stay in touch with friends when we're all leading such busy lives. When we're rushing from one urgent task to another, friendships can easily be neglected for so long they lapse altogether. Then a few years down the line we discover all those bosom buddies we used to have such fun with have somehow vanished. And our psychological well-being suffers.

What a shame we don't take a good look at what we're getting out of life while there's still time to do things better. Once you're on your deathbed and heading for oblivion, it's too late.

* Bronnie Ware is a writer and singer/songwriter from New South Wales.

Losing your looks

2011-12-05T18:23:00.004Z

How withering it is to say of someone "Of course she's losing her looks." So many awful implications packed into one short sentence! So many sexist and ageist assumptions so blandly expressed!

What does it actually mean? First, that the person is no longer attractive or sexy and no longer so appealing to potential boyfriends or girlfriends, or their spouse. They'll be struggling to date anyone or stir their partner's passions.

Second, that your looks naturally change from a positive feature to a negative one as you age. As soon as a few wrinkles or a bit of sagging flesh appear, this can't be anything but a turn-off to other people.

Third, that you've lost something rather than gained something. You've been depleted, belittled, made less significant.

Fourth, that you've passed your peak and are now generally going downhill. You're declining, deteriorating, falling apart.

No wonder many women who're told they're losing their looks (or who think it as they gaze critically into the mirror) feel somewhat depressed and alarmed. With the battery of confidence-shattering assumptions the phrase conjures up, it's hardly surprising. They feel they're heading for a dismal future of being ignored and downgraded which they can do little about given the inevitability of the ageing process. The desperate rush to plastic surgeons for a make-over is grotesque.

And how unfair that men are much less likely to be damned with the same phrase. It seems men don't so much lose their looks as become more distinguished and venerable, or even charmingly avuncular. Even if there's hair sprouting from every orifice, they have a pot belly the size of a cauldron and skin like a farmtrack, nobody seems to notice and criticism is strangely muffled.

How refreshing it would be if people were seen as changing their looks rather than losing them, and if a much-wrinkled face was considered no worse or better than a wrinkle-free one. How uplifting if wrinkles were seen as a sign of wisdom and experience and not as some sort of personal disability. How heartening if taut-skinned teenagers weren't so absurdly over-rated and idolised and were given their proper value in the scheme of things.

And pigs might fly.

Just a joke

2011-12-03T12:13:00.007Z

Blistering outrage as the famous petrol-head and loudmouth Jeremy Clarkson says public-sector strikers should be executed. So far over 22,000 complaints have been received by the BBC.

Some people insist it was just a stupid joke. Others believe he was being deliberately inflammatory and offensive.

Whatever your opinion, it once again raises the tangled question of whether to allow total free speech, however outrageous and vicious, or whether to restrain people with a battery of legislation.

The UK has a mass of laws forbidding discrimination and hate-crimes, and promoting equal treatment for all citizens. But it's often asked firstly if such draconian laws are necessary and secondly if they actually work.

There seem to be remarkably few court cases relating to any of the equality laws, even though scandalous examples of homophobia, misogyny, racism and workplace favouritism and bullying go on day after day.

The legal constraints may act as a deterrent in more formal and public settings where prejudice will be immediately visible and acted on, but in more private situations many people are still happy to mouth off and ostracise as freely as they like.

Okay, so laws will always be flouted if people can get away with it. They may be only a limited restraint on inflammatory behaviour. But without them all hell would break loose and we'd see the sort of mass-hatred that in other countries leads to routine beatings, lynchings and executions.

The local equivalents of Jeremy Clarkson aren't just making mindless "jokes", they're running amok with machetes and machine guns. I don't want to go down that road.

Pic: Jeremy Clarkson

Jenny has a related post on living with diversity in Northern Ireland

Love lies bleeding

2011-11-29T20:05:00.007Z

Which is worse, I wonder, having never fallen in love or having fallen in love but been rebuffed? Not having had either experience, I can only conjecture, but I imagine the second would be much more painful.

I find it hard to believe someone could never have fallen in love, but such people do exist. Do they just not have the inclination, or have they never met the particular person who gets their mojo working?

Whatever the reason, if you've never known love, I guess you don't know what you're missing so it's no big deal. On the other hand, if you've fallen for someone but they feel nothing at all for you, that must be very distressing.

But then again, do people who've never fallen in love not know what they're missing? Everywhere they look there are besotted lovers who can't get enough of each other and seem totally blissed out. Don't they think they're being deprived of some vital pleasure in life? Or do they simply think these starstruck lovers are suffering from some psychic delusion? Just seeing a very flawed and ordinary person through rose-tinted glasses?

And is unreciprocated love necessarily distressing? Okay, so the other person doesn't feel the same way, but isn't it fun fancying someone and imagining a red-hot night of passion, even if it never happens? How can what is merely a personal fantasy be distressing if there's not the slightest chance of it turning into reality? Even if there's an element of masochism, an unreal substitute for something more attainable, that's hardly an emotional knifing.

I would have thought love that has actually been reciprocated, even for a short time, would cause a lot more pain than love that's never reciprocated at all. For a while there is that heady prospect that you both feel the same way, that there is that magical symbiosis of affection and understanding that connects your two identities and creates something bigger and better than your individual existence. And then your growing hopes are cruelly dashed as the other person makes it clear they don't feel that subtle communion after all.

All I know is that one way or another love can cause deep anguish as well as profound joy. It's an emotion not to be trifled with, not to be taken lightly.

The media squirms

2011-11-23T13:49:00.004Z

How wonderful to see the media on the defensive for a change, forced to admit their sadistic and illegal hounding of anyone they don't like the look of or who isn't "normal" enough. Or just happens to be a celebrity.

For years they've been able to get away with their relentless bullying, lying and smearing not only through the usual journalistic methods but through phone-hacking, the use of private detectives, searching people's refuse and permanently watching their homes.

They've got away with it because usually the victims don't have the time or energy to pursue complaints, because they're afraid of prompting even worse treatment, or because the damage has already been done.

Now however, with the start of the Leveson Inquiry into UK press standards, the spotlight is being shone firmly onto the media's behaviour, one appalling revelation after another is coming to light, and the media instigators are squirming with embarrassment and furious that all of a sudden they aren't calling the shots.

Hugh Grant said the only way certain information about his relationships with women could have been known (like the woman with the "plummy" voice) was through the Mail on Sunday hacking into his mobile phone.

Now Steve Coogan has explained how the Sun and the News of the World tried to trick him into revealing "lurid" details of his sexual relationships, and how reporters and photographers beseiged his home, searched his rubbish bins, blamed him for an actor friend's overdose and offered his friends cash for juicy stories.

A whole string of high-profile witnesses is lined up to give a barrage of damning evidence against the media, to the daily chagrin of the usually unrestrained hacks, who are feebly requesting their "right to reply".

After it has finished hearing evidence, the Leveson Inquiry is expected to come up with some radical and far-reaching measures for muzzling the media's increasingly intrusive behaviour.

The Press Complaints Commission, which is meant to regulate the press, has been endlessly criticised as toothless and ineffectual, frequently watering down complaints or making excuses for the media. Time and again victims have had to do the job themselves, taking legal action or demanding retractions.

It's sheer delight to see the media cringing for a change instead of their hapless targets. They might just begin to understand the misery they so casually inflict on others.

Pic: Steve Coogan at the Leveson Inquiry

Cambridge cameo

2011-11-19T13:19:00.006Z

I'd always thought of Cambridge as a rather glitzy, glamorous town, full of witty intellectuals oozing pithy insights into the vicissitudes of life. But the reality is more humdrum.

I went there on Thursday with my 89 year old mum (she and my sister Heather live 15 miles north in St Ives). We traipsed around the town centre doing our best to soak up the unique atmosphere, but actually it wasn't that unique.

There were all the expected ingredients: breathtakingly beautiful students, shambling white-haired academics, map-clutching tourists, crumbling old buildings, punts on the river Cam, quaint little teashops, wobbling cyclists.

But it wasn't glamorous, in fact it was all a bit shabby and tired-looking. Here and there I saw hideous sixties-style buildings slotted in among the older architecture. On every railing there were scruffy leaflets and posters which suggested impulsive mess rather than creative ferment. The passers-by looked more weary and preoccupied than fizzing with groundbreaking ideas.

The only noticeable glamour came from something quite jarring and anomalous - a swish shopping centre nestling in the heart of the academic enclave, complete with a massive John Lewis and all the other over-familiar High Street chains. How it got planning permission I can't imagine. The prospect of a hefty rates income for the council, presumably.

The only other touch of glamour was an unexpected exhibition of Bridget Riley's abstract paintings at one of the art galleries. I love her work so I was chuffed to come across the gallery.

But I could think of dozens of towns and cities with more charisma than Cambridge. Like Liverpool, which I visited in July. Or Edinburgh. Or York. Or Belfast. There may be lots of exciting things going on in the lecture theatres and seminar rooms, but there wasn't much sign of them on the public streets. I guess you have to be a Cambridge insider to have your finger on the creative pulse. So I doubt if I'll be going back any time soon.

And how are my mum and sister*, you might be wondering. Both rather frail but still enjoying life as much as they can. I hadn't met up with my sister for many years, so that was a great reunion. Luckily she's not on her own but has her husband Mike to support her. I think one day at a time is the motto.

* Heather has Motor Neurone Disease

Pic: King's Parade, Cambridge

Pristine psyches

2011-11-15T18:32:00.007Z

It's easy to assume that if someone's doing all right materially - nice house, big car, exotic holidays and all the rest - then they must be doing all right psychologically as well. I mean, would they have got all that if they were mentally screwed-up? They must be well-adjusted, emotionally secure, productive individuals.

Despite all the well-known examples of people who had a glittering lifestyle but were in inner turmoil - like Marilyn Monroe, Amy Winehouse and Kurt Cobain - we still imagine material success goes hand in hand with personal serenity. It's hard to picture these apparently privileged souls secretly struggling with feelings of anxiety, worthlessness, despair, grief or addiction.

We all know friends or relatives who wrestle with inner demons of one kind or another. We know those seemingly capable, confident people may be very different in private, when they put aside their well-rehearsed public persona and reveal what's underneath. Yet we still believe that worldly success is some sort of magic psychic cure-all.

Even if we know Ms Doing-Very-Nicely has the odd phobia or panic attack, we just see it as a curious quirk in a basically problem-free person. We don't want to think of her as a hopeless psychological wreck, barely staggering from one day to the next. We want her to be a role model, someone we can look up to, someone inspiring.

We like to believe there are people out there with pristine psyches, perfectly attuned to life, free of all the mundane mental hang-ups. Which is why all these charismatic gurus and preachers are so popular. But nobody is that angelic. Even these supposedly saintly figures are regularly unmasked as fallible mortals, prone to groping young women or defrauding their devotees.

Show me a hang-up free person, and I'll show you a corpse.

What are my inner demons, I hear you ask? Oh, surely you know by now. Anxiety, self-doubt, insecurity, fear of the dark. Need I go on?

Stroke surprise

2011-11-10T07:44:00.011Z

I know very strange things can happen to people who've had strokes. But this really is extra-ordinary - a 19 stone rugby-playing bank clerk who turned into a slimline gay hairdresser passionate about his appearance*.

After an unlucky training accident that broke his neck and caused a stroke, Chris Birch of South Wales gave up his weekend drinking sessions with his hetero mates, gave up his girlfriend and started to date men. Now he lives with his partner Jack.

He also lost interest in his banking job and retrained to be a hairdresser.

"Suddenly I hated everything about my old life. I didn't get on with my friends, I hated sport and I found my job boring. I'm nothing like the old Chris now but I wouldn't change a thing. I think I'm happier than ever."

What this confirms to me is that being gay is definitely not, as some would say, the result of brainwashing, a temporary phase, being too close to your mum, or any of those other idiotic ideas. It's all down to something in your brain that makes you the way you are.

But it must be quite weird when your old personality, that you assumed was fixed and permanent, suddenly mutates into something quite different. A bit like acting someone in a play and then finding you ARE that person, for good. I'm surprised he's so matter-of-fact about it, as if it's all completely natural.

Other equally astonishing things have happened to stroke victims. Alan Brown from Worcestershire found he was able to paint and draw with great skill, despite no previous training. Others have developed regional accents or started speaking in another language.

It makes you wonder what unsuspected talents are lurking in our brains, ready to be triggered by a drastic medical trauma. Are we all secret Einsteins?

* Some sceptics have suggested Chris simply discovered his true sexuality and the stroke had little to do with it other than causing him to rethink his life.

Pic: Chris Birch

Inner child

2011-11-06T13:27:00.008Z

One reason I've never wanted children is that I'm already busy enough dealing with my truculent inner child. You know, the part of me that never does what he's told and insists on going his own way.

Psychologists talk a lot about "getting in touch with your inner child" as if that's something inherently positive and creative and life-enhancing, but in fact it's equally likely that your inner child is one long pain in the butt.

I mean of course the inner child who wakes me up at 2 am fretting about some upcoming task, convinced that it'll all go horribly wrong, I won't be able to cope, I'll let everyone else down etc. The inner child who's plagued by anxiety, hysteria, panic. The inner child who takes no notice when I tell him to go back to sleep, that everything'll work out fine, that there's nothing I can do about it right now anyway.

It's the same inner child who doesn't want to do things because he's too scared, or cynical, or lazy, or indifferent. Doesn't want to see that new film because he's seen some bad reviews. Doesn't want to go to that social event because he'll be tongue-tied with all those strange people. Doesn't want to drive to somewhere new because he'll get lost and confused and find the place he's looking for doesn't exist.

Like a real-life obstinate child, I can cajole and coax and tempt until I'm blue in the face, but half the time I get nowhere, the resistance simply increases. Why do I have so little control over a part of my own psyche, my own being? Shouldn't I be able to bring him into line and get some simple cooperation? But no, that's too much to ask. The inner child is like someone who's been dumped on my doorstep and I just have to do what I can with this wayward entity.

And unlike a real child, he's never grown up and started his own life. He's still hanging around like some feckless teenager, annoying the hell out of me. How can I discreetly strangle him?

Up for grabs

2011-11-01T18:40:00.005Z

Being one of the female crew on a long-haul flight has always been seen as dazzlingly glamorous and exciting, and the new TV series Pan Am is being trailed as capturing that aura of glamour. But the reality is and was rather less rose-tinted.

Female flight attendants have had to endure sexist and abusive attitudes ever since the job was invented. That was true in the Pan Am days in the sixties and it's just as true now. Their biggest union, the ITF*, has hundreds of horror stories of cabin crew who've been molested, insulted and propositioned.

Some airlines support them and warn passengers to treat cabin crew with respect, but other airlines see the prevailing sexy image as just something passengers expect and turn a blind eye to it. Their attitude is "If you don't like it, you're in the wrong job."

Many airlines also have a strict dress code for female staff that stresses a sexy appearance. They stipulate make-up, short skirts or high heels, and sometimes even how often their hair should be trimmed or what shampoo they should use.

As they're expected to smile and simper at all times, you may not be aware of what they're having to put up with, but the behaviour of passengers is regularly outrageous. Unfortunately, unlike women workers on the ground, they don't have the option of deciding they've had enough and walking out.

I've never seen any truly appalling behaviour when I've been flying, but clearly some passengers think it's quite normal to fondle an attendant's breasts, simulate sex, or just persistently ogle her.

Airline advertising, far from discouraging such harassment, blatantly promotes it. Virgin Atlantic's parade of "red hotties" and Ryanair's pin-up calendar have been loudly complained about but the airline reaction is a wall of indifference.

And any female cabin crew approaching middle-age are liable to be nudged out of the job by the suggestion that they're too old or too plump or too stony-faced. Heaven forbid they might look too much like the life-worn travellers slumped in their planes.

So what does little Rebecca want to be when she grows up? I sincerely hope Flight Attendant is the last thing she thinks of.

* the International Transport Workers' Federation

Humpty's damages

2011-10-28T08:45:00.005+01:00

The colourful nursery rhyme character Humpty Dumpty has won £500,000 in damages for the serious injuries he incurred after falling off a defective wall.

Mr Dumpty was shattered into several pieces in the accident, and was only put together again after a series of painstaking operations by the country's leading surgeons.

The controversial egg-shaped celebrity, beloved by children everywhere, sued Bodgit Builders for the loose bricks that caused the fall and Topnotch Properties for not placing warning signs about the state of the wall.

Barrister Olive Oyl, representing Mr Dumpty, said her client had innocently climbed the wall and sat on the top in order to watch a display of Morris Dancing.

Imagine his horror, continued Ms Oyl, when the wall began to collapse and Mr Dumpty tumbled unexpectedly to the pavement. The combined trauma of the fall and the gruelling remedial surgery had left her client profoundly traumatised as well as permanently frightened by brick walls and other brick structures such as houses and garages.

Her client would never regain a normal sense of psychic security and would be regularly troubled by feelings of deja vu, flashbacks and crippling panic attacks.

Barristers for the two companies claimed that Mr Dumpty was in perfect mental health and far from being traumatised had welcomed the unexpected fall as a valuable boost for his previously flagging career.

Judge Percy Popeye said it was quite clear Mr Dumpty was now a tormented and unsettled individual who would need therapeutic help for the rest of his life. He had no hesitation in awarding the popular entertainer substantial damages.

An ecstatic Mr Dumpty left the court hand in hand with his long-time boyfriend, Fred Flintstone.

Pic: Humpty Dumpty seen in Mesa, Arizona

Tent city

2011-10-25T19:14:00.006+01:00

The 300 protesters camped outside St Paul's Cathedral in London seem rather confused. What exactly are they trying to achieve?

They're supposed to be taking a stand against nasty old capitalism and all its works, but all they seem to be doing at the moment is disrupting a place of worship which has more or less closed down because of the tent city.

St Paul's says it's losing about £20,000 in income a day, so maybe the protesters think they're taking a swipe at religious capitalists if not at capitalists proper.

But surely they should be joining the other encampment at Finsbury Square, which is heaving with blatant capitalist bastions like banks? Not that that protest is exactly rocking capitalism to its foundations either.

Just how are a few tents going to stop vast accumulations of wealth flowing into the coffers of a few greedy individuals and capitalists? All the refuseniks are doing right now is putting more cash into the bank accounts of tent manufacturers and primus stove suppliers.

It all seems astonishingly naive and historically ignorant. If anyone is going to challenge capitalism with any sort of clout, it's the trade unions who fight for a better deal for employees and restrain the wilder excesses of profit-grabbing companies.

They have at least forced a few millionaires and grasping shareholders to hand back some of their ill-gotten gains. Can the campaigning campers do any such thing before they get bored, pack up their tents and go back home?

Stranded alien

2011-10-21T08:30:00.006+01:00

So Helen feels she's in the wrong time, place, century and country. I think a lot of us feel like that. I certainly do. I sometimes feel so profoundly estranged from this dysfunctional world, I think I must be an alien from the Planet Zog who's landed here by mistake.

I was probably just nipping down to the shops in Zog City for some more nectar, as you do, and I drove down the wrong street, as you do, and found myself swept into another dimension and heading straight for Planet Earth.

My arrival was doubtless so traumatic that I've totally repressed the memory, but I expect my reactions were something like this:

"Holy Zog, what the fuck's with this place? Are they all insane or what? Nothing but wars, poverty, brutality, pollution, slums, and half of them drugged to the eyeballs. Don't they know how to live sensibly? Don't they know how to help each other? These people are mad."

And now I can't get back to Planet Zog because I can't remember where I parked the car and my mobile phone's not working and I've forgotten how to fly through space. So it looks like I'm stuck here for a while, enduring the dismal weather and the dismal headlines.

There's one thing that really puzzles me. What's this stuff called money? And what's profit? Whatever it is, it only seems to screw people up. These earthlings are just doing everything wrong. Pea-sized brains, I guess.

Just tuck in

2011-10-18T18:27:00.005+01:00

When I was young, there were endless rules about how to eat and drink, and how to do it politely rather than rudely. Thank goodness most of these pointless rules have now been binned and we can be more relaxed about what should, after all, be an enjoyable experience rather than a nerve-racking test of good breeding.

As a child, I was constantly admonished for speaking with my mouth full, slurping my drinks, eating with my fingers, eating too fast or too slowly, putting too much in my mouth, playing with my food, and countless other shocking habits. No wonder not many people actively enjoyed their meals in those days, seeing them more as fuelling stops than sources of pleasure.

I suppose one of the few advantages of my boarding school years was that teenage boys ignore every rule about eating and just shamelessly stuff their faces in whatever manner suits them. The school staff had clearly long given up trying to instil more suitable behaviour, so mealtimes were always wonderful uninhibited binges free of the petty criticisms of home.

Nowadays the emphasis on enjoying your food rather than showing off your table manners means that most of the old dos and donts have bitten the dust and we eat and drink in whatever way we're comfortable with, and we're happy for our eating companions to do the same. And if someone else has cooked the food, wholehearted appreciation of what they've provided is more important than exactly how you're eating it.

Obviously I'm not saying you should shovel your food into your mouth like a pig at a trough, but what's wrong with emptying your plate enthusiastically if the contents are mouth-wateringly tasty? Why take dainty little portions when you could take a good hearty mouthful?

I guess the increasingly relaxed attitude to how we eat stems largely from the surge in foreign travel and our discovery that people in other countries actually see food as a feast for the tastebuds rather than an etiquette check. And if you're picking delicately at what's on your plate rather than eagerly tucking in, they don't think you're being polite, they think you don't like the food. Mamma mia, non hai appetito?*

* Mamma mia, don't you have an appetite?

Not running amok

2011-10-13T18:16:00.006+01:00

Jenny being away in England for a couple of days, you might think I'm seizing the chance to do all those wild masculine things that men normally keep in check for the sake of domestic harmony.

You might imagine, for instance, that I'm:

(1) Going down the pub with me mates
(2) Getting drunk as a skunk
(3) Watching crap TV
(4) Downloading porn
(5) Lying in bed till lunchtime
(6) Living on baked beans
(7) Checking out all the yummy mummies as they bring little Jemima and little Jamie to the school round the corner
(8) Spending an hour or two with that very attractive widow next door
(9) Snorting cocaine
(10) Trying on my Speedos

But you'd be wrong. All those classic male syndromes hold absolutely no appeal for me. I'm very happy just as I am and have no desire to adopt such asinine behaviour. I prefer a good book to a bottle of beer (I detest the stuff) and a good CD to Match of the Day (as I also detest football). I'm incapable of lying in bed after 8 am and I can cook a few tasty meals, thank you very much.

I have no sense whatever of my natural identity being horribly repressed by the chafing restrictions of monogamy. On the contrary, I would say my identity is positively enhanced by it.

I must shamefully admit however that there's an element of truth in number 7. I mean, good grief, have you seen the young mums who live round here? There's some serious primping and preening going on, not to mention gym workouts and strict dieting. Dawn French they are not.

But number 7 aside, I have to disappoint all those who think I'm letting my suppressed masculinity run amok. I don't actually have a masculine bone in my body. All I really need is a cup of tea and a choccy biscuit.

Love in a mist

2011-10-09T13:19:00.007+01:00

Have I ever been infatuated with anyone? Depends what you mean by infatuation, doesn't it? The dictionary says "an intense, short-lived passion", but I wouldn't describe it that way at all.

I think the point about infatuation is that (a) it involves a completely false, rose-tinted picture of the person concerned and (b) far from being short-lived it can go on for quite a while, long enough in fact for you to cohabit or marry before you realise how deluded you've been.

I guess on the whole I'm too level-headed a person to have been infatuated with anyone for long, but I was absurdly besotted with one particular woman for a year or two, despite all the evidence that she wasn't nearly as special (or compatible, or even available) as I thought.

Fortunately for me it was an entirely unreciprocated besotting, so it never got to the stage of living together or tying any legal knots, and I never faced the humiliating final stage of seeing my perfect partner turn into a mere mortal who just got on my nerves rather than inspiring me.

Even if I'm not prone to infatuation, I've often idealised someone to the extent that infatuation wasn't far away. I've exaggerated their virtues and overlooked their faults to a ridiculous degree, I suppose for the usual pathetic reason that I'm beguiled by their beauty and assume they must have a beautiful brain to match. Which of course absolutely doesn't follow.

I'm also easily taken in by confidence and poise, which I carelessly equate with exceptional wisdom. While in reality it may only mean they've always had it easy.

But at my advanced age I've met enough people with bird brains and feet of clay to make me look long and hard at anyone who comes trailing a saintly aura. The saintly aura might just be a cloud of cobwebs.

No room for doubt

2011-10-04T17:14:00.007+01:00

It alarms me that people are so ready to make instant judgments on people in court cases when all they know about the case is whatever sensational bits and pieces the media choose to report.

For months every ill-informed Tom, Daphne and Hermione have been holding forth on the innocence or guilt of Amanda Knox, the American woman accused of murdering her roommate.

Either she's totally innocent, a crucified victim of the corrupt Italian legal system, or she's thoroughly guilty, an evil witch who's trying to wriggle out of well-deserved incarceration.

It doesn't matter if your grasp of the facts is woefully small. It doesn't matter if you've never met her and have no personal knowledge of what happened on that fateful day.

However ignorant you are, you're entitled to your knee-jerk reaction and your scornful dismissal of anyone who, heaven forbid, might keep an open mind on the subject.

Personally, I have no opinion on Amanda Knox's innocence or guilt. How could I possibly know the truth? Even the lawyers and the judges can't decide. Three years ago she was convicted, now she's been acquitted, but the case will trundle on to the Supreme Court for yet another decision.

But such uncertainty doesn't impress those whose minds are firmly made up on the basis of some mysterious personal insight, some sort of sixth sense that tells them what others aren't privileged to know. I just hope they never end up in the same position as Amanda, persecuted day in and day out by such self-righteous know-it-alls.

Pic: Amanda Knox

All about pyjamas

2011-09-30T18:54:00.005+01:00

Okay, you're all so totally sickened by politicians, you couldn't be arsed to even comment on them. Fair enough. In which case why don't I give you all a break and turn to a much lighter subject.

Pyjamas.

It's often assumed that pyjamas are an English invention, dreamed up by some shivering aristocrat in a draughty, iced-up castle somewhere near Chipping Norton.

Not so. The original paijama were actually loose-fitting pants with a drawstring waist, commonly worn by Asian men and women. The word pyjama comes from a Persian word that found its way into English.

You might think pyjamas are thoroughly mundane garments. Not at all. Heated controversy surrounds them. Opting for pyjamas as daywear is seen by many as the height of vulgarity and indecency. Some schools and supermarkets have banned them from the premises. But for some Chinese, wearing pyjamas in public shows they're well-off enough not to sleep in long-johns and string vests.

Are pyjamas sexy or are they passion-killers? Depends on the person - and the pyjamas. Jennifer Lopez was once spotted in some very exciting white satin pyjamas. But the truth is lesser mortals tend to look dowdy and slovenly rather than hot to trot.

Opinion is equally divided over whether they're the most comfortable garments ever or a cumbersome nuisance. Personally I would say the latter. I only wear pyjamas when I'm away from home, so as not to frighten the horses. Normally I wear a nightshirt to let my boy bits breathe.

I could go on. The strange idea of pyjama parties. That curious term, "the cat's pyjamas." The pros and cons of ironing pyjamas. Celebrities caught in their pyjamas. But life's too short.

Next week: face flannels.
.................................................................................

Note to Jenny Woolf and Cinnamon: I keep trying to post comments on your blogs but they just disappear without trace and I get Google error messages. I don't know your email addresses so I can't contact you directly.

Too many soundbites

2011-09-27T18:45:00.005+01:00

Some people (Jenny included) seem to have the impression that I loathe all politicians. Not true. I don't loathe all politicians. Only the ones who don't do their job properly and lie their way out of admitting it.

Of course we need politicians. And we need governments and local councils and all the other public bodies. How else would we organise our society efficiently and fairly and stop it descending into chaos?

I'm full of admiration for many of the politicians of the past who genuinely improved society and the lot of ordinary people whose living conditions were appalling. The politicians who founded the welfare state and created the NHS, old age pensions and child benefits. The ones who slapped new taxes on the wealthy and used the money to help the poorest.

I'm full of admiration for more recent politicians who legalised abortion, legalised homosexuality, encouraged equal pay for women, opposed the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and fought racism and sexism.

Unfortunately there are still too many politicians who seem more concerned with lining their own pockets and ego-tripping than creating a fairer society and helping those who're struggling to survive and have a decent existence.

Too many politicians live in a cossetted bubble far removed from the miserable lives of those at the bottom of the heap. They're full of smooth soundbites about protecting the vulnerable and deprived, but in reality nothing much changes. How can a cabinet stuffed with millionaires seriously care about a debt-ridden office cleaner? They don't.

I don't loathe the politicians who sincerely want a better society and do something to achieve it. On the contrary. But the others - they should be booted out and told the gravy train is over.

Ostrich tendency

2011-09-24T19:09:00.006+01:00

It's hard not to feel depressed by the exceptionally sorry state of the world. Just about anywhere you live, the prospects right now are pretty bleak. The world is like a large bear licking its wounds after some unexpected attack, and hoping tomorrow will be an improvement.

The relentlessly doom-laden headlines about economic ruin make me want to turn and run for the hills, or bury my head in the sand, ostrich-like*. I feel like chucking out the TV, not reading the newspapers, and generally shutting out the rest of the world until things start to get better.

I feel like narrowing my attention to my own little microcosm of friends and loved ones, making sure they're safe and sound, getting whatever pleasure I can and doing my best to preserve my sanity.

The problem is that we've all got used to expensive and comfortable lifestyles that rely on sizeable salaries, affordable outgoings and plenty of jobs. As soon as the world's economies go pear-shaped and all those underpinnings look precarious, life gets very scary indeed.

Sometimes I think those religious hermits who spent their lives in a Himalayan cave, devoting their days to meditation and contemplating the snowy peaks, needing nothing more than a few modest gifts from their admirers, had the right idea.

They never had to worry about the imminent collapse of the banking system, or the price of electricity, or government borrowing, or loopy politicians. They just sat there serenely in the lotus position, pondering the sound of one hand clapping, and smiling benignly as their latest visitor cringed at plummeting share prices on their iPhone.

So let me know when the world is back on track. In the meantime, I'll turn off my mind, relax and float downstream.

* In reality of course ostriches never bury their head in the sand. If they did, they'd suffocate.

Crystal balls

2011-09-22T21:51:00.009+01:00

Just what will my future bring? I really want some clarity here, I don't like being in the dark about the rest of my life. So I decided to consult the renowned Esme Plunge, clairvoyant and palmist, the oracle all the celebs swear by. Well, Harry Potter anyway.

I sidled warily into her gawdy consulting room, with its oriental knicknacks, flocked wallpaper and red-tinted lighting. Why do psychics always go in for such aesthetic vulgarity?

Her androgynous appearance, consisting of a heavy, muscular physique in a frilly blouse, a long floral skirt and three inch heels, made me wonder if she was a transvestite or a trainee transexual. I tried to concentrate on the matter in hand.

She peered intently into her crystal ball. "Ah, I see a wonderful future for you, dear. You will win three million pounds in the lottery, marry a famous actress and become a dog-breeder. I'm so pleased for you, darling."

"But I never do the lottery" I said. "I'm already happily married to the world's sexiest woman and I can't stand dogs - boisterous, slobbering, yapping, half-witted creatures. I'm afraid your crystal ball must be out for lunch."

"Oh no, dear, that's where you're wrong. You may think your life is fixed but the next twelve months will bring big changes, very big indeed. Hold on to your clutch bag, you're in for a bumpy ride."

I fixed her with a steely glare. "I've never heard such 24-carat bollocks" I said. "If you're a clairvoyant, I'm a rattlesnake. Be warned, I shall report you to Trading Standards in the morning. Good day."

As I made good my escape, I heard a volley of foul-mouthed expletives from her consulting room. This is going straight onto Facebook, I thought. Oracle to the stars, my arse. More like Tiffany's epiphanies.

Pic: The extraordinary Esme Plunge.

Poison pens

2011-09-18T19:11:00.005+01:00

I'm constantly baffled by the army of people who dedicate themselves to making other people's lives more painful. Not just criticising them or looking down on them but actively doing everything they can to wound and torment them.

If you're a celebrity, or just someone temporarily in the headlines, as well as the normal personal problems you have to deal with there's an endless barrage of venom and abuse from complete strangers who seem to have nothing better to do than to stick a knife into someone else.

It used to be just newspaper and TV journalists who went in for gratuitous vilification. Now it's all those ordinary Joes and Julies who've taken to the internet to slag off anyone they disapprove of, often under a cowardly cloak of anonymity that makes it virtually impossible for the victim to retaliate.

I've always recoiled from such poisonous filth, and most of the time I follow a strict rule of never making a comment about public figures unless it's supportive. Groups of people, like politicians and journalists themselves, I regard as fair game because I'm not attacking anyone personally.

But what have people like Kate and Gerry McCann ever done to deserve all the rabid denigration they've received from the media and the public? All the accusations that they were irresponsible parents, that they did away with their own child, that they're just attention-seekers, and so on and so forth. What sort of cheap thrill and sick pleasure do people obtain from spewing out all this shit?

Why don't these twisted individuals concentrate on sorting out their own lives rather than poking their nasty noses into someone else's - someone they've probably never even met and have a totally false picture of? How many skeletons are hiding in their own squalid little closets?

Afro massive

2011-09-16T07:48:00.005+01:00

And now for something completely different. Once upon a time Aevin Dugas, a 36 year old social worker from New Orleans, decided she was fed up with "chemically relaxing" her hair, i.e. artificially straightening it to satisfy the white folks.

So she went back to a natural afro, and just let it grow. And grow. And grow. And now, 12 years later, she has the biggest afro in the world, with a circumference of 4 feet 4 inches.

"I love it. I would never go back to chemically relaxed hair" she says.

Big hair like that is not without its problems though. Of course everyone wants to touch it, often without asking, as Los Angelista also found out when she went natural. It annoys her but she allows touching as long as people don't pull it or "smash" it.

It catches in things like doors and trees. It picks up straws from people's drinks. She can't see properly when she's driving. In the summer heat, her hair gets so hot it starts steaming, and sometimes she thinks she's going to pass out.

So she doesn't wear her hair loose all the time. Often she bundles it up into a doughnut or a braid. She says wearing it loose all the time would damage it because it would get too tangled.

And when she washes it she uses up to five conditioners at once to keep it looking good.

But she doesn't seem too bothered by all these little glitches and snags. If anything she seems to find them amusing and intriguing. She certainly isn't tempted to go back to a "normal" hairstyle.

Good for her. She's a cool cookie. And afros rock!

PS: I always loved Angela Davis's afro. She was one of my sixties heroes.

Pic: Aevin Dugas

Watch an interview with Aevin here.

Set in my ways

2011-09-13T17:13:00.005+01:00

The popular stereotype of oldies is that they're set in their ways, resistant to change. But there's another way of looking at it - they have opinions and habits they've developed over a lifetime, thought about constantly and come to regard as thoroughly sound and sensible. So why give them up in a hurry in favour of the latest fashionable idea?

When you're young, your opinions and habits are young also. You may not have had them for long, they may not be firmly held, and if something more attractive presents itself you may easily be tempted to buy into it. Your convictions may be shallow and swept away by a strong wind.

When I was young, I changed my beliefs frequently. I hadn't thought about them very deeply, and there were always opinions that seemed wiser or more convincing or just more exciting. I was an anarchist, a socialist, a communist, a libertarian, you name it. I shifted my position every month. At one point I declared I was a radical feminist and all mainstream politics was a waste of time.

I'd be in favour of living alone, then cohabiting, then communal living. I'd be rooting for celibacy, then monogamy, then free love. I'd be passionate about renting, then owning a house, then squatting. I just wasn't able to sift the ideological wheat from the chaff, to come to a mature judgment about which beliefs stood the test of time and which were built on sand.

As I grew older, certain ideas stood out as well grounded in reality while others seemed based on delusion and wishful thinking. So yes, I've got a bit set in my ways. For many years now, I've been backing socialism, monogamy, home-ownership and sexual equality. Not forgetting of course rock music, ice cream and lacy dresses.

It's true, I'm more resistant to change than I used to be. If you want me to adopt your beliefs rather than mine, you'll need some very strong arguments. If you haven't any, then kindly stop knocking on my door.

PS: And how about entrenched habits, I hear you ask. Well, there's vegetarianism, thriftiness, politeness, neatness, asking awkward questions, looking in people's windows....

The myths of 9/11

2011-09-10T12:46:00.005+01:00

Not only is the tenth anniversary of 9/11 being absurdly over-hyped, but two big myths are still being propagated - that 9/11 changed the world and that we're now all scared stiff of terrorists.

The attacks on the Twin Towers caused appalling carnage and lasting shock and trauma. But what changed the world wasn't that atrocity but the increased violence and destruction unleashed by the British and American governments, using 9/11 as a convenient excuse.

The obliteration of the World Trade Center was a grotesque criminal act that justified a huge worldwide hunt for those responsible. What it didn't justify was declaring war on Iraq, Afghanistan and Libya and causing well over a million innocent deaths that had nothing whatever to do with 9/11. It also didn't justify systematic torture and imprisonment in the name of fighting terrorism.

The other thing that changed the world was of course the global economic crisis caused by a wave of collapsing banks - and the cost of fighting all those wars (at least $2000 billion in the USA). But reckless banking didn't begin on 9/11.

The second myth is that we're now all scared stiff of terrorists. I don't think so. Our chances of being involved in a terrorist attack are still so minute we're more likely to be killed in a car crash. Personally I'm far more nervous of the actions of the British government, which seems indifferent to increasing unemployment, homelessness, poverty, ill-health and soaring living costs. Now that's a real threat.

Why give a few deranged terrorists, wherever they may be hiding, far more importance than they deserve?

Not getting enough

2011-09-07T13:49:00.007+01:00

French wives may or may not be pleased to know that their husbands now have a legal duty to have enough sex with them during the marriage. If he doesn't, he could be liable for hefty damages of up to 10,000 euro*.

France's civil code says married couples must agree to a "shared communal life", and a judge has now ruled this includes regular sex. Even if the husband excuses himself on the grounds that he's too tired, or has health problems, it won't impress the court. The 51 year old Nice man who claimed just that was still found to have shirked his marital duties.

The judge ruled that a sexual relationship between husband and wife is the expression of their mutual affection, and in this case it was absent. By getting married, he said, couples agreed to share their life and this clearly implied they would have sex with each other.

So those guys who're not so excited by their wives as they used to be, or just can't be bothered with the whole awkward business, or find they can't quite manage what's required, had better sort themselves out or they could face a large hole in their bank account.

A bit tough on those blokes who for good medical or psychological reasons simply can't make the grade and have to disappoint their loved ones. Are they now expected to do their conjugal duty whatever it takes?

And there again, some women may not be too keen on sex and wouldn't relish the prospect of hubby trying it on at every opportunity on the grounds that he's legally required to have plenty of sex with his spouse.

I don't recall the British marriage vows including a promise to have heaps of nooky as part of the deal. Surely "shared communal life" can be achieved by all sorts of means that don't necessarily include erotic bliss.

So is this some kind of feminist triumph for thwarted French wives who want their fair share of sexual pleasure? Maybe. But only if it makes inattentive males more considerate. Not if it turns them into priapic gropers.

* £8,500 or $14000 or A$13200

The other 9/11 victims

2011-09-02T10:37:00.006+01:00

With the tenth anniversary of 9/11 coming up, there's the usual focus on the almost 3,000 people who died, but little is said about the 20,000 with serious illnesses caused by exposure to toxic dust and debris.

The health hazards of two massive skyscrapers collapsing and poisonous material spewing all over the surrounding area should have been obvious, yet thousands of emergency workers, volunteers, local residents, cleaners and other tradespeople went about their business for weeks with very little protection.

Now thousands are suffering from a range of disabling illnesses including asthma, sinusitis, muscular and intestinal conditions, lung diseases and memory problems. Many are unable to work or live a normal life.

Up to 80,000 people were present in the aftermath and new patients are coming forward all the time with previously undiagnosed disorders. People are expected to fall sick for at least another 20 years.

In hindsight, it seems obvious that everyone should have been evacuated from the area and proper decontamination teams sent in to remove all the toxic residue. Yet the dust and debris - which included asbestos, lead and mercury - was generally treated as a mere nuisance rather than a major health emergency.

Alex Sanchez is just one example of this peculiar oversight. He helped clean dust from numerous buildings in Lower Manhattan. In only two buildings was he given even a face mask. Now he has severe breathing difficulties, headaches, gastric problems and is no longer able to work. His life has been wrecked just as much as for the families of the dead.

The government has set up a $2.9 billion fund for monitoring, treatment and compensation for the 20,000 plus "other" victims. But the question remains - why was this serious health hazard not clearly recognised in the first place?

PS: Some first responders get help, some don't. Ralph and Barbara Geidel have spent close to $100,000 on his medical treatment since 2003, when the former fireman and first responder was diagnosed with tongue and neck cancer. The Zadroga Act, which set up the compensation fund, doesn't cover cancer. Yet a study in The Lancet says firefighters at Ground Zero are 19% more likely to get cancer than those who weren't there. Ralph's brother Gary died in the World Trade Center attack.

Pic: Alex Sanchez

Beach magic

2011-08-30T19:14:00.009+01:00

What makes a great beach? I was wondering this as Jenny and I and a friend were walking across Ballyholme beach, just a few miles from Belfast, and I was thinking "This is just as good as Bondi."

Yes, I've been to Bondi, but why it has such a glittering reputation I don't know. It's no better than a lot of other beaches. It's probably all the visiting celebs who give it an inflated glamour.

So what's the secret of a perfect beach? Here's my own checklist:

1) plenty of sand
2) plenty of space
3) no sharks, jellyfish or other nasties
4) not too many people
5) no litter or pollution
6) attractive setting, not over-developed
7) warm enough to swim
8) windy enough to surf
9) some good cafés
10) some interesting shops

Well, Ballyholme scores on most of those (even the surfing), though swimming is for the warm-blooded only and I did see a few jellyfish. And the only cafés and shops are round the corner in Bangor.

On the other hand Bondi is often distinctly overcrowded and touristy, and sharks sometimes pay a visit. The one big difference is of course the blazing Aussie sun. But wild, windswept beaches can be just as exciting as the scorching ones.

The fact is I was just as reluctant to leave the particular charms of Ballyholme beach as I was to leave Bondi. And I know some Sydneysiders wouldn't be seen dead on Bondi, they sneak off to the quieter, more remote beaches only the locals know about.

So move over, Bondi, other beaches are magical too.

PS (Wednesday): A 14 foot shark has been spotted at Portrush harbour on the north coast. But it's a basking shark and is said to be harmless to humans....

Pic: Ballyholme beach, near Bangor, Northern Ireland

Love locks

2011-08-25T18:32:00.005+01:00

The worldwide fashion for love locks has become so popular that well-known tourist sights are turning into eyesores and the locks are being removed in their thousands.

The trend was prompted in 2006 by Federico Moccia's book "I Need You", in which a young couple write their names on a padlock, attach it to a lamppost and throw the key into a river to pledge eternal devotion.

He had no idea what he had started. Now there are millions of love locks in cities all over the world from Italy to Korea, China and Japan, and city officials are hopping mad at having to remove them all.

Signore Moccia* himself however has no regrets and thinks all the love locks are great. "The padlocks are a symbol of love and something to be proud of" he says. "Better a padlock than graffiti disfiguring the walls."

I don't agree with him. The love locks are spoiling the beautiful things they're attached to. All three bridges in Venice are festooned with them and they're just pointless clutter.

There are plenty of ways of showing your love for someone that don't degrade famous landmarks. And what if the couple's pledge of devotion turns sour but the padlock's still there, marking their false hopes?

To me it's simply another example of a mindless trend that people take up without thinking of the consequences of what they're doing. It's not just an amusing gesture, it's a blot on the landscape.

Call me a crusty old fuddy-duddy if you like, but I prefer the Ponte di Rialto as it was and not draped with sentimental bric-a-brac.

* pronounced Motcher. The Italian title is "Ho voglia di te".

Pic: love locks in Huangshan, China

Charmed, I'm sure

2011-08-23T19:09:00.007+01:00

It's usually easy enough to tell phoney charm from the genuine article. The artificial smiles of car salesmen, estate agents and politicians can be spotted a mile away and don't fool anyone for more than a few seconds.

But sometimes the phoney charm can be convincing enough to be mistaken for the real thing, and I've been conned by a few plausible villains in my time. It's only after meeting them several times that alarm bells start ringing.

Like the landlords who seemed so friendly and helpful when I first met them, only to discover a few weeks down the line that any requests for urgent repairs or pest control fell on deaf ears. Or the bosses who promised me fabulous working conditions and left me to discover the verminous kitchen and the Stone Age computers.

Sometimes the veneer of charm is so polished, so well-rehearsed, that it's hard to distinguish from the natural goodwill and compassion of the truly charming. Especially if there's no slick sales patter or oily conviviality to go with it.

I always feel sorry for those people who lose thousands of pounds to con-men who manage to worm their way into the victim's affections. Particularly if they're the confused elderly or desperately lonely (or both). Always you hear the same refrain afterwards - "But he seemed such a lovely man", "To begin with, he couldn't do enough for me."

I wrote once about the builder who scammed my mother. He was typical. At the start, he did lots of little jobs for her very cheaply. But gradually he upped his prices and did increasingly shoddy work until she was forced to turn him away. And then she was afraid he might retaliate in some way.

But I don't feel so sorry for those people who invest in shady get-rich-quick schemes and then complain that both their life savings and the dubious intermediary have vanished into thin air. Anyone who hands over large sums on the unlikely promise of fabulous wealth lacks even the most basic common sense.

Charming is as charming does. And sometimes the results aren't pretty.

Spoil yourself

2011-08-19T08:21:00.007+01:00

It's generally asssumed that book-readers don't like spoilers - too much information about the plot and what happens at the end. The big pleasure of reading is supposedly the "wait and see" element.

But an experiment by Californian psychologists suggests that actually this isn't true. They found that people who read stories containing spoilers actually enjoyed them more than the untouched version.

This took them by surprise, so much so that they're struggling to come up with any convincing explanation of why this might be. They wonder for instance if people reach a deeper understanding of a story when they aren't preoccupied with the plot and its complexities.

Journalist Alison Flood says that when reading a horror story she likes to check that the hero/heroine is still alive at the end. With romantic stories, she likes to find out straightaway who gets off with whom. She insists this unorthodox peeking doesn't affect her enjoyment at all.

Personally I don't like to be told the entire plot of a novel before I start reading it, though in some cases the plot is so fiendish that a summary I could refer to when totally confused would be handy (Nicole Krauss's The History of Love comes to mind).

And I do admit to thumbing through the pages to find out if my favourite character ends up alive or dead, or if the odious wife-beater eventually gets his come-uppance. Sometimes my curiosity is so great I just can't wait for another 200 pages to satisfy it.

But if the "wait and see" element is so crucial, how come we like rereading books, when we already know exactly what happens? Shouldn't we be throwing them in the dustbin?

The perils of honesty

2011-08-16T17:30:00.006+01:00

In principle, I believe honesty is the best policy. If we were all totally honest about everything, life would run a lot more smoothly.

There would be fewer misunder-standings, less mistrust, closer relationships, less scope for furtive affairs or hidden bank accounts, and less chance of dreadful discoveries about your new wife or husband. Everything would be visible and upfront, everything would be clearer and more straightforward, and we wouldn't always be swimming around in a haze of misinformation.

In reality, of course, total honesty would be disastrous. In no time we'd have offended so many people and revealed so many damaging facts we'd be seen as a hopeless liability and ostracised by all and sundry.

If we actually told our relatives or neighbours or bosses how nasty they were, the reaction would be pretty nasty too. If we told our spouses how much we secretly fancied the man/woman at the house opposite, or told our workmates we didn't in fact speak three languages fluently, or told our new landlord we were evicted from our previous flat, it would only upset our well-ordered lives for no good reason.

I guess at one time or another we've all covered up for a workmate who's made a complete mess of something, so they don't get a bollocking from a permanently irascible boss. And so they'll cover for us when we screw something up ourselves.

We invariably defend our loved ones when they're criticised by a friend or relative, even if we privately agree with the criticism. My wife* might very well be stingy and self-righteous, but I'm not going to add to the brickbats and leave her tearful and upset. No no, I hasten to say, she's just sensible with money and has strong opinions.

Several times over the years I've been aware that a workmate or friend, unbeknown to their regular partner, is flirting heavily with someone else, or even dating them, but I've kept quiet. What business is it of mine? And why tell the ignorant victim if it'll only distress them and this sudden fling might fizzle out next week anyway?

Like most things, honesty works best in small doses. Too much can be fatal.

*Not my real wife obviously. Jenny is naturally generous and open-minded at all times. And she always helps old ladies across the road.

Still fumbling

2011-08-13T13:41:00.008+01:00

As I've said before, like many oldies, I don't really feel I've grown up yet. I feel as if I'm still a fumbling adolescent, forever groping my way through the complexities of life waiting for the sure-footedness of maturity to alight on me.

Well, I'm still waiting. Whoever's meant to be handing out the sure-footedness seems to have forgotten me. So I just have to carry on fumbling behind a pretence of worldly wisdom and carefree poise.

Someday, about forty years later than expected, I shall finally say goodbye to all those immature habits that secretly embarrass and bemuse me and become adorable and sophisticated.

All of a sudden I'll be much more generous, articulate, patient, understanding, adventurous and good at cooking. Just like that I'll know exactly what to do if someone drops dead or the person sitting next to me at the dinner party is a neo-fascist or there's a stray cow in the back garden. Nothing will phase me, nothing will send me running for cover, nothing will leave me like a rabbit caught in the headlights. I'll just stride in and take control.

And pigs will fly.

When I was young, I always assumed grown-ups were mature and responsible and infinitely knowledgeable. It never occurred to me that they might be fumbling along unsteadily the same as myself, trying desperately to make sense of everything.

Today's young people are not so innocent. They can see quite clearly that adults are often stumbling around like drunks in a pub, knocking things over and talking nonsense.

They take whatever adults say with a healthy dose of suspicion and are more likely to work out for themselves what life's all about. Which can only be a turn for the better.

Grown-ups don't know everything, and never did.

The riots

2011-08-09T17:42:00.009+01:00

I'm following the coverage of the riots in London and other cities with a mixture of disbelief, horror, sympathy for the innocent victims, and a total lack of surprise.

Disbelief because the sheer scale of what's going on is extraordinary. Massive buildings burnt to the ground. Blatant looting in front of the police. Thousands of youngsters casually running amok all over London. Whole neighbourhoods trashed. This goes way beyond the odd local disturbance we're used to seeing.

Horror because of the danger ordinary people are exposed to from burning buildings and vehicles, flying missiles, falling masonry and broken glass. Many people were afraid to venture onto the street for fear of injury.

Sympathy for the innocent victims of destruction. There are people who've lost both their businesses and homes, their lives wrecked. Other people who've lost their jobs, cars, precious belongings, maybe pets.

Lack of surprise because many young people in deprived areas are facing the bleakest future for generations, struggling to find jobs and a meaningful existence in the face of economic recession, deep cuts in services and facilities for youth, and politicians who're indifferent to their problems. This colossal explosion of anger, bitterness and outrage hardly comes as a big shock.

Condemning those involved as criminals and thugs is pretty futile. Yes, of course that's what they are, but it doesn't address the basic issues that have led to such rampant destruction on such an astonishing scale.

Firstly, how swathes of young people have become so alienated from the rest of society they think nothing of ruining other people's lives and laying waste to their property and possessions, and are immune to their misery and anguish.

Secondly, how numerous parents have abdicated responsibility for their children's behaviour. They've become oblivious to where they are and what they're doing, and couldn't care less if they're committing crimes or terrifying the neighbourhood.

Only when the politicians start to focus on these underlying social disorders can we have any confidence that the sort of ferocious mayhem we've seen in the last few days won't reoccur in the future.

PS: Several people have referred me to an excellent piece about the riots by Peter Oborne in the Daily Telegraph. He points out that corruption and immorality is now as common at the top of society as at the bottom, and that MPs and businessmen condemning the actions of the rioters are guilty of hypocrisy and double standards.

Pic: burning building in Tottenham, Saturday night

Dogs collared

2011-08-06T08:14:00.007+01:00

If you're a dog owner in the Chinese city of Jiangmen, you're in trouble. Dogs will be banned from public streets at the end of August, because they're dangerous and unhealthy.

City leaders say 42 people have died from rabies in three years, 12000 people a year are injured by dogs, increasing dog shit on the streets is a major nuisance, and many residents find dogs frightening. So tough action is being taken.

The original plan was to ban all dogs from the city, either having them put down or given to new owners in the countryside.

But there was such a public uproar that officials had to backtrack and cancel the ban. Instead there'll be stricter controls on dog-owners, including dog licences and full liability for injuries.

I'm sure if our local council tried to get rid of dogs there'd be a similar outcry. There's no way people would wave their pets goodbye, health hazard or not.

In any case, I haven't heard of any locals getting rabies. And even if some people are scared of dogs, that's no reason to ban the lot.

Dog shit splattered all over the pavement drives me nuts, but the answer to that is surely better enforcement of the regulations against fouling pavements.

But if all the dogs in Jiangmen are to be banned from public streets and parks, how will little Fi Do get her daily exercise? Will she have to use a treadmill or go a special doggy gym? The officials are silent on this point.

I suspect dog-owners will rebel again and the streets will still be full of dogs. And the city officials will be left with egg on their faces.

PS: Several Chinese cities, including Shanghai, already have a "one-dog policy" to limit the number of pets.

Passion killers

2011-08-03T13:53:00.004+01:00

It's strange that some people still find public displays of affection beyond the pale and would rather "that sort of thing" was confined to somewhere more private. What's so offensive about kissing or hugging someone in the street?

Of course exceptionally besotted individuals can go a bit too far in their intimate fondling and caressing, to the extent that I have to tactfully avert my gaze and pretend to be engrossed in the niceties of paving-stone design, but that's a rare occurrence. Most couples are sensible enough to keep their embraces within decent limits.

In fact I find the sight of passionately entwined couples rather touching and heart-warming, a visible reminder that love still blossoms in a world where many people feel lonely or unloved. I always hope their passion will last and not wither away.

But there are still some who maintain that such public smooching "just isn't necessary", that it's frightfully vulgar and inconsiderate, that it's "rubbing our noses in it." Rubbing our noses in what? That we can enjoy each other's company?

Same-sex embraces are especially distasteful in some quarters, goodness knows why. Religion's usually involved. But what harm is it doing anyone? It amuses me that heterosexual men are still averse to kissing or hugging each other when they meet and limit themselves to a chaste handshake. Heaven forbid anyone might get the wrong impression and think they're "that way inclined".

Personally I've not only kissed hundreds of men but enjoyed it. Kissing is always fun, whoever it's with. But I still find myself exchanging those familiar jokey remarks to other men that "We'd better not kiss, ha ha ha." Most frustrating when it's someone utterly gorgeous....

This same-sex coolness seems to be very much a British thing, a relic of the widespread sexual repression of earlier decades. Men in other countries happily kiss and hug when they meet without thinking twice about it.

There's nothing to be scared of, guys. It won't drop off.

How to be mature

2011-07-29T14:54:00.009+01:00

The idea of maturity, as in being a mature adult, is a highly dubious one, especially when it implies giving things up or toning things down.

If behaving in a certain way makes you feel good or adds to your enjoyment of life, why should it have to be toned down? So other people feel more "comfortable"? So you don't look "ridiculous"? Phooey. Don't listen to such mean-minded nonsense.

And what are we supposed to rein in or do away with anyway?

Mature adults, it seems, should have "normal" hobbies i.e. ones that other people can understand, like gardening or knitting. No eccentric interests like collecting pepper grinders or making the Taj Mahal out of matchsticks.

You should never be too enthusiastic or gushing about anything, as it's "childish". Your appreciation should always be restrained and thoughtful, suggesting some subtle dimension of pleasure (whatever that might be).

You shouldn't wear clothes that are too flamboyant or eye-catching. No bright colours, no miniskirts, no budgie-smugglers, nothing too tight or too scanty. You should blend in with your surroundings and dress "modestly".

You should always be polite and inoffensive. Keep a lid on those controversial opinions about Bible-bashers or baby-boomers or drunken louts. Maintain a neutral atmosphere, however artificial and strained.

But why should we always suppress our natural tastes and responses in the name of being "mature"? Which means what exactly? Responsible? Sensible? Well-behaved? We can be all those things without turning ourselves into strait-laced old farts.

Maturity? Bah, humbug.

A long time dead

2011-07-26T17:15:00.006+01:00

I'm amazed someone can be declared dead and then spend 25 years with a new identity without anyone smelling a rat. But that's what a Chicago man managed to do.

Forty year old Arthur Jones vanished in May 1979 after being sacked as a commodities broker and struggling to pay off tens of thousands of dollars in gambling and other debts.

In 1986 he was pronounced dead, and his wife and children collected about $47,000 in benefits. They claim to have never heard from him since.

But Mr Jones, now 72, was tracked down last week in a Las Vegas bookmakers, where it seems he worked for a decade. He had been living with his girlfriend for 22 years. He was arrested and charged with crimes including fraud, burglary and identity theft.

He reportedly bought a fake identity for $800 under the name Joseph Richard Sandelli and has used it ever since. He was only found out after someone got suspicious about his Social Security number.

Apart from the sheer ruthlessness of abandoning his wife and children without a word and leaving them in a colossal financial mess (or so it's claimed), I wonder how on earth he avoided detection for so long. You'd have thought there would be something fishy about his new ID or his account of his life that would have raised a few doubts pretty quickly.

I guess it shows how easily we trust other people. We believe what they tell us - their name, their personal details, their life history. Why should we disbelieve them unless there's some obvious sign they're lying?

But it must have taken an astonishing acting ability. He must have adopted his new alias so completely, so seamlessly, that he never betrayed himself, never gave any clue he had a second identity. His wife and children, his previous job, his huge debts, all securely buried in a corner of his mind and never ever revealed. What perfect self-discipline!

When you think how hard it is to keep a secret, and how easily we blurt something out when we're not totally vigilant, or we're drunk, or we're under pressure, his impregnable silence is impressive.

PS: A further thought. Did he not love his wife and children? So how could he bear to leave them and never see them again? Wouldn't he have felt a terrible sense of loss and emptiness?

Out of sight

2011-07-23T21:09:00.010+01:00

I don't look at my body very much. Only the bits I have to pay close attention to like my teeth and face and hair. The rest I hardly notice for months on end.

All sorts of changes may have occurred without my knowing. Huge clumps of body hair. Mysterious lumps. Odd rashes. I really wouldn't know. I just assume everything stays much the same from one month to the next.

I think I'd notice if I grew a pair of breasts or my boy bits disappeared but otherwise I'm blissfully ignorant. As long as my body is fit and healthy and doesn't look hideous or ridiculous, it's of little concern to me.

Women are very different and tend to pay huge attention to every minute detail of their body. They notice the slightest change immediately. Have my hips got bigger? Have my arms got hairier? How wrinkly are my elbows?

That's because their bodies are expected to be perfect, while men's are allowed to be as flawed as you like. Beer bellies, thickets of chest hair, man boobs, dangly bits, bulging bits, none of it matters unless you're an aspiring model or rent boy.

What's more, unlike a woman, who's expected to wear clothes that emphasise her body, I can wear clothes that completely hide my body so the imperfections are known to nobody but me.

And unlike a lot of men, I don't compare myself to male models and find myself lacking. I couldn't care less how thin or muscular or hair-free or handsome they are, I'm quite happy with my body and its unique one-offness. So I shall continue to ignore it as much as possible.

Botox? Waxing? Shapewear? Thanks but no thanks.
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My God, Amy Winehouse dead at 27. What an utterly tragic waste of talent and life.

Not me, guv

2011-07-20T14:12:00.005+01:00

The persistent rumours that I have been routinely hacking into the mobile phones of other bloggers to unearth spicy and salacious material for blog posts are totally untrue. Everything you are reading has been obtained by strictly legal and ethical means.

Further rumours that I have used a string of private detectives to monitor the personal lives and sexual liaisons of other bloggers are also untrue. I have done nothing more than peep through their windows late at night.

Claims that large quantities of emails, voicemails and other hacked material are stored in a safe under the floor of the Wendy House are simply malicious and libellous and my lawyers will shortly be contacting those responsible.

I have repeated many times that even if there is such illegal material in circulation, I know absolutely nothing about it. As chairman and chief executive of a megalithic global corporation employing millions of halfwits, I cannot possibly know what any of those halfwits are up to at any given time.

However, informal investigations by my staff suggest that the team of night cleaners employed by Nickhereandnow, led by Mrs Hermione Quickwipe, have been seen in the offices at unusual times and have been leaving the premises with suspicious packages and bulging holdalls. We have taken the precaution of sacking the entire team.

While reiterating that I am totally innocent of any wrongdoing, I apologise unreservedly and from the bottom of my heart to all those who feel their personal privacy has been invaded and their careers wrecked by unnecessary revelations of saucy six-in-a-bed bondage romps in Billericay.

I feel deeply humbled and chastened by the scandalous activities reportedly carried out in the obscure nooks and corners of my sprawling empire, which severely tarnish the once glittering reputation of this fearless and intrepid blogging colossus. I shall leave no stone unturned and no cliché untouched until my good name has been restored and my membership of the Playboy Club reinstated.

God bless you all.

Hacked off

2011-07-15T08:04:00.004+01:00

Getting a divorce can be a pretty nasty business. But not many wives tie their estranged husband to a bed, cut off his penis and put it in the garbage disposal.

When paramedics arrived at Catherine Kieu Becker's house in Garden Grove near Los Angeles, they found her husband still tied up and bleeding profusely from his groin.

They retrieved parts of his severed penis from the garbage disposal but it's not known if surgeons were able to reattach it.

Why Ms Becker resorted to such a horrific measure is anyone's guess (she is reported to have said only "he deserved it"). The couple were married in December 2009 and had recently sought a divorce.

Her husband has vigorously denied he was bedding other women but all sorts of rumours are flying.

I can't imagine how any woman could do something so drastic (and probably irreversible), something that presumably will ruin the man's life, however badly he had mistreated her or impugned her sexuality.

What can she possibly gain from it except his burning hatred and the sort of media notoriety most of us would run a mile from?

Was she for some reason trying to render him incapable of seducing or bedding another woman because of some appalling experience he had put her through (or supposedly put her through)?

Ironically, if she is found guilty of the six charges against her and jailed indefinitely, she also will never again have a normal sex life. Nor will she be able to hack off any more penises.

Penectomy note: She isn't the first of course. Lorena Bobbit sliced off her husband John's penis in 1993, and a Bangladeshi woman, Monju Begum, cut off a neighbour's penis because of persistent harassment in May this year.

Pic: an unflattering police mugshot of Catherine Kieu Becker

Mixed motives

2011-07-11T19:12:00.006+01:00

I have very mixed feelings when I'm watching one of those frank and gritty documentaries about the people who get shat on by society - families coping with squalid housing or loan sharks or chronic unemployment.

Am I someone with a social conscience, keeping in touch with what's happening outside my cosy middle-class cocoon? Or am I just a gawping voyeur, drinking in the sordid details of other people's miserable lives that I can do little to change?

I asked myself this when I was watching a particularly grim TV programme about tenants being conned and abused by ruthless landlords who let their homes disintegrate, jacked up the rent or evicted them overnight.

I wondered why I was continuing to watch a parade of humiliated and distraught people when I was already very familiar with the problems they were talking about, problems that have been going on for decades. What more would the programme tell me apart from how thoroughly wretched the victims were?

It's glaringly obvious that many people are struggling to survive and have decent lives. Why was I conspiring with journalists to make a pointless spectacle of their private anguish?

Apart from the voyeuristic element, there's the feeling of helplessness such programmes create. Naturally I want to relieve the suffering of these downtrodden people, but what can I actually do about it? As a solitary powerless individual, virtually nothing, so I'm left feeling inadequate and irrelevant in the face of overwhelming need.

Alternatively, I'm prompted yet again to rage against the incompetence of politicians who allow these injustices to go on year after year while they themselves enjoy decent lives in comfortable homes. And what does that rage achieve except to raise my blood pressure and remind me of other people's smugness? Nothing.

Is my ambivalence about these programmes just squeamish over-sensitivity? Or am I right to be dubious about such muck-raking journalism?

Scatterbrain

2011-07-01T08:42:00.009+01:00

I don't have that many friends, which seems like a major failing when most people seem to have dozens and dozens. I'd like to have a few more. On the other hand, I'm such a scatterbrain that if I did have so many friends my life would be total chaos.

I'd be in the wrong place at the wrong time on the wrong day, probably with the wrong person. If I remembered I was meant to be meeting someone. And if I could remember who I was meeting. Was it Sophie or Maxine?

Having finally met up with Sophie, I would then only be half-listening because I would be thinking of another friend I was due to be meeting. Was she the one who was pregnant, had broken up with her boyfriend and bought a ruinously expensive flat or had I mixed her up with Lotte again?

Then Sophie would be asking me what I would do if I were in her place and because I'd only been half-listening I would be totally in the dark so I'd have to confess I was miles away and ask her to run through the problem again. And try to pay closer attention this time as she scowled venomously at me.

Meanwhile Maxine, who I'd accidentally double-booked and had been waiting for me in Caffé Nero for the last 57 minutes, would be trying to ring me but I hardly ever use my mobile phone so she'd be getting no reply and cursing me so viciously a waiter would be discreetly asking her to keep her voice down as she was disturbing the other customers.

Then I'd remember I promised Lotte (or was it Polly) that I'd help her look for a new car as her old one had died on the M1. So I'd ring her up and she'd say she wasn't going out today as her hair looked like a gorse bush but did I think she was mad to spend £150 on a new Fossil handbag and I'd say I can't talk now because I'm with Sophie and I'll ring her back and she gives a long-suffering sigh and I feel guilty but I ring off anyway and find a furious text from Maxine.

And the rest of the day just gets worse.
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Blogging is a bit erratic at the moment as Jenny and I are going to Liverpool for a few days with our friend Kath from Melbourne. You'll just have to be patient....

Suffering pets

2011-06-28T17:27:00.005+01:00

Household pets may look innocent and happy enough in the pet shop, but the way they're bred can mean appalling cruelty. So San Francisco has decided to ban the buying and selling of pets.

Originally the ban was intended only for cats and dogs, but then it was extended to cover all kinds of pets. So now, whether it's a snake, a lizard, a hamster or a parrot, you won't be able to buy it. Though you'll still be able to get a pet from a rescue centre or shelter or take in an unwanted kitten from your cat-owning friend.

It seems big pet-breeding companies often keep animals in dreadful conditions more like battery farms. There can be overcrowded living quarters, lack of contact with other animals, over-breeding, inbreeding, poor veterinary care, low-quality food.

People buying a pet are unlikely to know how it was treated before it came into the pet shop. If they did, they might well be horrified. It goes far beyond the occasional neglect and maltreatment of pets by their owners that is more likely to make media headlines.

I'm all in favour of the ban. I've never owned a pet myself (partly because I'm not sure I'd look after it properly) but as a vegetarian I hate to think of all those millions of potential pets suffering at the hands of profit-hungry breeders. That sort of misery in an animal's early life can lead to a stack of behaviour problems later on, including vicious attacks on human beings.

It's awful that profit comes into the provision of domestic pets at all. They should be bred out of the simple love of animals and for the pleasure and company they give to their owners. But profit gets its sticky fingers on everything, and I suppose we all have to make a living somehow.

It makes me wonder about the past history of Mac, the black Scotty we had when I was a child. He was always extremely neurotic and jumpy, probably as a result of callous handling before we acquired him (not exactly helped by my father's impatience and irrascibility). If only he could have told us about his earlier life!

Desperate measures

2011-06-24T08:14:00.005+01:00

Another tragic story of an American with no health insurance who resorted to desperate measures to get treatment for all his ailments.

James Verone of North Carolina needed help so urgently he robbed a bank of one dollar so he would be arrested and qualify for free health care.

He was duly taken to jail and is now getting the medical attention he needed for his slipped discs, arthritic joints, a foot problem and a growth on his chest.

A few years ago he lost his job with Coca-Cola, and with it his health insurance. Since then he has lived on his savings, part-time jobs and food stamps. He can't afford to get his own health insurance.

I don't know if Barack Obama's watered-down health care reforms will eventually help people like James. If not, then they're pretty useless.

They say a civilised society is one that looks after its most frail and vulnerable citizens. In that case, the USA, with its reluctance to provide free medical treatment for anyone who needs it, is far from civilised.

Millions of hard-up people are expected to endure painful and disabling ailments indefinitely because they're seen as too feckless to provide for themselves and therefore undeserving of help from anyone else.

There are cats and dogs that are looked after more generously and humanely than human beings. There are rare plants and endangered species that are cared for with more diligence.

But human beings are expendable. If James should drop dead of some untreated illness, there are plenty more Jameses to fill the gap. Why waste cash on society's flotsam and jetsam?

Pic: a very desperate-looking James Verone

When to boo

2011-06-21T19:15:00.007+01:00

I can't recall ever booing any public performer, though I've sat through some appalling spectacles in my time. I guess the performance has to be pretty rock-bottom before booing or slow handclapping breaks out, as it did at Amy Winehouse's disastrous gig in Belgrade.

Of course for booing to start, the entire audience has to be so visibly disgusted by the performance that someone is prompted to begin booing, and then everyone else joins in.

I've often been subjected to truly plodding and lifeless actors, musicians and public speakers, but had to repress the urge to boo because the rest of the audience seemed to be heartily enjoying themselves, or even laughing fit to bust. I could only make a discreet exit, wondering what on earth I was missing.

Some established stars seem to inspire such reverence they can get away with an awful lot before an audience finally loses its patience. Especially rock bands. They come on stage an hour late, forget half the lyrics, look bored and indifferent, and still the audience screams for more. Except in Amy's case, where the reverence seems to be running out fast.

Mass booing must be quite exciting when you're in the thick of it. The huge wave of derision, the startled looks from the performers, the refusal to be fobbed off with something mediocre.

Heckling is the more stylish version of booing, not just voicing disapproval but doing it with a witty remark or two. I've sat through many political meetings where the hecklers were out in force, constantly interrupting the speakers with razor-sharp put-downs that not only had the audience in stitches but often the speakers as well.

But on the whole the British are rather reluctant to boo or heckle. They tend to be a bit too charitable, taking the view that the performers are doing their best and even if they're losing their way it would be a little mean to tell them so. Better just to tear them to shreds later on in the pub.

If Amy hasn't got there first, that is.

Tongue tied

2011-06-17T08:18:00.004+01:00

One situation where I always feel totally at sea is funerals. Not having lost anyone precious to me, not having seriously grieved, I'm never quite sure what to say to the relatives.

An expression of sympathy? Some comforting words? The hope that they'll find the strength to cope? An appreciation of the person who's gone? Some fond memories? Whatever comes into my head seems somehow inappropriate or trite or idiotic.

If I had been through profound grief myself, I could draw on my own experience to say something suitable, something that might actually help. Though even then, people's experiences of grief can be dramatically different and very personal, and what helps one person can be totally irrelevant to another.

I remember a particularly embarrassing funeral where the mourners actually queued to offer their condolences to the relatives, and by the time it was my turn I was just a bag of nerves discarding one inept remark after another.

To have not joined the queue at all and discreetly disappeared would have been seen as grossly disrespectful, yet the fumbling and clumsy contribution I actually made probably sounded disrespectful and insincere in itself.

The irony was that I had genuine affection for the person who'd died and had always enjoyed his company immensely. He was one of those larger than life characters who enlivened any gathering and had a cracking sense of humour. But when confronted with the grieving relatives, I didn't know what to say or how to express my feelings about him.

So if I'm ever sunk in grief, and you have no idea what to say to me, I shall completely understand.

Pic from the film "Death At A Funeral"

Asking for it

2011-06-14T20:04:00.009+01:00

Okay, girls, as you know, men have helpfully informed you that if you wear certain clothes, and present yourself in a certain way, then obviously you're Asking For It. You're blatantly inviting attention in the Intimacy Department.

So here's a handy guide to how to display yourselves to avoid any possible ambiguity and make it absolutely clear that you aren't in any way Flaunting Yourself. When going out and about, always make sure:

You have a crew cut.
You have nasty zits.
You have a nervous twitch.
You haven't washed for a week.
You have copious body hair.
You're wearing overalls and wellington boots.
You're picking your nose.
You're belching loudly.
You have a massive beer belly.
You're walking like a gorilla.

Then every man, even the most obtuse and moronic, will surely get the message.

However, the only downside is, you'll hate yourself.

The other alternative is to dress normally, deciding for yourself what you want to wear, generally something comfortable and attractive, and relying on What You Say and Common Sense to make your intentions clear.

Unfortunately this never works and sooner or later a man will again declare that you are Asking For It. It was the short skirt. Or the long skirt. Or the tight skirt. Or the loose skirt. Or the pencil skirt. Or the pink skirt. One of those. Damn, why are the rules so complicated?

And in case you're wondering, men themselves are never Asking For It. Men are just Going About Their Daily Business. Their dress and behaviour is of No Significance. Tight pants and bare chests imply nothing.

No, hang on, isn't it the other way round? Men are Always Asking For It. They think of nothing but sex. All their clothes have the same message. They just want to tear them off and get on with it.

No, that can't be right.

Funny, it all seemed so simple when that nice man at work was explaining it to me....

PS: Blinding insight. No wonder the dress code is so confusing, because it's a total red herring. What men are really saying is that being a woman is asking for it. The only way not to be asking for it is to be a man.

Next week: Why dressing in a certain way means you're dying for a cigarette

Poor kids

2011-06-10T17:07:00.006+01:00

Some things are just seen as too depressing and upsetting to dwell on. Okay, mention them briefly if you must so we know about them, but then push them away quickly into a dark corner while we focus on something more cheerful.

The number of children living in poverty is one such dreary scenario. Yes, 3½ million British children don't have enough food, clothes, toys, holidays at the seaside, or a dry and warm place to live.

They're miserable for years on end. They feel permanently disheartened and constricted by their living conditions. Telling their schoolmates what their home is like is humiliating. They can't see any way of improving things. They hate the wealthy families who take for granted they can have virtually anything they want. One in six of them have considered suicide.

Yet the rest of us tend to ignore them. Very sad, of course, terrible that in a so-called advanced country like the UK so many children are trapped in such dreadful conditions. But there's little you and I can do about it, it's up to the politicians to put it right and why don't they? There's no point in rubbing our noses in it every day, it just makes us squirm.

It's odd though that while poverty-stricken kids are swept out of sight, children who go missing or are violently attacked get huge headlines day after day. Why do these tragedies grip us so unshakeably yet the tragedy of poverty doesn't? Why has Madeleine McCann had such colossal coverage while little Tracey in her worn-out shoes and threadbare coat gets barely a mention?

Poverty is still treated the way cancer used to be. It's too awful to contemplate. And it might be contagious. Take it away quickly, it's putting me off my cornflakes.

Escape clause

2011-06-08T14:13:00.004+01:00

Calling someone an escapist used to be insulting. It meant they lived in a fantasy world of their own because they couldn't cope with "real life".

Not any more. Nowadays we're all escapists. We all find "real life" so inadequate and frustrating we've got umpteen little worlds of our own that we retreat to at a moment's notice.

If we're not celeb-watchers, we're soap addicts, compulsive readers, armchair philosophers, bloggers, therapy buffs - anything supplying that little extra something that makes life a bit more complete.

Few people still pretend that the everyday routines of housework, car-washing, earning money and paying the bills are what life's all about. Self-maintenance and survival are not enough to make us happy. Of course we need more than that, we need things that express our unique tastes and interests.

Then again, who says all these personal pastimes are escapist? Feeding our minds is as much a part of real life as hoovering or chopping vegetables. We're not escaping from real life, we're adding to it.

And I'm not saying that all these everyday routines are fruitless. Of course a lot of us love cooking, raising children, or the job we do. But nobody thinks any more that that's it, that's life, and anything else is just frivolous nonsense.

More and more, we live in parallel universes. While one part of us is getting through the daily chores, another part is monitoring our other life, anticipating the next soap episode or internet search.

Only trouble is, while we're all so busy with our private indulgences, everyday life is going to pot. While we're updating our Facebook pages or doing our Tai Chi, jobs are disappearing and houses are unaffordable. Real life is screaming for help.

To err is human

2011-06-03T18:18:00.005+01:00

The excellent Miss Scarlet says she is aiming to be elegant and sophist-icated. That's a tall order. Two qualities that are hard to carry off successfully. Only a rare few have the knack.

I'm certainly not one of them. Elegant and sophisticated I am not. The very idea is laughable. At any social event, I'm the one who's sure to walk into a cupboard instead of the toilet, say the wrong thing, not know the correct way to eat spaghetti, demolish a priceless vase, forget everyone's names and not notice the hostess is six months pregnant.

But those people who really are effortlessly sophisticated - aren't they impressive (and infuriating)? She (and it's usually a she) glides into a room like a fish into a lake, completely in her element, nonchalantly greeting one person after another (remembering all their names instantly), saying just the right thing to put them at their ease, tossing off a deft witticism or two, avoiding all the awkward moments that lie in wait for the rest of us (she handles her spaghetti as nimbly as a Sicilian) and drawing constant gasps of admiration and envy as she proceeds.

I exaggerate of course. Nobody is that perfect. Everyone fluffs their lines from time to time,even the Belle of the Ball. And personally, while always admiring Ms Effortlessly Sophisticated, the people I actually warm to are the ones who do fluff their lines, the ones who try so hard to be suave but still manage to tread on the dog or spill tomato sauce on their pants. They're the ones I actually want to get to know, because they're so clumsily and endearingly human. And much more fun.

To err is human, to forgive divine - Alexander Pope

Jobless Paddy

2011-06-01T21:13:00.011+01:00

Féilim Mac An Iomaire is desperate to get a job so he can stay in his home country of Ireland. But after 100 failed job applications he decided he had to do something dramatic to get anywhere.

So he's advertising himself on a huge billboard on one of Dublin's busiest streets, at a cost of £1745 for a fortnight's exposure.

He doesn't want to be one of the 50,000 Irish citizens due to emigrate this year to find work, nor one of the 400,000 jobless* in the Republic.

He's already worked in the States and Australia, but doesn't want to work abroad again. Despite the grim economic situation in Ireland, his roots are still firmly in "the Old Sod".

The poster has led to a flood of sympathetic emails and messages, but as yet no job offers. He may still have to leave the country.

People try all sorts of bizarre tactics to get employment. They walk the streets with sandwich boards, offer their services for nothing, and buttonhole chief executives, not to mention stuffing their CVs with bogus skills and experience. When times are hard, ingenuity is called for.

Fruitless job-hunting has to be one of the most disheartening experiences there is. Month after month you send out the applications, only to get polite letters "thanking you for your interest". Or no response at all, just a deafening silence. I got my present job after over two years of searching, and what a relief it was. Persistence does seem to pay off eventually.

So what's in store for Féilim? Will he be gainfully employed in Dublin or will he be heading back to Oz? Watch this space.

* That's 14.7% of the workforce

How does he pronounce his name? That's a good question, I'm glad you asked me that.

A note on the post title: the pic doesn't show the bottom of the poster which gives his email address as joblesspaddy@Gmail.com

PS (Thursday night): I read that Féilim now has dozens of job interviews lined up and is likely to get a job offer very soon.

PPS (June 16): Féilim has been offered two top marketing jobs and is deciding which to take. Emigration cancelled!

Just like Ferdinand

2011-05-29T18:38:00.003+01:00

Jenny has always likened me to Ferdinand the Bull in the famous children's story. While everyone else is busy go-getting and getting-on, I prefer to sit quietly under a tree and smell the flowers. Or at least ruminate on the meaning of existence and whether it's really true, in every single case, that two and two make four. The really important stuff, in other words.

I've never been especially ambitious. I had no desire to be a mover and shaker, a captain of industry, a cultural icon, or even a glittering celeb. A bit of comfort, a bit of money, a bit of intellectual nourishment and a few friends are all I need.

Everyone expected Ferdinand the Bull to be fierce and frightening so he could star in a bullfight, but he wasn't interested. When he was taken to a bullring, he just sat quietly in the middle of the ring sniffing the flowers in the women spectators' hair. He refused to be fierce and they had to take him back home instead.

At first his mother thought he must be lonely under the cork tree and encouraged him to play with other bulls, but then she realised he was quite happy where he was and left him to it.

And what happened after the bullfight? "For all I know he is sitting there still, under his favourite cork tree, smelling the flowers just quietly."

Ferdinand wasn't always allowed to sit quietly in real life either. Bizarrely, soon after the book was published in 1937, it was banned by several countries on the grounds that it was too pacifist and left-wing. Of course this was a red rag to a bull, and lefties everywhere promptly promoted the book and made it immensely popular.

I can't sit quietly under a tree right now as there's an arctic wind blowing, but I shall sit in my favourite armchair and ruminate. That is, until I feel an urgent need for chocolate.

Pic: Ferdinand the Bull from the Walt Disney film of 1938

Gone missing

2011-05-27T07:50:00.006+01:00

I was astonished to read that up to 200,000 children go missing in the UK every year. Can you imagine all the grief, guilt, anger and bewilderment parents and carers go through as they realise their child has gone and face the agonies of trying to find them and wondering if they might be seriously injured or even dead?

Some children just get lost accidentally for a few hours. But it's terrible how many children deliberately disappear, possibly for years, because of overwhelming personal problems or family tensions they simply can't sort out. They feel their parents don't understand their difficulties, or aren't giving them enough help, or are actively hostile to them.

They're being bullied, they're secretly gay, they're taking drugs, they're failing at school, they've been abused, they're depressed. Whatever the reason, they feel their home life is making things worse rather than better, and walking away from it actually seems the sensible choice.

How sad that parents who presumably love their children are unable to give them the support they need, because they're too busy to listen or they trivialise the problem (or they are the problem) or they simply don't know what to do.

And how distressing it must be when children go missing for years or even decades, with no clue as to where they might be and whether they're alive and well. There's not even a letter or phone call to reassure their parents they're just living their own life and haven't come to a grisly end.

The continuing despair of Kate and Gerry McCann over their long-lost daughter is only the most dramatic example of how a child's disappearance traumatises the parents and family. But there are plenty of other families in similar despair.

Even learning your child is dead must be easier to deal with than the endless uncertainty over their fate, simply not knowing anything, imagining one horrible scenario after another, day after day. It could very well drive you crazy.

Parents always fear their children's disappearance. But if it actually happens, it must be so much worse than anything they've imagined.

The crack of doom

2011-05-24T05:58:00.006+01:00

I really do wonder how outwardly sensible, rational people could have believed the absurd Doomsday prophecies of some 89-year-old Bible-basher from Oakland, California.

A belief so passionate that some of them spent their life savings, sold their homes and gave up their jobs to publicise the prophecy and prepare for imminent Armageddon at 6pm on May 21.

Could they seriously have expected that on the appointed day they would be wafted up to heaven in a state of rapture while non-believers were wiped out and sent to hell by the wrath of God?

What were these devotees taking? Some potent hallucinogenic? Or were they just so desperate for someone to give their lives a meaning they latched on to the strident certainties of this grey-haired old nutter and his bizarre mathematical calculations?

Were they not aware of the umpteen Doomsday prophecies that have sunk like a stone while everyday life continues unaffected? Did it not occur to them that the avuncular Harold Camping was getting an impressive income out of his loopy prophecies, prophecies no more credible than the trite ramblings of the local palm-reader?

Had it not struck them that if God wanted to end the world, He or She would probably do it whenever the impulse arose and not at some deadline calculated by an elderly preacher in California?

It was painful to watch these misguided souls trying to reorient themselves after the witching hour came and went and absolutely nothing happened except a thousand more Big Macs and Chevrolets.

They were gob-smacked by the anti-climax, frantically groping for an explanation. Maybe it was another test from God to persevere in their faith? Maybe they misunderstood something? Maybe they were using the wrong calendar? Maybe they'd been swindled? No no, that last possibility was foul-mouthed blasphemy.

The omniscient Harold Camping was not on hand with the definitive explanation however. He went missing as soon as the Apocalypse went missing and hasn't been seen since. Perhaps he was the only one raptured up to heaven?

And if you think it's all just a hilarious con trick, think again. Lyn Benedetto from Antelope Valley, California, was arrested for attempted murder-suicide after slitting the throats and wrists of her two daughters, because she was convinced the world was ending.

PS: Mr Camping has re-emerged to say how embarrassed he is that he got it wrong, and that the correct date for Doomsday is in fact October 21. Sure, and ferrets can play chess.

Pic: Harold Camping

Post mortem

2011-05-21T07:52:00.020+01:00

I'm just putting the finishing touches on the best blog post ever, the post that'll go down in history. It will feature the following:

1) identical twins

2) an unexplained murder

3) a stunning transsexual

4) jokes so funny you'll wet yourself

5) endearing furry animals

6) chocolate cakes

7) a strange ticking noise

8) a missed appointment

9) an unopened letter

10) a bottle of perfume

But there are a few loose ends that need to be tied up first. Did the heroine miss the appointment because of the unopened letter? Why was there a bottle of perfume in the corpse's hand? Will the furry animals need feeding? Why are the identical twins both called Sheila? What is the meaning of life?

Once I've sorted out those little details, we'll be up and running.

You may think that you've read this post already, that you know exactly what happens to the identical twins and why they had to leave their rented flat so hastily on the night of March 20th. You may imagine you can easily explain the padlocked cellar door in the shy transsexual's suburban semi, and why she has a horror of artichokes. But you'd be wrong. This is a brand-new post, fresh as the morning dew, fresh as fairy dust. Never before has such....

Oh, fuckity fuck, I've just pressed Delete by mistake. The entire post has gone down the swanee. I can't believe it. I'm devastated.

(Sobs uncontrollably)

Slut Walking

2011-05-18T13:57:00.006+01:00

A Toronto police constable who made an off-the-cuff remark about women who "dressed like sluts" must be mortified by the global notoriety he inspired, not to mention a whole new movement, Slut Walking.

He's doubtless not the only cop to have said "women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimised" but unfortunately for PC Michael Sanguinetti his remarks were publicised by the law school students he was addressing and a worldwide furore broke out.

Angry women held a Slut Walk in Toronto, in which they dressed like "sluts" and said they were reclaiming the word as something jokey and inoffensive rather than a term of abuse and contempt.

They also criticised Sanguinetti for suggesting yet again that if women are attacked by men it's their fault, that the way some women dress or behave is supposedly "asking for it".

Now there have been similar rallies across Canada and the US, and others are planned in cities around the world.

I'm all in favour of the protests, and the idea of cleaning up the word "slut". But a surprising number of journalists and feminists are opposed, saying the word has such universally scathing and vicious overtones that it's beyond redemption and shouldn't be used at all.

That seems rather defeatist to me. Surely if enough people decontaminate the word, then it has to lose some of its negativity, in the same way that the word "gay" has been turned into a simple description (even though some people are trying hard to turn it back into an insult).

And the implications of the word "slut" are a great focus for debate on why women are attacked and why the victims are blamed rather than the attackers. Why does having a lot of sex or dressing in skimpy clothes make you a "slut"?

And why are women referred to in such aggressive terms as sluts, slags, slappers and tarts, when men who bed every woman in town are affectionately known as womanisers, seducers, or libertines?

Michael Sanguinetti has inadvertently done a great service to feminism by sparking such a passionate argument about this toxic word.

British Justice Minister Ken Clarke has started a similar furore by referring to "serious rape" as opposed to other types of rape. Not surprisingly, there was an immediate outcry that rape is serious whatever the circumstances.

Looping the loop

2011-05-13T20:55:00.007+01:00

Don't we all do strange things in hotel rooms? What do you mean, you don't? No need to be bashful, it's all perfectly normal.

Just try this little quiz to find out exactly how weird and obsessive you really are.

When in a hotel room, do you:
1) Methodically empty the minibar, even the most queasy and expensive items?
2) Steal all the freebies, including that really pongy soap and shampoo?
3) Write silly comments on the back of the pictures?
4) Disinfect all the bathroom surfaces before using them?
5) Look for creepy-crawlies under the bed?
6) Cover up all the mirrors?
7) Avoid making a mess in case the chambermaid complains?
8) Read every word of the fire instructions?
9) Sleep on a chair if the bed looks unsavoury?
10) Talk to your imaginary friend?
11) Hide your sex toys at the bottom of your suitcase?
12) Check for concealed microphones?

What your "Yes" score says about you:
13: You've miscounted.
9-12: You're stark raving bonkers. Consider suicide.
5-8: You're moderately bonkers. Consider therapy.
1-4: You're losing the plot. Consider a good long rest.
0: Pull the other one.

Not that any of these traits apply to me, of course. As you know, I'm just a no-nonsense, level-headed sort of guy. Or so my imaginary friends tell me.

What if?

2011-05-10T17:25:00.006+01:00

I'm not very prone to the What If scenario. What if I'd taken different decisions in my life? What if I'd never met X? What if I'd won the lottery? I don't think like that. But it must be really hard not to ask that question if your life has been torn apart by some quite hideous tragedy.

However determined you are to accept what life has thrown at you and come to terms with it, if something appalling has happened right out of the blue, surely you're bound to dwell on the circumstances and whether they could have gone differently.

If your loved one has been killed in a shocking air crash, aren't you bound to speculate? Suppose she'd taken a different flight? Suppose the flight had been cancelled? Suppose she'd been ill in bed? Suppose she'd been going somewhere else?

I reflect on this because of the recent inquest into the 7/7 bombings in London, and how many of the bereaved relatives are still traumatised by what happened. They must still be thinking frequently about that dreadful day and the tiny twists of fate that led to a horrific death rather than a lucky escape.

How could they possibly shrug it off and say, what happened happened, there's no point in brooding on it, you can't turn the clock back? The fact is there's a huge hole in their life where that person used to be and they desperately wish that hole had never opened up.

And they must also ponder that other version of What If - Why Me? Why did this calamity hit me and not some other person? Why was I singled out when other people are happily carrying on their lives, feeling safe and secure, confident of what the future holds?

Most of us take for granted the route our life has taken and assume we're travelling safely, but for those struck by tragedy suddenly the route is like a dangerous road on a cliff-edge. One careless manoeuvre and you could go straight off the edge into oblivion. All at once life isn't a springboard but a roulette wheel.

Disappointment

2011-05-07T11:31:00.008+01:00

I cope with disapp-ointment fairly easily. Some disapp-ointments are harder than others, but they never turn into a festering grievance or personal hatred.

If I fail to get something I want, I tend to think, well, maybe it wasn't right for me anyway, or someone else was more deserving or better qualified, or it's an opportunity to change direction and try something else.

I very seldom blame other people or see myself as victimised or unfairly snubbed. That may well be the case, but it does no good to dwell over injustice. Yes, the world's unfair, I can't always get what I think is rightfully mine, I just have to walk away and knock on some different doors.

I've sometimes had stinging disappointments. The two times I was made redundant. The time I was disciplined by my manager for a very petty offence. Relationships and friendships that have crumbled. Houses and flats I wasn't able to buy. The constant conflict with my father. People who've let me down badly.

But that's life, I can only come to terms with what's happened and maybe learn some lessons about how to handle things better in the future.

I've known people who've eaten themselves away with bitterness and resentment, often over things that seemed quite trivial. They're obsessed with the person who ended their job or their marriage, they spend their days plotting revenge, reliving acts of cruelty or contempt, gloating over X's continuing bad luck or mistakes.

They seem unaware of how self-destructive they're being, of how all this scalding hostility is driving out anything positive, eroding their enjoyment of life.

They would say they can't help it, that it's a natural reaction to being so badly treated, that they don't just take things lying down. But being more philosophical about life's disappointments isn't turning the other cheek, it's being realistic and accepting that things don't always go your way.

Shit happens. Sometimes mountains of it. You just have to put your foot on the throttle and keep on trucking.

The price of silence

2011-05-04T14:01:00.005+01:00

An American girl cheerleader who refused to applaud a basketball player she claimed had raped her has been told by the courts that she wasn't entitled to stay silent - and must repay her school's $45,000 legal costs.

Such is the American enthusiasm for cheerleading and the disapproval of anyone not entering into the spirit of it - even if they have strong personal reasons for not doing what's expected of them.

The courts ruled that a cheerleader agrees to act merely as a "mouthpiece" for an institution and therefore surrenders her constitutional right to free speech.

The girl's lawyer said this meant students could be punished for refusing to follow "insensitive and unreasonable directions."

HS, as the courts referred to her, was sexually assaulted by Rakheem Bolton at a party in Silsbee, Texas in 2008. She claims he and other male pupils raped her but he only admitted the lesser charge, which allowed him to return to the school and join the basketball team.

At a basketball game four months later she couldn't bring herself to cheer him and instead stood silently with her arms folded.

This seemingly minor incident led to expulsion from the cheerleading team and her family bringing a compensation claim against the school, Silsbee High.

In a disastrous outcome, three different courts ruled against her, the US Supreme Court refused to consider the case and she was ordered to pay legal bills of $45,000 (£27,300).

This seems to me like a sledgehammer to crack a nut, not to mention a vindictive and callous response to a teenage girl who claims she was sexually attacked.

The school might say that a basketball game has nothing to do with a player's private behaviour, and that her refusal to cheer was absurd and perverse.

But if the other cheerleaders were willingly applauding, what did it matter? And why weren't her personal feelings sympathised with rather than punished?

The message is clear: cheerleading is a sacred American tradition, and the slightest refusal to participate fully, even for good personal reasons, is an outrage to be firmly stamped on. How dare you spoil our fun?

The eggs have it

2011-05-02T12:41:00.005+01:00

On Thursday in a rare referendum, UK voters will be asked if they want to change the existing voting system for MPs. The resounding NO that's being currently predicted is doubtless due to a serious image problem.

The choice is between First Past The Post (FPTP) and the Alternative Vote (AV). Unfortunately these conjure up very different pictures.

First Past The Post suggests an amusingly amateurish egg and spoon race, in which the gorgeous Tessa, 17½, crosses the finishing line first amid cries of "Hip Hip Hooray, it's Tessa's Day!" There's a smile on everyone's face as they congratulate Tessa and tuck into jam scones and a nice cup of tea.

AV on the other hand suggests a horrible disease, linked to some grim industrial compound, involving a long lingering death in which appalling pain is unrelieved by massive cocktails of powerful drugs, and the victim dies in agony cursing human existence, God and voting systems.

Those valiant souls trying desperately to sell AV to a suspicious public are up against this unappetising image and are having an uphill struggle to convert people from the status quo. They're quite happy with the egg and spoon race and the glorious Tessa, so why would they want a nasty disease instead?

Sad really, because AV makes a lot of sense. If the first count doesn't produce a winner with a majority of the total votes cast, people's second preferences are added in until someone gets a majority.

Under First Past The Post, you can win straight off with a minority of the vote, even if a majority of voters would prefer someone else. How can that be fair?

Under wraps

2011-04-27T17:00:00.004+01:00

You know those new super-injunctions that are all the rage? The ones the celebs take out, banning any mention of anything in their private life, especially that sultry affair with the nanny and the pittance they paid the gardener?

Well, I've taken one out myself so my sordid private life is now safe from media exposure and backstreet gossip. From now on, if any of you breathe a word about those tawdry, squalid episodes in my past you'll be facing the sharpest lawyers in town and a huge bill for damages. So watch what you say.

You can reveal as much as you like about my unflagging work for charity and my devotion to the Sacred Order of Divine Bliss. You can refer constantly to my tireless support for stray cats and the Association of Real Spaghetti Eaters.

But any unsavoury allusion to my friendships with the glamorous supermodel Voluptua Trinket, the renowned conceptual artist Tanzi Twitch or the legendary footwear designer Binario "Bino" Biscotti will lead straight to the courts.

Any suggestion of over-indulgence in relation to alcohol, drugs, sexual perversions or gambling, any insinuation that I'm a secret admirer of the Royal Family or Morris Dancing, any mention of botched plastic surgery, and you'd better have your cheque book ready.

You can demand the truth as much as you like, but I'm not interested in truth. The only thing that matters is my glittering public image, and if it has to be built on a dungheap of lies, evasions and fantasy, so be it. The masses don't want truth, they want to be lifted out of their barren lives into a shimmering utopia of human perfection.

What d'you mean, there's nothing left to write about? I'm sure you could work up a few paragraphs about my passionate love of goldfish....

Bed hopping

2011-04-23T11:20:00.006+01:00

It seems practically obligatory these days for men to have a mistress, or at least a regular hooker. Any man who's happy with one woman must wonder if he's settling for too little or if he's a bit of a cold fish.

Every day there's some celeb who's been caught with someone not his official partner. Or I hear about a friend of a friend who's been shagging woman number two on the quiet. Not many men admit to seeing prostitutes, but it's a good ten per cent of them.

As one of those men who's always been happy with what he's got, and has no desire for second helpings, I don't understand how other men can be so greedy, or sex-starved, or possessive, or whatever the motive might be. But having occasionally been knocked for six by unexpectedly sexy women, I'm not going to judge other men who don't stop at being smitten. Temptation can sometimes be overwhelming.

But I do judge men who visit prostitutes. It's a sordid, inhuman activity that always degrades the woman, whatever spin you put on it. I've never in my life used a prostitute and I have no sympathy for any man who does.

It's also routine for a guy who's two-timing to keep it secret and deceive his partner about what he's up to. Routine in other words to spit on his partner's trust and goodwill and treat her as a gullible idiot who can't put two and two together.

I can't fathom this either. How can a man see it as natural to be seduced by a sexy woman but equally natural to hide it as if he's doing something shameful and disgusting? It's not convincing to say he didn't think it would last very long and then no one would know and no harm done. It's still deceit and betrayal.

No, it's not just effeteness that kept me from sneaky bed-hopping. It was just as much the accompanying tangle of dishonesty and connivance. For me it wouldn't have added a guilty thrill, only nail-biting anxiety.

Slobs and go-getters

2011-04-19T19:27:00.006+01:00

Are we naturally lazy or naturally hard-working? Are human beings designed to slob around all day doing nothing useful or to get stuck into something and enjoy a sense of achievement?

Some people are happy to live lives of total indolence, slumped on the settee with a six-pack watching crap movies, while others are working all hours running a business or cleaning their homes from top to bottom.

So who's normal and who's peculiar? Or is it just individual temperament? Or the way we've been brought up?

It's partly what we see as important, and what makes us feel secure and comfortable. If the sight of dust and grime and sagging curtains makes us feel ashamed or inadequate, we'll rush around hoovering and wiping and repairing. If an office intray full of weeks-old memos makes us feel pathetic or disorganised, we'll spring into life and deal with them.

If such feelings never bother you, you can sprawl around all day in a state of untroubled serenity.

Status sneaks in as well. Someone who's acutely status-conscious, obsessed with how their life compares with neighbours or workmates, will be frantically plotting to earn more, have a flashier home or be more glamorously dressed. So they'll put in the hard graft to get what they lack and keep up with the Joneses.

Those who're indifferent to status even if their home is a crumbling tip next to a spotless mansion, won't lift a finger.

And don't forget ambition. Some people simply want to be the best at something, to set themselves high standards, while others muddle along doing the minimum they can get away with.

I have to admit my own fits of hard work are due more to a guilty conscience than any natural urge for strenuous labour. I've never been hung-up on status. And I've never been ambitious. Listening to Lissie Maurus in a pleasant alcoholic haze will do me fine.

Foreign hordes

2011-04-15T13:32:00.012+01:00

Once again Prime Minister David Cameron has been banging on about "mass immigration", "the large influx of people into Britain" and the strains and stresses this is causing to those already living here.

He happily repeats the enduring myth that the UK is being swamped by a vast tsunami of foreigners who're plundering the country and leaving the rest of us destitute and done-for.

It's no good telling him that actually the immigration rate is still a minute percentage of the population (around 200,000 a year out of a population of 62 million) and hardly amounts to an uncontrollable deluge.

It's no good pointing out that many of these immigrants are highly skilled and greatly benefit the economy, and that they often take on vital jobs that other people don't want to do.

And it's no good suggesting that anyway the problem is not numbers but organisation, that if public services were better managed and new arrivals got more help to integrate into British life, there would be a lot less of the current hysteria and panic on the subject.

If it's really a question of numbers, how come people aren't bothered by the 790,000 new children who pour into the country every year? They also need things like schools, healthcare and housing. They also need to learn the language and learn how to integrate into British life.

But we're willing enough to organise that. We don't see children as a huge burden and liability we can't cope with. We don't demand a crackdown on childbirth. We see children as a potential asset, not a looming disaster.

Politicians should stop fanning xenophobic anxieties to improve their election prospects and set a more responsible example.

And pigs might fly.

Belonging

2011-04-12T22:12:00.008+01:00

I feel precious little sense of belonging. To people, things, places, religions, commun-ities, countries, or anything else. I've always been the bemused outsider, half-attached and half-separate, looking on from a distance rather than wholeheartedly absorbed.

I lived in England for 53 years, but I don't feel very English (even if others see me as just that). I've lived in Belfast for 11 years but I don't feel very Northern Irish either. European possibly, incorporating a little something from every country.

I don't feel I belong to my family in the way most people do. I'm very different from my mother and sister (and my late father), and apart from our shared histories there's not a lot to bind us together.

I find Buddhism inspiring, but in no way do I belong to it in the sense that I'm beholden to it or engrossed in it. I merely refer to it for its insights, like dipping into a recipe book.

I like the neighbourhood I live in, but like the dozens of other neighbourhoods I've plonked myself down in, I don't feel any sharp tug of belonging, only a warm sense of "okayness".

I don't gravitate towards people with shared interests. I don't identify with other hill-walkers or Annie Lennox fans or chess-players. I can enjoy these things without the need for like-minded devotees.

There are one or two people I feel very close to, who I feel I belong to in the sense that there's some strong and compelling connection between us. My partner of 30 years for one. But not many people have that effect. Most people I meet are ships that pass in the night, similar on the outside but utterly different on the inside.

The only thing I belong to in any obvious way is the intelligentsia, that community of curious minds that analyse and dissect the world around them, that are never content with cosy platitudes but always want to go deeper, to find what's hidden.

The bemused outsiders.

PS: I forgot the two things I really connect with instantly - music and art.

The meaning of life

2011-04-09T19:42:00.010+01:00

I spend a lot of time thinking about the meaning of life. Especially as I've been on this planet for 64 years and the meaning doesn't get any clearer. In particular, what the hell is the meaning of so much violence, poverty, torture, ill-health and general misery and hardship?

There are a number of possibilities:

1) They're a test. To see how much we can endure, how much crap we can tolerate, without going completely mad and wanting to top ourselves.

2) God got bored with peace and harmony and thought, Soddit, I'll chuck in some murder and mayhem to spice things up a bit.

3) We've brought it on ourselves by our own thoughtless behaviour and our inability to challenge corrupt and useless governments.

4) God created a perfect world but then left the day-to-day maintenance to a sub-contractor who predictably screwed up.

5) God's computer was infected by a virus, and the IT staff were away on a training course at the time.

6) It's the inevitable consequence of the shitty capitalist system, comrade, and only full-bloodied socialism can wipe it out and bring about a truly democratic society that gives proper respect and dignity to every citizen.

I must say I rather incline to number six, but number two appeals to me as well. I'm sure God doesn't want to be seen as a tight-arsed goodie-goodie any more than the rest of us, so he has to chuck some pure evil in the mix occasionally.

God's only human after all.

PS: As you all probably know, God made me an atheist. I refer to Him purely as a literary device.

Modesty forbids

2011-04-05T17:28:00.006+01:00

For several years a female statue has graced the town hall of a small village in north east France without exciting any controversy. Hundreds of visitors have come and gone without it attracting much attention. Now suddenly the Mayor has decided it has to go "because her breasts are too big".

Gerard Cordon, Mayor of Neuville-en-Ferrain, claims the statue was embarrassing members of the public, particularly couples getting married. There would be tut-tutting and indignant comments about its suitability.

He has banned the statue and commissioned a more modest version with a less conspicuous bust.

The sculptor, Catherine Lamacque, is bemused by the decision. She says the figure depicts Marianne, the traditional female symbol of the French Republic, and says she gave it outsize breasts deliberately "to symbolise the generosity of the Republic". Furthermore the Mayor himself chose the original design.

But her comments don't impress Monsieur Cordon. Such artistic and cultural considerations are apparently less important than the over-reactions of a few squeamish villagers.

I have to wonder why anyone would be embarrassed by the statue. Presumably not women, who're very familiar with such items. And presumably not men, who're always entranced by such anatomical generosity.

I suspect if there was any embarrassment at all, it was on the part of women whose menfolk were paying rather too much attention to a female body that wasn't their own. Especially men about to get married, supposedly with eyes only for their dear beloved.

Or are there people so artistically-challenged that they're unaware of the huge number of female sculptures just as lavishly endowed and imagine this is some kind of perverted flourish on the part of the artist? Monsieur Cordon for one.

The fastidious Mayor really ought to get a grip and devote his time to more important business such as sheltering his village from the economic recession. Or just providing a few more benches in the local park.

Pic: the bust of Marianne

Beleaguered island

2011-04-03T08:26:00.008+01:00

Imagine you live on a pretty Mediterran-ean island with a population of 5000. Then imagine being overrun by 20,000 strangers fleeing misery and hardship in their home countries.

This is the situation in the Italian island of Lampedusa, in between Sicily, Libya and Tunisia. It's one of the closest sanctuaries for people running from the civil war in Libya and economic turmoil in Tunisia*.

Chaos has taken over the island, which simply can't cope with the new arrivals and now resembles a makeshift refugee camp.

Around 6000 of the migrants have been sleeping rough, and all of them are relying on the goodwill of Lampedusans and relief workers for food, medical care and other essentials.

Some of the Tunisian men were tricked into the journey by traffickers telling them Europe would welcome them. With so many people fleeing war and upheaval, the welcome has turned decidedly chilly.

The Italian authorities are belatedly taking steps to move the migrants elsewhere and restore order to Lampedusa, which is also expecting the usual surge of tourists during the summer.

The existence of so many troublespots around the world has led to an increasing tide of refugees wanting to leave shattered countries and find more settled and prosperous lives elsewhere.

Many of the countries they go to are struggling to cope with the influx, not helped by an increasingly xenophobic public and their own economic difficulties.

But countries doing relatively well have a moral duty to take in those from less fortunate countries and help them to re-establish themselves. Those who feel no such duty and think migrants should simply be sent back home and left to their fates are heartless to say the least.

There but for fortune go you and I.

* also Egyptians and Moroccans

Gropes or kisses?

2011-03-31T10:28:00.006+01:00

If you look for romance through a dating agency, you have to expect the unexpected. But a Donegal woman claimed she got a lot more than she had bargained for - that she was groped, assaulted and battered.

She was so incensed that she sued the Happy Matchmaker agency for €6000, alleging negligence, breach of duty and fraudulent misrepresentation.

Annmarie McBrearty complained that they hadn't vetted or screened any of her four "prospective suitors", which was why they had behaved so badly and physically molested her.

The district court judge however, having listened to all the evidence, decided that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred and that the men were no more than "unmannerly" or "over-enthusiastic". The worst that had happened was a kiss on the mouth.

So he threw out all the claims against the agency.

Which is puzzling. The judge didn't actually say he thought she was lying from start to finish, but that's the conclusion we're led to. Otherwise, why would he strike out all the claims?

Alternatively, was she in fact groped and attacked but the four men portrayed themselves as such innocent, considerate souls, and there was so little proof of anything untoward, that the judge simply couldn't believe what she said?

As it stands though, the result of the hearing suggests yet more false accusations of sexual violence by a dishonest woman with an ulterior motive. Which unfortunately creates yet more public suspicion of women who make genuine claims.

All in all, a case with disturbing repercussions.

Rescue remedy

2011-03-28T18:03:00.024+01:00

When a large chunk of my taxes is being spent on foreign conflicts of one kind or another, I try hard to understand what those conflicts are about and whether I actually support them or not. It's been particularly difficult to comprehend the assault on Libya.

It was all rushed through parliament and the UN so quickly dozens of awkward questions went unanswered, and are still unanswered. We were told it was a humanitarian rescue of thousands of innocent Libyans facing slaughter by Gaddafi's troops. But had any massacres already occurred? I don't recall hearing of any. And was a massacre actually about to happen? One can only guess.

So various countries including the UK have invaded Libya, firing bombs and missiles in all directions, causing colossal damage, to carry out a rescue mission which may or may not have been needed.

I started off by thinking that any such action against a sovereign state was unacceptable, whatever the pretext. Would we accept an invasion of our own country to rescue the residents of Manchester? I think not.

Then I thought that preserving political autonomy, however worthy and democratic it sounds, can't be an excuse for leaving thousands of trapped people to die. It would be like refusing to enter someone's house when the family was about to be murdered.

But the quandary remains of what precisely the mission's objective was and whether it's being achieved. I can't find any clear answers to either question. All we get is gung-ho reports of bombing raids and speculation about whether Gaddafi is planning to do a runner.

I have mixed feelings even about the way the so-called rebel forces are gaining ground and look likely to replace Gaddafi. I have no idea what their intentions are and whether they'll run the country any better than the ousted dictator. Plenty of shiny new governments have proved to be just as corrupt and inept as the old ones.

Oh and one minor point. When the government keeps telling us the country is broke and we all have to tighten our belts, how come we can find £3 million a day to bomb Libya?

Gender surrender

2011-03-25T18:34:00.005Z

It's fashionable in certain households to try to raise gender-free children - kids without rigid ideas about what boys do and what girls do. The trouble is, it never works.

However thoroughly the parents try to shield their offspring from indoctrination, sooner or later they cotton on to the idea of gender roles anyway and start behaving the way society expects them to.

As psychologist Cordelia Fine has noted, our everyday lives are so saturated with male and female assumptions that it's impossible to shut them all out. With the best will in the world, they seep into our minds whether we like or not.

And children have such a strong urge to conform that as soon as they realise their parents' mix-and-match view of gender is out on a limb, they rush to embrace the status quo.

Parents have tried all sorts of measures to break the strangehold. Giving trucks and toy soldiers to their daughters, and dolls and knitting patterns to their sons. Encouraging boys to cook and girls to play football. Telling little Damian it's fine to cry or be emotional or show weakness.

But then the kids go to school and the other pupils are laughing at cissies or crybabies or hairy dykes. They watch films where the wispy heroine is ecstatic over her new wedding dress, and the muscular guy is a ruthless oil tycoon. Straightaway all that parental hard work goes to pot and it's business as usual.

Oddly though, most of the parents who fail in their gender-free quest jump to the conclusion that being masculine or feminine is an innate tendency that can't be altered. They're so oblivious to the 1001 social cues prompting our behaviour they completely overlook them.

What Silly Billies, trying to interfere with Mother Nature. Boys will be boys, after all.

Nanny state

2011-03-23T14:00:00.010Z

We've all done it. We've all fumed at one time or another about the nanny state and how the government keeps giving us advice we don't want or need, and how we're quite able to run our own lives, thanks very much.

We're assailed every day by official guidance on things like healthy food, giving up smoking, drinking less, drug abuse, coping with flu, obesity. We're encouraged to change our bad habits and behave more sensibly.

But do we really need all this advice or is it just patronising guff? Should they just shut up and let us decide for ourselves whether we want to be healthy or unhealthy?

My objection to all this stuff isn't so much that it's unnecessary - some people might welcome a bit of advice - but that a lot of it is misleading and confusing and not actually very helpful.

The experts keep changing their minds about what's healthy and what isn't. How much salt should I eat? How much wine should I drink? The guidelines shift every month. What about obesity? It's supposed to be deadly, but life expectancy keeps rising. How about drug abuse? It's widely condemned, but fatal overdoses are rare.

If we ignored them all and just followed our own instincts - which is what plenty of people do anyway - I doubt if we'd come to much harm. Chances are we'll still live to a ripe old age. And if we know we're overdoing something, only we can decide to stop. Official finger-wagging achieves little.

If the government really want to help people, how about more practical support for people who want to kick serious addictions and personal problems? More rehab centres. More therapists. More social workers. Oh, but I forgot. The government is pruning all those "unproductive" activities as a cost-cutting measure.

But don't worry, folks. Just make sure you eat a bit more fruit and get your flu injection and everything will be fine.

Thanks to Suburbia for the idea

Now I'm 64

2011-03-19T08:15:00.006Z

Tomorrow I reach the grand old age of 64. As in the Beatles song When I'm 64. Except that it's about 40 years out of date, and things have moved on since then. Nobody's past it at 60 any more.

Knitting a sweater? Digging the weeds? A holiday in the Isle of Wight? I think not. How about sky-diving? Or a trip to Australia? Or climbing Kilimanjaro?

But I'm definitely aware that time is running out. I no longer have my whole life ahead of me, and if I have any major ambitions left, I'd better tackle them now. Who knows, I may be six feet under in a few years' time.

Not that I had many ambitions to start with, and those I've mostly realised or given up on. I'm never going to spill out a literary masterpiece or a world-changing invention. On the other hand I can read an Italian newspaper and I've seen the New Year fireworks in Sydney.

Being 64 also makes me feel I should be passing on my lifetime's experience and knowledge to those who are just starting out. But is that knowledge as useful as I think it is? And do young people want to hear it anyway?

I know when I was young I got very impatient with grizzled old farts giving me well-meaning advice. Firstly I didn't trust any of them. And secondly I just wanted to follow my own instincts and see where they took me. On the whole, they served me well.

At my advanced age, I also wonder if I'm still open to new ideas and attitudes or if I've unknowingly got hidebound and blinkered. I wouldn't like to be one of those crusty old diehards people secretly laugh at.

I think the rot sets in when an oldie starts to dismiss every new trend or fashion as a step back from some mythical golden age. Not me. I can think of too many relics of the past that were far from golden. Bring on the future, I say.

Victor Meldrew I am not.

*Victor Meldrew was the classic grumpy old man in the BBC TV sitcom "One Foot in the Grave"

Pic: Not me and Jenny, just a lovely old couple....

Not just a movie

2011-03-16T13:49:00.005Z

Some films come so close to horrific real-life events that they can cause serious distress to those watching them. But is it justified to pull the films from cinemas to avoid upsetting people? Or should they just be reminded that fiction, after all, isn't reality?

The question arises again with the news that Clint Eastwood's new film, Hereafter, starring Cecile de France, is to be withdrawn from Japanese cinemas because it features a journalist nearly dying after she's caught in a devastating Asian tsunami.

An official at Warner Brothers said that the tsunami sequences in the film were "not appropriate" at the present time, and that the film would therefore no longer be shown.

One blogger has said that her own sister and cousin were caught in the Boxing Day tsunami in Thailand in 2004 and when she watched Hereafter she was very upset by the footage where de France is swept away in a massive wall of water.

It's easy to argue that freedom of expression is sacrosanct and that if people think they'll be upset they shouldn't watch the film, but when huge numbers of people have been personally caught up in an eerily similar disaster and are likely to be highly distraught, perhaps it's right to withdraw it.

It's only a film, it's not essential to show it, and it can still return to cinemas at some later date when emotions have settled down. If that's ever possible, that is, after such a shocking and traumatic experience.

Some 45 films were edited, delayed or abandoned after the Twin Towers attack in New York. They may have been fictional but they were too close to a shattering real-life event to be shrugged off as mere movies.

Of course you can argue that once you start censoring films because they might upset people, where do you stop? But one or two withdrawals out of respect for widespread personal distress hardly amount to censorship. There are thousands more films out there we're still free to watch and be entertained by. It's a very small sacrifice to make.

PS: It is reported that Clint Eastwood supports the decision by Warner Brothers, and is to donate some of the profits from the DVD to charities responding to the Japanese earthquake. He says: “The devastation and loss Japan is facing is almost incomprehensible. I’m glad to join Warner Brothers in this effort to help the Japanese people.”

Pic: Tsunami reaching land in Japan

Changing the world

2011-03-13T08:15:00.005Z

One thing I've realised as I get older is that it's much harder to change the world than I assumed when I was young. The forces of inertia and habit are amazingly strong.

When I was still a teenager, I was quite confident that if enough people stood up and demanded an end to poverty, or equality for women, or more generous wages, then those responsible would take notice and changes would come thick and fast.

I failed to understand just how entrenched existing behaviour can be, and how powerful the sheer weight of tradition, fear, dogma and ignorance that keeps people from altering the status quo they find so cosy and familiar, however oppressive and stifling it may actually be.

I fondly imagined that if I presented people with a reasonable, sensible, well-argued case for ending some obviously abhorrent practice, they would be sure to respond.

Racism, homophobia, sweatshops, domestic violence, they would all be swept away in the face of a rising tide of popular disgust and rage, and a shiny new world of tolerance and enlightenment would take their place.

How naive I was, how deeply unaware of the complexities of other people's reactions and how resistant they are to radical change. And not necessarily without cause. Radical change isn't always as positive as well-meaning idealists like to think, and those who resist may sometimes be wiser and shrewder than the would-be reformers.

But having realised that changing the world is not as easy as I thought it was, nowadays I pick my causes more carefully and only take up arms if I think there's a serious chance of succeeding. I no longer rush to support any worthy campaign that grabs my attention.

I might be able to save the local library, but ending patriarchy in the boardroom will have to stay on the back-burner for a while.

Weekend woe

2011-03-10T08:06:00.006Z

How very sad that so many people invent exciting, glamorous weekends for themselves because the reality of lonely or humdrum days off is too embarrassing for them to admit to. They want to be in a wild social whirl like everyone else.

A new survey says that 27 per cent of us deliberately lie about our weekend activities to impress others, concocting parties, romantic flings or even trips abroad, because the humble truth of gawping at the TV or having a lie-in makes us seem pathetically middle-aged and past it.

It seems that having lots of friends and a frantic social life is now such a desirable norm that people with empty diaries who just want to watch reruns of The Wire feel there's something wrong with them. They're afraid other people will see them as dysfunctional misfits.

But what's really sad isn't their preferred lifestyle and their lack of company. What's sad is the fact that they choose to fabricate elaborate lies rather than saying, that's how I am, that's how I spend my weekends, what's it to you?

I suspect humdrum weekends are probably the norm for most people, despite assumptions to the contrary. If you actually looked into people's homes on a Saturday evening, you'd find plenty of people in decidedly unglamorous settings, unblocking the sink or changing the cat litter.

And just suppose two workmates are both lying to each other about their weekends. They're telling bigger and bigger whoppers to impress the other. If A has been to a luxury hotel in New York with the sexiest woman in town, then B has to produce an even hotter woman in an even swankier location. While they both know they were really sprawled on the settee guzzling fish and chips.

Well, I don't mind admitting that I spend most of my weekends doing nothing more exciting than cosying up to my loved one, ploughing through a paperback or ambling round the neighbourhood. There are no lightning trips to Venice or celebrity-packed parties. Unless you count that little jaunt with Penelope Cruz of course....

Men in skirts

2011-03-07T16:39:00.004Z

It's extraord-inary that transvest-ites still have to be so secretive about their leanings, for fear of other people's negative reactions.

In this day and age, when we're all much more broadminded about the sort of clothes people choose to wear, it's odd that there's still such a stigma about clothes that are "gender-inappropriate".

So much so that a journalist writing about the transvestite Butterfly Club, based somewhere near Belfast, is incredibly careful not to reveal its exact location, the identities of its members, or any other details that might lead to unwanted attention from the uptight and the straitlaced.

When it's now perfectly okay for women to wear "male" clothes, it's shocking that men who fancy wearing "female" clothes are still seen as deviant weirdos to be shunned and ridiculed.

Admittedly the men in question often don't do themselves any favours by wearing such laughably unfashionable clothes and wearing them with so little elegance and style, but why is a man in a dress and heels so difficult for other people to accept - or even enjoy? Why do other people feel so threatened and discomforted by someone who's not wearing the expected clobber?

It would certainly help if some transvestites paid a bit more attention to the fashion pages and how real women dress, and looked more like dizzy blondes than frumpy housewives. Then the disbelieving titters might give way to sneaking admiration. And other men might even dip their toes in the water.

But the continuing hostility, still so acute that many men are scared even to reveal their guilty secret to their own wives, is a mystery to me. Is the sight of a man in a miniskirt really so emasculating? Or so traumatising? What's the big deal?

Pic: Male model Andrej Pejic, who frequently models female clothes. Drop-dead gorgeous or what?

Watching the Strad

2011-03-05T07:59:00.006Z

It may seem strange to you and me, but musicians casually carry around instruments worth hundreds of thousands of pounds as if they were of no more value than a paperback.

They're so used to owning them, and so used to keeping sight of them at all times, that they seldom get stolen. Musicians watch their instruments as carefully as a parent watches a child.

The recent theft of a £1.2 million Stradivarius violin from a London sandwich shop is most unusual.

Of course one reason Strads are unlikely to be stolen is the difficulty of reselling them. They're so recognisable (there are only a few hundred in the world) that dealers would be instantly suspicious. You'd be lucky to flog it at the local market for a fiver.

Violinist Stephen Bryant's violin* is worth about £250,000, but his only precaution against losing it is to watch it like a hawk. It's so precious to him that such habitual vigilance is second nature.

Some musicians do have an instrument minder - someone who either carries the instrument or makes sure the musician is looking after it. But many musicians would only trust their personal attachment to something that is so important to them - something crucial to their self-identity.

In 2008, violinist Philippe Quint was so grateful for the return of a 285-year-old Stradivarius left in a New York taxi that he treated New York cabbies to a special private performance.

It's surprising that musical instruments aren't kidnapped and held to ransom. If they're so precious to the musicians, presumably they'd be prepared to pay quite a lot to get them back. Maybe they do, but it's all kept very quiet. Or should I say, molto molto pianissimo.

* Leader of the BBC Symphony Orchestra.

Pic: Min-Jin Kym, whose £1.2 million Stradivarius was stolen, and is still missing.

Only joking

2011-03-02T13:54:00.006Z

People do come up with the most inventive excuses for naked prejudice. They make a totally insulting remark about Jews, Muslims, blacks, women, gays, or any other group they happen to loathe, and then when someone complains they act astonished and trot out some absurd and laughable excuse.

Fashion designer John Galliano's pro-Nazi insults, and excuses, have attracted a lot of publicity, but there are plenty of ordinary folk out there who dream up equally ridiculous explanations. Such as:

1) I wasn't thinking clearly because of work pressures
2) It was just a joke, it wasn't serious
3) The person I was speaking to wasn't offended
4) It's only the office culture, it means nothing
5) It was an off-the-cuff remark, take no notice
6) It's not prejudice, it's the fucking truth
7) Everyone's over-reacting
8) Everyone's just being politically correct

Er no, none of these pathetic excuses actually stands up. An insult is an insult, and any intelligent adult knows exactly how insulting they're being. They know perfectly well it isn't a joke, or a meaningless part of "office culture". And when they try to pretend otherwise, they're simply aiming to cover their tracks and defuse the unexpected outrage.

Is it really so hard not to insult someone? Is it really so tricky to consider the other person's sensitivities and not say something that obviously demeans and belittles them? And why does anyone need to demean and belittle other people in the first place?

Of course some individuals claim to be offended and insulted simply for ulterior motives, to prevent criticism of their religion or personal behaviour. But in general, if people say they're offended they are offended and nonsensical excuses are just an attempt to carry on behaving badly and get away with it.

People who delight in causing offence to others are no better than the little boy who delights in setting fire to puppies. They just like to inflict pain and distress for the sheer hell of it. And because puppies like being set on fire really.

PS: John Galliano is to be put on trial in Paris following a police investigation into his alleged anti-semitic remarks.

Why oh why?

2011-02-26T07:36:00.009Z

One of those bizarre psycholog-ical mysteries that explodes out of the blue. A college lecturer, apparently contented and enjoying life, kills her two children and herself while her husband is working abroad. Why?

It's the sort of totally unexpected event that leaves everyone stunned and aghast. Whatever was slowly eating away at her was carefully concealed from the outside world.

Neighbours, friends, relatives, clergy - none of them can explain what she did. According to them, Claudia Oakes-Green of Shepshed in Leicestershire always seemed bright and happy and doing well in life. There was nothing to suggest that some acute inner distress was about to tip her over the edge.

Whatever was troubling her - depression, financial worries, marital problems, workplace pressures - she was seemingly unable to confide in anyone else and seek outside help. She maintained a cheerful facade that hid a grimmer reality.

It takes a particularly distraught person not only to kill themselves but take their children with them, the children that up till then they've cherished and protected.

How tragic it is that people still feel so embarrassed and ashamed of their inability to cope that they simply cannot voice it. Or they feel their situation is just so hopeless that no one else can put it right.

We may find out more in the coming days. Some nagging anxiety may come to light. Some crippling sense of inadequacy may be revealed. Or her actions may remain a total puzzle, an endless source of conjecture and speculation with no one any the wiser.

The family: Claudia (44), husband Iain, son Thomas (13), daughter Eleanor (7)

Pic: The Oakes-Green house in Shepshed

Life's too short

2011-02-23T13:56:00.005Z

Life's too short to be wasted on pointless nonsense. There are just too many demands on our time to fritter it away on things that don't inspire us or enliven us. As Secret Agent Woman has said so wittily, listing the particular bêtes noires she does her best to avoid.

I have a few extra bêtes noires of my own, things that do nothing for my life or well-being and breed only frustration and weariness. Life's too short to:

Pretend I'm someone I'm not. It's so easy to put on an act in response to what others expect of me, and hide my real self. But all it does is make me feel false and cowardly. It also leaves people with a phoney idea of who I am.

Exhaust myself in a gym. Natural forms of exercise like hill-walking are more fun and more scenic. Struggling with machines in a sweaty gym is totally artificial and not at all essential for my health.

Listen to moaners. The hours I've wasted listening to people moaning away about their workplace, their neighbours and their relatives. I prefer to spend my time with people who enjoy life rather than moan about it.

Think about the Royal Family. I couldn't care less about the Royals. They're just a bunch of parasites sponging off the rest of us and giving little in return. It's about time they did some real jobs. How about plumbing?

Idealise politicians. I no longer kid myself that politicians who promise a bright new future mean what they say. I've seen too many false dawns and blighted communities to be convinced any more.

Bear grudges. Better to let bygones be bygones rather than brood over old grievances that will never be put right. Yes, we all get treated badly from time to time, but simmering over it for years only makes us sour.

Dwell on things I can't control. Likewise, there's no point in harping on about things I have little influence over. Like drink-driving or homophobia or religious fanatics. I concentrate on things I can actually do something about.

Keep the house spotless. I'm not one of those houseproud obsessives who clean and sweep non-stop. There's always going to be dust and grease marks somewhere. As long as the place is presentable, that's enough for me.

Shop till I drop. I can't stand shopping, I do it only when I absolutely have to. Spending an entire day in a shopping centre, buying things I don't need and being assaulted by endless Musak, is my idea of hell.

Worry about my failings. Like everyone, I make mistakes and I upset people. There's no point in beating myself up over it or wishing I was more perfect. I do what I can to put things right, and then I move on.

A masterpiece explained

2011-02-20T18:45:00.003Z

I was thrilled to hear that Tanzi Twitch, the renowned conceptual artist, has won the Scunthorpe Award for International Art with her ground-breaking piece "Empty Room with Small Mouse and Bad Dream Number 17."

She was interviewed recently by art critic Sophie Slingback, who asked her about her award-winning work.

SS: So what exactly was the intention behind "Empty Room"?

TT: It was to show just how empty a room can be. The infinite emptiness of a space without content. The total absence of expected visual triggers. The absurd non-availability of pizza.

SS: Though a pizza carton did feature briefly in version number 13.

TT: That was an accident. It was left there by Stephanie, my cleaning lady.

SS: I see. But many people have said they can't see the small mouse or the bad dream.

TT: I can't help them. The small mouse and the bad dream may be there or they may not. I thought I saw the mouse yesterday morning but I may have been mistaken. It may have been a truffle. Or a waffle.

SS: What about the bad dream?

TT: There is always a bad dream, wherever you are. A nightmare is always waiting to crawl out and scare you to death. If you look, you'll see the bad dream. It's as plain as can be.

SS: The small mouse is a recurring theme in your work. What does it signify?

TT: You'll have to ask the mouse. I can't speak on its behalf. It may just signify the universal prevalence of recurring themes. Or the presence of unexpected visual triggers. Or a nearby cheese mine.

SS: I thought cheese was a dairy product.

TT: Whatever.

SS: And how would you yourself sum up this masterpiece?

TT: Empty is as empty does. Empty vessels make the most noise.

SS: Brilliant! Sheer genius!

Picture of Tanzi Twitch courtesy of the Plunkett Gallery, Cork Street, London

Intimate relations

2011-02-18T11:19:00.007Z

Established couples are assumed to be completely open and intimate with each other, having abandoned all the polite taboos and inhibitions of normal social encounters.

They no longer hide anything, no matter how personal or unappealing. Be it peeing, washing, cutting their nails, removing their body hair, picking their spots or farting, long-standing partners should be open-minded and tolerant enough to let their loved one behave any way they like, free of the usual suffocating public etiquette.

With a lot of couples, this is exactly what happens. They never lock the bathroom door, they pee and shit while chatting to their partners. They carry out every type of personal grooming, however unsavoury or hideous, in full view of the other person. They belch and burp freely at the dinner table, cramming their mouths to full capacity.

Well, that may suit some couples but Jenny and I would beg to differ. We don't believe a close relationship calls for that sort of unrestricted intimacy, in fact we regard it as insulting and tasteless. It's precisely because we respect each other's sense of decency and dignity that we keep certain things to ourselves.

We don't see unabashed intimacy as vital to emotional and spiritual closeness. Closeness doesn't come from cutting your nails together, it comes from knowing each other at a deeper and deeper level, and savouring that knowledge.

There's nothing more embarrassing than the uninhibited middle-aged male who believes his carefree farting, belching, groin-scratching and ear-probing is the sign of an enviable intimacy, while his long-suffering spouse watches in a state of mounting dismay and horror. And finds the idea of divorce increasingly attractive.

Lingering delusions

2011-02-12T07:45:00.007Z

As you get older, so it's said, you know yourself better and shed all the self-delusions of youth. Is that really true? Or are we still busy fooling ourselves?

They're hard questions to answer, because we can never really see ourselves objectively, as others see us. We're always on the inside looking out, and from the inside, through the prism of vanity and self-interest, it's easy to keep distorting the truth.

I've certainly shed a few youthful illusions - that I'm a brilliant writer, or a witty conversationalist, or a sensitive shoulder to cry on, or that the great socialist revolution is just round the corner. Some pretences simply can't be sustained in the light of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

I like to think I've got a more realistic picture of my strengths and weaknesses. The things I've got a talent for and the things I'm hopeless at however hard I try. I no longer think I'm unique or special, I realise I'm just an averagely intelligent person who somehow muddles through life without making too many gigantic blunders.

But am I really any more self-aware? Or have I just picked up a load of fresh delusions to replace the old ones? Like thinking that as an oldie I'm more wised-up than all these inexperienced teenagers? Or thinking I'm a patient, forgiving soul when I'm regularly bristling over poor service and mindless officialdom? Or convinced I'm altruistic and caring while expecting others to solve their own problems and not be too demanding?

Even if I ask others how they see me, how their impressions compare with my own, are their conclusions any more accurate than mine? They may have created a certain image of me, and they tailor their observations to fit the image. If they've decided I'm shy and indecisive, that's how they'll keep seeing me, whether it's true or false.

At the end of the day, my picture of myself is too tarnished by optimism and wishful thinking to be relied on. Am I still as deluded as a muddle-headed schoolboy? Who knows? Who can see that clearly?

Camera rats

2011-02-09T14:02:00.006Z

If there's any bunch of people who deserve contempt it's the paparazzi, whose only aim is to harass and humiliate public figures for the benefit of whatever voyeuristic media outlet is prepared to publish their pictures.

Their continual spying has forced Lily Allen to install a £60,000 state-of-the-art security system at her new home in the Cotswolds to keep them out. Now she is taking legal action against the Daily Mail for publishing extensive pictures and details of her home, including the property's name, address, location, precise layout, fixtures and fittings, and details of its private gardens and rear exterior.

The paparazzi are willing to use any method at all to get their salacious and intrusive pictures. Nothing is out of bounds. Breaking into houses, chasing cars, telescopic lenses, doorstepping, following people to holiday resorts, you name it.

The usual bogus excuses are endlessly trotted out by the media. They're public figures so they're not entitled to privacy. It's what the public wants. They like all the publicity really. If they behave badly, they must expect attention.

In my opinion, total bollocks. Everyone is entitled to privacy and a personal life without unwanted intrusion, whether they're household names or the milkman. Constant invasion of privacy is not only prurient but extremely stressful and emotionally disturbing for those on the receiving end.

The only exception, to my mind, is those in responsible public positions who have done something that jeopardises their ability to do their job properly. In that case they deserve to be exposed.

How telling it is that the media bosses themselves guard their own privacy and off-duty lives so religiously. You won't see the paparazzi following them. So don't expect to find out any time soon about the newspaper editor who's hooked on prostitutes or the tabloid mogul who beats his wife.

They may dish the dirt on others, but they don't want their own dirty laundry laid out for inspection.

The unstoppable crisp

2011-02-06T12:07:00.006Z

We may all be cutting back on spending because of the recession, but some things are sacrosanct. Last year our consumption of crisps went up by 5.7 per cent.

That's an extra 208 million bags of those crunchy slivers of fried potato we're all mysteriously addicted to. Can you go anywhere without that raucous crunching sound from someone's favourite snack hovering in the background?

Nobody can really explain why we're such suckers for something so insubstantial and so unhealthy, and so absurdly expensive for what it is (raw ingredient - a potato or two with some seasoning).

Is it that fabulous crunching sound as we demolish a crisp? Is it those weird and wonderful artificial flavours? Is it just the secret thrill of eating something especially noisy and ostentatious? Whatever the reason, we're hooked on them.

Supposedly* we owe this uncontrollable addiction to a hotel diner in Saratoga Springs, New York State, in 1853 who complained that his fried potatoes were too thick and too soggy. Chef George Crum responded by slicing the potatoes as thin as he could. The diner was so enthusiastic about the result that they became a regular menu item, "Saratoga Chips". And the rest, as they say, is history - and big business.

Now crisps are the UK's third most popular snack after fresh fruit and chocolate. We just can't get enough of those curly wafers of fried spud.

But I have a shameful confession to make. I'm not a great crisp devotee. Actually I prefer hula hoops. Or Bombay Mix. So I'd better not set foot in Saratoga Springs. An angry mob might just chase me out of town.

* So it says in Wikipedia.

Circling sharks

2011-02-03T14:20:00.005Z

If you think you've got money problems, spare a thought for those with REAL money problems - the victims of ruthless loan sharks charging up to 450% interest.

With the recession and the rocketing cost of living leaving ever more people in chronic debt, the shady loan outfits are having a field day pulling thousands more victims into their net.

There are already 7 million Britons shut out of the high-street banks because they're too poor or they have dodgy credit records.

Maverick loan companies are happy to fill the gap by lending money to these desperate souls at extortionate interest rates - anything from 272% to 444%.

Predictably enough, the victims commonly default and get sucked into a permanent spiral of debt, interest on debt, late payment charges and interest on late payment charges.

The loan companies - all quite legal - are making a fortune out of the destitute while the government turns a blind eye and pretends it's not happening.

When they were in opposition, senior members of the current government pledged to stop these loan crooks from creating so much misery. They said they would cap the cost of credit for all borrowers at an affordable level.

Now they're in government, surprise surprise, they've forgotten their promise and done precisely nothing to cap credit costs. All they'll commit themselves to is "considering introducing" caps - politician-speak for "doing fuck-all."

Stella Creasy, Labour MP for Walthamstow in East London, whose surgeries are chock-a-block with distraught loan-shark victims, is campaigning to get a credit cap introduced without delay. I sincerely hope she succeeds. This legalised skinning of the penniless is a national disgrace.

Excellent article about people drowning in debt here

Hidden faces

2011-01-30T07:12:00.004Z

The face mask has mysteriously become the fashion must-have for Japanese teenagers. But they're reluctant to explain why.

Many Japanese wear face masks to protect themselves against flu germs and bugs in general. The masks are a common sight when you're walking down a street.

But now teenagers en masse are wearing them, even if they couldn't care less about flu. It's become a cult accessory you just can't be seen without.

Because they don't want to explain themselves, social commentators are busily trying to interpret this strange phenomenon.

The mask-wearers, they say, are so shy they want something to hide behind. It's a way of retreating from society even when they're in a crowd of people. They want to be anonymous, they want to look just like everyone else.

Or maybe they're simply poking fun at all the germ-obsessed individuals who insist on wearing face masks even though they offer little or no protection.

It wouldn't happen here. The British are far too self-conscious to go around wearing face masks, even if they were terrified of catching flu.

And if they want something to hide behind, their preferred option is a thick layer of make-up or a voluminous beard.

Face masks are strictly for Nurse Jackie. Or bank robbers.

Beyond belief

2011-01-26T13:59:00.008Z

It strikes me there's a very simple reason why religion causes so many problems. Too often people don't stop at the self-improvement aspect that religions began with. They go further and try to foist their beliefs on other people who don't share them.

It seems to me that the great religious leaders like Jesus and Buddha were only giving people guidance on how to live their lives more creatively and productively. Which is harmless enough. If you're focussing on your own life, that leaves other people to get on with their lives in their own way and no toes get trodden on.

As I see it, Jesus and Buddha never saw their beliefs as something to be imposed on others, to be followed obediently by masses of people. That desire to proselytise, to convert, to turn religious beliefs into social norms, was something that came later, something hatched up by followers with an authoritarian streak.

And that's where all the trouble starts. As soon as you stop treating religious beliefs as a personal matter informing your own life, and your life alone, and expect everyone else to follow suit, naturally it's a surefire recipe for opposition, resentment and violence.

Those who are told they have to adopt certain beliefs whether they like it or not, regardless of their own existing beliefs, will inevitably turn on these religious bullies and tell them where to stuff their unwanted dogma.

Personally I'm inspired by the principles and beliefs of Buddhism, particularly Zen Buddhism. They've been a great influence on my thinking, the way I live my life, and how I relate to other people. But I would never dream of telling others to follow the same principles, and telling them that if they don't they're hopeless sinners and blasphemers and infidels. To do that seems simply intrusive and impertinent.

As the Buddha himself said, "Be a light unto yourself." That's clear enough, isn't it?