Parental dreams

I wonder why so many parents find it so tough to accept their children for what they are? They so often have hopes and assump-tions quite unrelated to what their children actually want out of life. Or what they're really suited for.

They imagine a grand career in some profession their child has zero talent for. They expect a dull, routine lifestyle for a child who is clearly rebellious and quirky. They hear the patter of tiny feet when their child has no desire whatever for an infant.

I've known so many people who say their parents don't understand them, don't appreciate what motivates them, and constantly undermine their true aims and ambitions. In short, their parents are more of a hindrance than a help.

Is it so hard to see your children as they are and encourage them in their true inclinations rather than a load of parental daydreams?

When I was young my mother and father had endless preconceptions about what sort of person I was and what I should do with my life, and they always found the reality hard to adjust to.

In the few years that I worked for a local paper, they saw me as some high-flying journalist jetting around the globe reporting world-shattering events. But it wasn't what I was cut out for or interested in.

They assumed I would share their very orthodox political views, and were baffled and upset when my views got increasingly left-wing and iconoclastic.

They expected me to have children and grandchildren, and couldn't understand why I opted out.

In general they saw me as Mr Normal, following a predictable, conventional, conservative lifestyle, probably on some new-build suburban estate where everyone mowed the lawn on Sundays and changed their car every three years.

I think they were permanently shell-shocked by my turning into the exact opposite of their stifling stereotypes. They looked on in disbelief as I adopted one radical cause after another - homosexuality, feminism, socialism, vegetarianism, premarital sex and abstract art, to name but a few. They probably wondered if some hospital blunder had left them with someone else's baby. They certainly saw me as as some alien being from another planet.

It must be very heaven to have parents who truly appreciate you for what you are.

Dogged heroes

The popular idea of a hero or heroine is someone who has done something brave and life-threatening, but to me the real heroes are those who persist in something they believe in, or simply stay true to themselves, despite relentless harassment and persecution from other people.

They just stick to their chosen path with quiet determination, refusing to compromise and refusing to give in to the bullies and bigots.

To my mind, that can be more heroic than a person doing something that's courageous and risky but which is generally supported and applauded by the public and they aren't also fighting for the right to do what they're doing.

Certainly rescuing someone from a burning house is heroic, but what about insisting on your own identity in the teeth of violent opposition? Opposition you may have to endure for decades? Opposition that may extend to death threats and murder? Isn't that heroic too?

I think of people like Manal al-Sharif, who has campaigned in Saudi Arabia against the ban on women drivers, and has been hounded by the government and forced out of her job.

Or Karen Silkwood, who investigated claims of dangerous practices at a US nuclear plant and died in mysterious circumstances.

Or Amy Lees, stalked for nine months by her ex-boyfriend, who put her details on a sex website so strangers kept pestering her.

Or Paris Lees (no relation), the transsexual campaigner who has been constantly abused and attacked simply for rejecting her given gender.

Or Lydia Cacho, the Mexican journalist who writes on sex trafficking, prostitution and pornography and has been physically attacked, raped, tortured and had numerous death threats.*

These are my heroes, these are the people I really admire for their dogged persistence in the face of seething hostility and repeated attempts to shut them up.

In short, people who refuse to take the easy way out.

* Yes, they're all women. It just happened to be women who sprang to mind.

PIC: Manal al-Sharif

Dress sense

I'm forever baffled by men's attitude to clothing. They seem to be quite happy wandering around in amazingly boring clothes, with no wish to be more adventurous or colourful or eye-catching.

Go into any office block and there are the massed ranks of men in their black suits, white shirts, ties and black shoes. Maybe a slightly garish tie if they're feeling really bold.

If they're in a less formal workplace like a charity, they might roll up in jeans and a casual shirt. Or even an earring or two. But there the daring stops.

They adhere rigidly to the prevailing male dress codes as if it's a matter of life or death. Any move away from the officially sanctioned range of clothing is simply unthinkable. Men dress in a certain way and that's it.

Don't they sometimes think, I rather fancy wearing a skirt today? I wonder how I'd look in a frilly blouse? Suppose I wore a long swishy dress? No, of course they don't, because they're men and men just don't have silly girly thoughts like that.

Besides, if they wore anything other than orthodox masculine clothing (and especially anything girly) it would be the biggest social embarrassment ever. All their mates would laugh at them. Their boss would fire them. Women would titter and giggle. Shop assistants would give them peculiar looks. They'd be instant pariahs and freaks.

No, wearing interesting and attractive clothing may be okay for women, but men are different. Sartorial restraint is required. Experiments with clothing are frowned upon. Clothes aren't there to have fun with, they're the outward signs of male responsibility and propriety. Wear your suit with pride! Adjust your tie manfully! No frivolity please, we're blokes.

Weighty secrets

I don't like having secrets. They feel like a burden, a rock on my back. I want to be a totally open person, revealing myself without any inhibitions or squeamishness.

Unfortunately so many people are censorious and intolerant, and likely to trample all over whatever I happen to tell them, that in practice I'm extremely secretive, keeping all sorts of things to myself for fear of the consequences if I don't.

Stuff about sex. About gender. About relationships. About phobias. About prejudices. About extreme emotions.

I find this a tremendous load to bear. There is so much I want to share with other people - to get their views, their advice, their own experience of the same things. But I have to stay silent and work through them all on my own.

Obviously I'm not talking about things people tell me in confidence. Those stay secret for a good reason. But all this other personal stuff locked inside me like junk in the attic - I just want to let it all out, let it circulate, do something with it.

Some people enjoy having secrets, knowing things that others don't know. They like having bits of themselves that are theirs and theirs alone, that can't be taken away or spoiled. The last thing they want to do is share them with all and sundry.

I don't feel like that at all. I really want to let it all hang out. Having so many secrets that aren't public currency makes me feel isolated, shut off, detached from other people like some sort of awkward outsider. And it makes me feel abnormal, weird, perverted, as if I'm harbouring some monstrous tendency that mustn't be let loose.

I want to bare my soul. But not to a hostile audience with axes to grind.

Thanks to Leah for the inspiration 

Intermission

(The phone is ringing)

- Good morning, Nickhereandnow, Melanie speaking, how may I help you?
- I'm very disappointed, Melanie. There hasn't been a blog post since last Saturday.
- I'm sorry about that. All the creative staff are on a team-building week in the Maldives.
- Holy catfish. Isn't there anyone left in the office to create a new post?
- There was Benedict. But he had to be rushed to hospital.
- Oh dear, why was that?
- Some sort of auto-erotic experiment that went wrong. Not the first time. And there was Lawrence, but he's having the gender-change op today. Oh, did I say Lawrence? I meant Lavinia of course.
- All a bit of an omnishambles, isn't it? Didn't anybody leave any notes for a new post?
- Oh yes, there are lots of notes, but Mr Nick has rejected all of them. He's very discerning, you know, certain standards have to be maintained. We have a very high reputation which mustn't be tarnished. Apparently Her Majesty the Queen reads the blog regularly.
- But what am I to do? Nickhereandnow is my lifeblood. I'm lost without it. I might have to kill myself.
- Oh, quite the drama queen, aren't we? I bet you say that to all the girls.
- I am a girl.
- I do apologise. You have such a deep voice.
- I know. My vocal chords were damaged by a fish bone.
- How extraordinary. Is there anything else I can do for you? Life insurance? Double glazing? Liposuction? Wart removal?
- Certainly not. I shall go away and rummage in the archives.
- Thank you for calling Nickhereandnow. Your interest is appreciated. Have a nice day.

(Melanie slams phone down, as Mr Nick approaches in a fuchsia blouse, pencil skirt and three-inch heels)

Pic: the indispensable Melanie

A codger's duty

To be a genuine, 24 carat old codger*, it's not enough to dismiss something as unusual, hard to understand or a bit foolish. You have to work yourself up into a vortex of spleen, go red in the face and declare that it's disgusting, repulsive, stomach-churning and degenerate.

Take for example:
Pierced lips
Tattoos
Arse-hugging shorts
Purple hair
Homosexuals
Transsexuals
Artworks featuring tampons, unmade beds, toilets or bleeding eyeballs
Any form of sex other than missionary position with the lights off
Films featuring homeless disabled stuttering lesbian drug addicts
Nudity
Breastfeeding in public
Unsuitably dressed fat people

If you're religious, you could also find such things unGodly, sinful or blasphemous. If you have sexual hangups, you could find them indecent, obscene or pornographic.

You should always voice your condemnation as loudly and as witheringly as possible, ensuring the person concerned hears every word.

You should declare firmly that "normal" people don't need to "go to such extremes" or "call attention to themselves". They don't need to be "deliberately offensive" or "setting out to shock". Normal people are "happy to blend in", "happy to be one of the crowd", "happy to hide their light under a bushel".

And should someone be impudent enough to try to defend the disgusting/ sinful/ indecent whatever, then simply don't listen to them. Obviously they're defending the indefensible, so just take no notice and act as if they're in the grip of some juvenile and irrational obsession.

Old codgers know that someone has to take a stand against the relentless tide of filth, smut and perversion that's sweeping the country, and if they shirk their duty, it could be the end of civilisation as we know it.

Old codgers know that pierced lips and tattoos are just the first steps on a slippery slope to perdition. It's up to them to stop the rot.

* or of course an old crone 

Snobbery

I know all about snobbish-ness. I've experi-enced plenty of it in my time. Sometimes I think my birth-country of England is snobbery capital of the world. Most of the English are obsessed with their position in the social hierarchy, looking down on anyone supposedly below them and feeling inferior to anyone seen as above them.

Being lower middle class myself (he says, reluctantly categorising himself), I've been given the cold shoulder regularly by those who regard themselves as financially, culturally, educationally or occupationally superior.

I especially remember the time Jenny and I lived in a posh block of flats in Islington, London. Some of the other residents, mostly high-end professionals like lawyers and doctors, were always slightly sniffy towards us, seeing us as "not quite one of them", suspecting us of dubious tastes and opinions, and generally on the lookout for unpredictable and embarrassing behaviour.

They seldom invited us in for a drink or a meal, did their best to avoid us and seemed to regard us as temporary interlopers who had somehow tricked our way into their prestigious block of flats*.

During our time in London, I can recall many social occasions where those present would form into cliques of perceived similar-status guests, each clique keeping themselves firmly separate from those seen as lower status, and taking care not to mix with them or in any way recognise their presence. Such recognition could irredeemably damage their own social standing.

I wonder why it is that people are so insecure and self-doubting that they find mere contact with someone from a different background so threatening. They must be terrified that their own lifestyle will be found wanting.

As an ex-journalist and ex-bookseller who has mixed with people from all sorts of backgrounds and with every possible viewpoint, and having learnt a great deal on the way, I find such aloofness baffling and pointless. How can we possibly begin to understand the rest of the world if we try to permanently seal ourselves off from it?

It was extremely refreshing to move to Northern Ireland, where people are much less status-conscious and plumbers and chief executives mingle quite happily without regarding each other as an alien species. Shock horror, they may even live next door to each other.

* PS: Not that this bothered us particularly. We were perfectly happy without their company. We had some good friends there who didn't have an ounce of snobbery. And we had plenty of other friends. We found the snobs more amusing than upsetting. 

Thanks to Cheerful Monk for the inspiration. 

Locked in

How shocking that someone can wake up in a hospital bed, hear the people around him planning to switch off his life support, and have no way of telling them he is 100% mentally aware.

Which is what happened to Richard Marsh from California three years ago after a stroke. At the time he could do nothing but blink, and the medical staff were convinced he was in a persistent vegetative state. But his wife Lili didn't agree, and refused to let them end his life.

What a sound decision that was. Four months later he went home, and he has now recovered 95% of his physical functioning. Just suppose his wife had gone along with the doctors and given up on him?

The first sign that he wasn't actually a goner was his twitching fingers. Then the doctors discovered he could communicate by blinking. Only then did they realise their colossal misjudgment.

But this made me think, surely there should be some routine "blink test" to check if a patient in that condition (what they call locked-in syndrome) can communicate by blinking? Then such an awful misunderstanding would never have occurred.

And surely there must be some sort of test of mental functioning that could at least indicate that there is activity beyond a mere vegetative state, even if it can't say exactly what that activity is?

It seems extraordinary that someone's life can be written off so casually when the reality entirely contradicts the doctors' assumptions. Is modern medicine really as advanced and sophisticated as we think it is?

Pic: Someone completely different. I couldn't find a picture of Richard Walsh on the net. 

Something missing

Whatever I say, whatever I do, I never feel people are seeing the real me. I feel the image they have of me is always distorted, inaccurate, simplistic.

I do my best to explain myself, to express the reality of how I see the world, how I live my life, how I relate to others, how I react to tragedy or blessings. But I feel something is always missing, something that conveys the uniqueness of who I am. Something always gets left on the cutting room floor.

People know for example that I'm a vegetarian. But do they understand why I'm a vegetarian, why I'm so horrified by abattoirs, why I hate the mass slaughter of animals, why I loathe the sight of a butcher chopping a carcass? No, they don't, because I have no way of conveying the depth of emotion and antipathy and incomprehension that's involved. I can't express more than a tiny sliver of what's actually going through my mind.

And so it is for everything else that makes up my particular identity. It's like the layers of an onion. People see the top layer and they think that's what I am, but they don't see all the layers underneath, going right down to the core of my being. How on earth do I explain all those other layers, the bits that can't be seen but are all parts of me? It's frustrating and perplexing.

So most of the time I just give up. I decide there's no point in trying to explain the complexities of the real me. It would take too long, I don't have the words, and everyone would lose interest long before I'm anywhere near finished.

So I just reconcile myself to the fact that people don't understand me properly, they never will, and there are always going to be a thousand false images of me in circulation, bearing as much relation to the true me as a plot summary to a 600-page novel.

A novel that may not be worth reading anyway....

Having a laugh

They say laughter is the best medicine. But is it really healthy to laugh at anything at all, even if it's at the expense of other people? Even if it's making fun of people's weaknesses or disabilities?

There's a big clash of opinion here. Some say it really doesn't matter what you laugh at, and people who say they're offended and hurt are just over-reacting. They just have inflated egos. What about those gay and disabled comedians who send themselves up all the time? There's a funny side to everything, no matter how serious.

Others say no no, humour has its limits. Of course we all enjoy a good laugh, but jokes that are cruel, jokes that merely mock someone's shortcomings or differences, aren't funny and often just add to ongoing victimisation. Laughing at such jokes simply shows we're stupid and heartless.

I tend to agree with the second view. Laugh by all means, but pick your targets with care and don't get your amusement by ridiculing the less fortunate or less privileged.

I have to admit that in private I've been known to crack some very dubious jokes - racist, sexist, disablist, you name it. Let's face it, some of them are wickedly funny. But I know very well how dodgy they are and I would never repeat them in public. I have gay and black and disabled friends and I'm well aware of how hurt they can be by crass, unthinking so-called jokes by those who have no idea of the problems and discrimination they have to cope with day in and day out.

Accusing people who're not amused by your jokes of "not having a sense of humour" or "taking themselves too seriously" is unacceptable. Why should people be compelled to find something funny? Why should they be forced to laugh at themselves if they aren't comfortable about it? People are entitled to their personal dignity.

After all, there are plenty of jokes that are funny without having to ridicule others. So why resort to ridicule at all? Why is a snide, unkind joke more gratifying than a harmless one? What is the twisted part of us that enjoys it? Why do we have such a powerful urge to stick the knife in?

Dublin

Jenny and I have just spent a few days in Dublin. We saw some great art and great theatre, and had some fabulous food. But oh dear, Dubliners don't exactly welcome you with open arms.

Ask them for directions, or any information, and they give you vague and monosyllabic replies as if you've asked them about their sex life or their incontinence, or asked some unbelievably stupid question that isn't worth answering.

I can only assume their offhandedness is either because they want to keep all the cool places to themselves; or because they dislike non-Dubliners/ the English/ tourists in general; or because they just can't be arsed.

But you get the feeling that what they'd really like to do is build a moat and a 20-foot wall round Dublin to keep everyone out except the Very Talented, the Very Rich and the Very Beautiful.

So we tended to find our guidebook and streetmaps more helpful than the natives when it came to getting round the city and visiting the places you might imagine Dubliners would be proud of and only too eager to show off to the world.

We did see lots of interesting art at the National Concert Hall, the Royal Hibernian Gallery, the Hugh Lane Gallery and the National Gallery. We saw the Abbey Theatre's first-rate production of Sean O'Casey's The Plough and the Stars (set at the time of the 1916 Easter Rising). We toured Kilmainham Gaol, where many rebel political leaders were imprisoned or executed. And we had some fantastic food at The Farm, Dunne and Crescenzi, and Cornucopia.

But Dublin doesn't look or feel like a capital city, more a provincial city like Birmingham. There's little spectacular architecture, little open space, much of the city centre is run-down and shabby, and many of the streets are narrow and clogged with traffic. Nor did the people look very happy or prosperous, unlike Belfast.

So I don't think we'll be back for a while - not unless there's some stunning new attraction to lure us south. Or unless the locals decide outsiders might actually be worth talking to.

PS: I should point out that whenever someone asks me for directions in Belfast, I'm always extremely helpful, and I think that applies to most Belfast folk. In fact we not only give very explicit directions but check the inquirer has fully understood them. 

Pic: The Halfpenny Bridge, Dublin 

Winging it

People who worry they're not up to the job they're doing, that they landed it by mistake and they'll soon be found out, are said to have "impostor syndrome". I think I have a very advanced case of it. I feel like an impostor virtually all the time, whatever I'm doing and however good I am at it.

However well I'm handling something, however much other people seem to appreciate it and treat me as the genuine article, I still think deep down that really I'm just fluffing my way through and sooner or later I'll fall flat on my face, announcing to all and sundry that I'm a total fraud.

I may seem very chatty and sociable but am I just hiding my secret desire to be a hermit, shutting out the world? I may seem to know everything about socialism or modern art or growing orchids but am I just cunningly glossing over all the details I'm ignorant of? I may seem thoroughly masculine but am I just taking my cue from the Pocket Dictionary of Gender Roles?

There's something vaguely unconvincing about much of my behaviour, something that doesn't quite ring true, however slick and confident the performance. I guess I'm always unconsciously comparing myself to some role model whose actions seem much more adept, much more fluent.

So what does it take to feel authentic rather than fraudulent? What's the trick? How do other people do things with total conviction, as if they haven't the slightest doubt about their competence? Or are they privately as impostor-ridden as myself, keeping their anxieties concealed just as I do?

I suppose feeling like an impostor has its benefits. The constant question-mark about how well I'm doing means I'm not so prone to arrogance or contempt. I'm less likely to scoff at other people's fumblings and stumblings when I know how close I usually am to stumbling myself. I always feel I'm walking over some treacherous surface and if I don't concentrate hard enough I'll lose my footing.

There are some things I'm wholly convinced about though. I've been an atheist since the day I was born and the idea of a supreme being has never made the slightest sense to me. You can try as hard as you like but you'll never uncover a shame-faced Bible-basher lurking in the wings.

Kiss me, kiss me

I love kissing. I love the sheer sensuality of it. And I love the different dimensions of it.

A kiss between loved ones or friends is an innocent and beautiful experience. It is affectionate, trusting, playful. It says I like you, I enjoy your company, I want to share myself with you. It says my soul wants to kiss your soul.

But a kiss is also the classic sign of an illicit relationship. An over-intimate kiss between two supposed acquaintances suggests something much deeper, something sexual.

However much you deny it, it speaks for itself. There's something going on here, something that shouldn't be going on. Or maybe something that should be going on, but it's going to hurt somebody else badly.

Then there are the kisses you don't really want to give at all. You're a bit reluctant to kiss granny or grandpa because, well, they're a bit wrinkly and funny-looking, and kissing all those wrinkles and saggy bits might feel a bit yukky. But after all, it's granny, so you overcome your squeamishness and give her a nice big kiss. And she really appreciates it.

And of course there are the people you're just dying to kiss, desperate to kiss, but you can't because they're remote celebs, or they're your boss, or your student, or you're sure they'd run a mile, or they're uptight straight men, or they just jilted you, or they're complete strangers in Sainsbury's.

There was a guy* who set out to kiss a complete stranger every day for a year - because he thought it was such a delightful and friendly thing to do. And he managed it. He recorded the reactions of all the people he kissed. Surprise, amusement, embarrassment, happiness, gratitude, flirtation. It was touching and heartwarming.

The human body is just made for kissing. The textures, the contours, the pliability. I'll happily kiss just about anywhere, from the forehead to the ankle and most spots in between. Whoever invented kissing was a genius.

* the wonderful Philip Thiel from Melbourne 

Spilling the beans

In this era of supposed personal frankness, when people gush out their intimate thoughts and feelings to any passing journalist or TV presenter, you might think that no one has anything left to hide any more, that it’s all out there for instant public consumption.

I think not. For every person who spills the beans, there are ten others who’re more reticent and still keep an awful lot to themselves. Most of us don’t trust other people to be sympathetic to our innermost secrets, be they embarrassing, weird, disgusting or just incomprehensible.

The fact is that there are plenty of people only too willing to exploit other people’s weaknesses and eccentricities for their own personal gain or entertainment, and those uninhibited souls who lay their entire life on the table for others to pick at should either have a very thick skin or be prepared for a rather painful public mauling.

Even routine oddities like fear of flying, or fear of public speaking, or a passion for pickled onions, are often concealed in case of scorn or ridicule. As for the more rarified traits like social phobia or aversion to sex or hating to be watched, very few people would be trusted with those. Maybe only our partners, who’re going to find out sooner or later anyway.

It may be that other people are more sympathetic to those things than we imagine, but we daren’t risk telling the wrong person and being treated as some kind of freak show.

It may be that our shameful secrets are not as shameful as we think. But the longer we hide something, the more we prevent others from accepting and neutralising it, the more peculiar and monstrous it becomes, until the very idea of exposing it to others is unthinkable. We convince ourselves we’re so warped that if we confess all nobody will ever speak to us again.

We probably all need a personal therapist, someone we can confide in without fear of a negative reaction, someone who’ll listen without judging, someone who’ll help us to understand what we are rather than expecting us to be normal. With the best will in the world, even the closest and most trusted friend isn’t necessarily that dispassionate and all-embracing.

Short of staff

The total chaos over providing security staff for the Olympics shows once again that the private sector is not necessarily better at running services than the public sector. It also shows what happens when workers are treated like shit - they simply don't turn up to do the job.

Thousands of workers taken on by the bloated multinational security firm G4S haven't shown up at their allotted workplaces and thousands of troops and police officers have had to fill the gaps.

This epidemic of refuseniks is hardly surprising when you see how the wretched hirelings are being treated. Many have been employed on a daily basis only, so on any given day they may be told they're not wanted. So much for security of employment.

Their pay rate hasn't been revealed, but you can be sure it's the absolute minimum the firm can get away with. There are even reports that some workers are having to pay for their own training.

Those coming from a distance are having trouble finding affordable accommodation, which presumably the firm isn't helping out with. They may also have heavy travel costs to and from the venue.

If the workers calculate that they'll be making a pittance after their costs are allowed for, or they've found a better-paid job elsewhere, then of course they're likely to not turn up at all.

This massive absenteeism could surely have been predicted by G4S on the basis of past experience, yet they claim to have had no inkling of the problem until a few weeks before the start of the Olympics.

They also claim to have been taken unawares by the administrative demands of recruiting thousands of staff, training them, vetting them and allocating them to the various Olympic sites. The complex process was way behind schedule and many workers ringing helplines either couldn't reach anyone or nobody could answer their queries.

Even the Chief Executive of G4S, Nick Buckles, has admitted the situation is "a humiliating shambles" and regrets taking on the contract.

Though I can't think why. The firm will still claim its £57 million management fee, Buckles will keep his £830,000 annual salary (or a £20 million severance package), while the debt-ridden British government (and the taxpayer) have to bail out the private sector yet again.

Pic: Rebecca Tunney, the UK gymnastics champion 

Dog fight

An acri-monious worldwide campaign to save Lennox the dog ended this week when he was put down by Belfast Council.

The council maintained Lennox was a pit-bull type dog and therefore illegal and dangerous under UK law. Owner Caroline Barnes insisted he was harmless and had never injured anyone.

A huge internet campaign to save Lennox got more and more vicious, with the council's dog wardens being subjected to death threats, slashed car tyres and ferocious verbal abuse.

The case dragged on through several expensive court hearings before the council finally got the go-ahead to put Lennox down. Caroline Barnes is still bitterly aggrieved and sees the council as heartless and inflexible.

At the last minute an American dog trainer offered to care for Lennox for the rest of his life, but the council rejected the offer, saying the dog was dangerous and had to be destroyed.

I can't see why this sympathetic offer was so firmly refused. At least Lennox would still be alive. But refused it was, adding to the family's suffering.

I have to say though that in general Caroline Barnes seems to have handled the situation very badly. Apparently she made little attempt to establish the dog's actual breed or find any other legal way of contesting the council's ruling. And she allowed her so-called supporters to alienate council staff with a terrifying hate campaign.

Also, she must have known Lennox was a pit-bull type dog, and therefore possibly illegal, when she acquired him seven years ago. So it was likely that sooner or later he would be reported to the authorities.

If she had had any sense, she would have found a dog that was indisputably legal and therefore never in danger of being put down. It would have saved an awful lot of unnecessary distress and heartbreak.

PS (July 20): An innocent animal sanctuary, Benvardin Kennels near Ballymoney, is being bombarded with threats and abuse by pro-Lennox fanatics. Benvardin say they have nothing whatever to do with Lennox and blame an incorrect American media report. 

Pic: Caroline Barnes, her daughter Brooke, and Lennox 

Reckless lives

When I look at the way some people live their lives, especially their unhealthy eating and drinking habits, I can come to only one conclusion - that they're either suicidal or they really don't care if they live or die.

How else can you explain the behaviour of someone who regularly drinks to excess, chain-smokes, eats junk food, or takes dangerous drugs, and has no interest in behaving more sensibly?

No doubt I sound absurdly moralistic and sanctimonious, but surely anyone who values their life and wants to enjoy it as long as possible would not deliberately do things that threaten to make that life not only much shorter but potentially blighted by serious illness?

When people say how much they love their family, their children, and their friends, how can they really mean it when at the same time they're behaving in ways that clearly jeopardise those relationships?

I can only conclude that at some level, in some private corner of themselves, they find life so frustrating and dissatisfying that actually they wouldn't mind it suddenly ending. So they simply don't have the motive to give up the destructive habits and adopt a healthier lifestyle.

Take someone like Amy Winehouse. If she genuinely valued her family and friends, why did she drink so heavily and give up on rehab so easily? Did she not care that she was causing her loved ones so much distress and concern as she relentlessly emptied one bottle after another?

I'm not being self-righteous here. I'm not saying I'm some perfect, saintly person because my own lifestyle is less reckless. I'm just lucky I'm not the addictive type and haven't succumbed to the things others find so attractive. I'm also lucky that my parents provided a model of behaviour that frowned on wild excesses of any kind. Their only blemish was my father's ten-a-day smoking habit.

I know people say how tough it is to break a long-standing addiction, even if you genuinely want to. But surely if you relish your life and want to prolong it, you're going to do whatever it takes to break the cycle?

Word check is not preventing a deluge of spam comments, so I've had to introduce comment moderation. Sorry about that. 

Dodgy deals

There was a riveting exchange about drug use on Question Time* between John Lydon (of the Sex Pistols) and Louise Mensch (the Tory MP).

Louise Mensch said she deeply regretted taking class A drugs when she was young as they had left her with mental health problems such as acute anxiety.

John Lydon poo-pooed her regrets and her anxiety and said there was nothing wrong with drug-taking as long as you were properly informed about them.

From his boorish and aggressive manner, and his habit of talking over everyone else, I can only conclude that his own drug use hasn't done him a lot of good.

Strangely enough, although I grew up in the sixties when drug use was widespread and a lot of my acquaintances were stuffing themselves with every hallucinogen and narcotic they could get their hands on, I hardly touched drugs at all. I tried marijuana twice and LSD twice but I didn't like the effects they had. I didn't like the idea of something taking me over and suppressing my own autonomy and identity. So that was the start and finish of my experiments with drugs.

John Lydon has a point though when he says lack of information makes drugs a lot more dangerous. If you don't know precisely what's in that substance you're shovelling into yourself (as most illegal drugs are routinely adulterated) and if you don't know what dosage you're taking, then you're asking for trouble.

I can still remember a lovely guy I met in the early seventies who was heavily into drugs. One day he took a massive cocktail of goodness knows what, and was found later dead in his bed with blood spilling out of both ears.

If he'd known exactly what he was taking, and known exactly when to stop, he might still be alive.

But when you have only the vaguest idea of what you're putting in your mouth (or arm or nose), it seems sensible to opt out. And listen to Louise Mensch.

PS: If you don't think prescription drugs are dangerous, take a look at this article on antibiotics 

* BBC TV programme about current affairs 

Grumpy, moi?

I refuse to moan and groan.
I refuse to become a grumpy old man.
I refuse to let the world's problems get me down.
I refuse to make mountains out of molehills.
I refuse to turn petty irritations into causes célèbres.
I refuse to complain about my bodily deficiencies.
I refuse to denigrate other people's lives.
I refuse to tell other people what to do.*
I refuse to rant and rave.
I refuse to demonise young people.
I refuse to be cynical.
I refuse to be paranoid.
I refuse to see the worst in people.
I refuse to be nostalgic.
I refuse to believe everything was better in the old days.
I refuse to think that I know best.
I refuse to think life's conspiring against me.
I refuse to be offended by bad manners.
I refuse to be offended.
I refuse to over-react.

I refuse to be one of those stony-faced old codgers who buttonhole me at the doctor's surgery or the bus stop and tell me the world's going to pot and nobody cares and the lunatics are running the asylum and he's glad he won't be around much longer and bloody hell, look at that, the way some people dress nowadays (Nick takes out small handgun and puts him out of his misery)

Mind you, Jenny would probably say that if you watch me closely, there's a grumpy old man much closer to the surface than I like to believe. He's just biding his time, honing his invective, but sooner or later he'll burst out of this innocent Clark-Kent exterior and wreak havoc at the number 4A bus stop.

* except for politicians and bankers, naturally. 

Fool's errand

Like many parents at that time, I guess, my mother and father were always worried that I might grow up to be homo-sexual.

In the fifties homosexuality was still a crime, homophobia was rampant (the word had still to be invented), and gay men regularly committed suicide rather than face a lifetime of concealment or persecution.

The worrying was fair enough. But my parents went further and tried actively to prevent me becoming "one of them". In those days there were all sorts of hare-brained theories about why people became gay, and they didn't realise the futility of their efforts.

After a certain age they withdrew all physical affection, be it kissing, hugging or touching. They somehow believed that too much physical affection would turn me "the other way".

They scrutinised all my friends, and any male neighbours I talked to, for any signs of inappropriate behaviour or homosexual tendencies - whatever they might be.

Then bizarrely they sent me to an all-male boarding school, seemingly unaware that such schools were notorious for routine homosexuality. As it happened, there was never a whiff of gay sex in my particular school, so luckily for them I was spared the evil tentacles of Sodom.

They continued to be suspicious of my late teenage relationships, especially my friendship with a sixty year old abstract artist. My father was convinced he was trying to seduce me, despite the total absence of sexual overtones.

Eventually I left home and they were no longer able to monitor my activities. They were probably horrified when I started supporting the Gay Liberation Front.

But I never became gay and their decades of neurotic concern were completely pointless. It was nothing but a fool's errand all along.

PS: A new report by Stonewall says homophobia is still rampant in schools. It says 55% of gay pupils experience homophobic bullying and 96% hear words like "poof" or "lezza" in the classroom.