Arther was getting anxious. There was only an hour to go before the show started, and he had so much to do. If this ruddy que didn't move along the entire day could be ruined. Ruined!
"TA-DAAH!"
The toturously familiar sound from the big blue plastic machine on the counter meant Arthur would have to wait whilst the fellow in the beige mak was handed his winnings from Shankar's till.
"TA-DAAH!"
Oh, no. He's one of those lottery people who buys lotts of tickets. How long is this going to take? It's so ruddy inconsiderate!
"TA-DAAH!"
I'm going to say something. I have to. I've got to get back in time!
"Cheers Shank." The beige mak turned away from the counter. "Allo Arf." He he winked at Arthur as he shuffled past.
Taken by surprise at the mak's recognition of him, Arthur seamlesly dropped his look of indignation and put on his chummy, affable face."Hello there", Arthur smiled,"Lucky day?"
"Ferty squids mate. I'm off daan the Sparra!", the beige mak chuffed.
"Well, don't drink it all at once, eh", but the beige mak had already exited the small corner shop, and Arthur and the shop keeper were alone.
"Who on Earth was that chap, Shankar?"
"Oh, he's always in here Arthur. Spends maybe a hundred pounds a week on lottery tickets", replied the shopkeeper, smiling.
"Gracious! Anyway Shankar, I'm in a bit of a rush today. Did you manage to get any of that Battenberg in?"
"Sorry, they sent me more Cherry Bakewells." Arthur's heart sank. " I deffinately ordered Battenberg, but this delivery firm keeps getting things wrong. I will have some for you next week, Arthur, Even if I have to go and get it myself."
But Arthur had already moved on from the conversation and was assessing his options. He had to limit the damage.
"Never mind, Shankar. I'll take a box of those Bakewells."
He put the small blue and white plastic bag he was handed on top of his plaid shopping trolly and made his way past the gallery of sweets, magazines and greeting cards and left the shop.
It was sunny for a change. Markham road was busy with traffic and the double decker busses were full of school kids and commuters making their way home. He shuffled to the crossing adjacent to Shankar's, and waited for the green man.
'Well,' he thought,'it's not a total loss I suppose. I do like the odd Bakewell once in a while.
The high pitched bleeping signalled that it was safe to cross the road. He leant on his beloved trolly, and stepped out.
For most, the walk between the corner shop and Artur's flat would take 5 minutes. In his dotage however, Arther did well to make it in 20. At his age, and with his breathing difficulties he had to stop every few minutes to catch his breath and wipe his running nose. Getting around was certainly becomming more of a struggle as time wore on, but Arthur enjoyed the modicum of excercise and didn't want to give in to his ageing body.
After a few minutes rest on the other side of the road he leant on his trolly for the final leg of the short journey back to his flat in at the Grace Newman sheltered accomadation. It looked like any one of the other large houses on Markham road except for the absence of stairs at the front door and a small brass plaque dedicated to the memory of the late Ms Newman.
A thin dark skinned man openned the front door from the inside as Arthur reached for his key.
"Thanks Rashid", smiled Arthur. "Heaven knows how you alays know when I'm at the door".
"Magic Mr Arthur'.
Arthur had always liked Rashid. Ever since he had reluctantly moved into sheltered accommadation, his fears of having to put up with young, disrespectful carers (Arthurr hated that term) had been put at ease by this gentle Kashmiri gentleman. As the resident carer,Rashid had a small apartment in the building, but was almost always stationed at the small reception area, reading a paper, or watching the news.
"Some help with your shopping sir?'
'No thankyou' replied Arthur. "I'll be fine; trolly's almost empty today"
Arthur could see that the small telivision was on, 'I'll let you get back to it, I've got to put my meal on now."
"yes sir. Good evening Mr Arthur"
"Jus Arthur, Rashid' Arthur called over his shoulder, as he made his way down the worn, carpeted halway towards his ground level flat.
"Yes Mr Arthur", Rashid laughed.
Arthur's appartment was at the end of the coridoor, at the back of the house. He put his key into the shiney yale lock, and entered his home. He dropped his key on the small table bu the door, parked his trolley in it's little nook next to the vacuum cleaner behind the door, and hung up his anorack. Picking up the small carrier bag with the box of Bakewells in it, he made his way to the back of the appartment.
The flat occupied the the left rear quater of the ground floor, and looked over the small back patio and garden. On sunny days, residents would often gather on the patio and complain together about the state of the world today, but not today. The drizzle had come back.
Arthur was in his small kitchen, but didn't pay any attention to the specks of water, acumulating on the window. Tonight's meal would be some salmon salad sandwiches.
He openned a small tin of salmon and mixed it in with the salad he'd made the day before. He put his sandwiches onto one of the small plates on his cushionned lap tray, and put two of the Mr Kipling Cherry Bakewells on the other. He picked up his tray and walked into the adjoining living room.
The living room was where arthur spent most ofhis time. It was a humble sized room by any standards, but it was the largest in his flat. It had his new television in one corner, oposite his reclining chair, and his computer desk in another. On the opposite side of the room was a number of bookshelves, full of his favourite novels and autobiographys.  Arthur let out a groan as he sat at his chair, placed the tray on his lap and reached for the remote control.
With a moment's pause the television flickered on to the sound of the last few notes of the show's theme tune. Arthur relaxed; he hadn't missed the start as he had feared. He tucked into his sandwiches through the first half of the show, made a pot of tea during the commercial break, and polished off the Bakewells during the second half. They were'nt bad, but he still prefered Bettenberg.
Once the show was over, and the credits had rolled up the screen, Arthur tidied his plates away and sat at his computer desk. He left it on all the time these days, just in case his daughter were to give him one of her all too rare Skype calls. He'd missed one once when the computer had been switched off and she hadn't let him forget it. Rashid had come knocking at the door to see if Arthur had had a fall, or worse, at his daughter's insistance. The silly thing was she would only call him by Skype, but would call the house staff by phone at the drop of a hat. Arthur hated the bother it caused others; worrying about him, so he just left the computer on, and kept his door unlocked when he was home.
  He openned up his email. The usual junk. Insurance companies offering great funeral rates, ads for mobility scooters, a link to a website selling slippers.

Survival of the dimmest

As a white male citizen of the western world, life is easy. Even when times are hard; life is easy. What does that mean? Well, lets break it down: What is life?

In this instance; life is the act of living, and all that is necessary to keep one's heart beating, lungs breathing, brain functioning and all the other gubbins beneath our skins ticking over. I would never deny that 'life' can be hard. There are diseases, wars, prejudice and homelessness all around, but for the vast majority, the basic act of living is undeniably easy.

70,000 years ago it wasn't so easy. The first humans were born, if they were lucky, with working parts, mostly, and an ability to wail and suck. The lucky ones would have a parent or two to help them through their most vulnerable early years, feeding, sheltering and protecting them. Then they were on their own, to live out their short lives, from day to day battling against their environment.

Over countless generations and thousands upon thousands of years, humans evolved not so much in their physique, but in the way they thought and worked together. They used their communal strength to protect each other  They learned to craft new tools with which to adapt and manipulate their environments. They learned from each other. Slowly, ever so slowly, they began to live longer. Little by little, generation by generation, their lives became just a sliver of a hair's breadth easier.
Numbers grew and soon  there were large, ancient societies which were able to produce a surplus of food and shelter. They had a select few 'citizens' who were born into a life in which they no longer had to struggle to survive, but instead found themselves with time. They began to think. They thought about time. They asked: 'what happens when we die?' They designed new tools, discovered new materials, developed laws both social and scientific, invented machines and created medicines. Their contribution to society was abstract, but immeasurably important. 

People began to live long lives, and have large families. Life was easy.

And here we are.

As children, we are tested every day. That is to say we are learning something new all the time. Growing physically and discovering new abilities. At school we learn our history, science, art, literature, and try to understand the world around us in an abstract way. We do a little wood and metal work, preparing for practical tasks. We take part in sports and try to prepare our bodies for physical challenges.
We undergo this testing preparation for longer than the first humans' average life spans.

But as adults it is fair to say that those who came before were tested so much more than we are today. We (and by 'we' I am speaking of those of us in the developed world) have jobs which provide us with medical insurance, food from the local supermarket, apartments with comfy beds and running water. We are tested by our jobs sometimes, in a cerebral way, and sometimes we play games which test us in a physical way. Some of us even choose to go on adventures. Those of us who don't have jobs, may well live in comparatively dire conditions, but we still get medical attention, and we are still provided with food and shelter.

Many adults don't seem to realise that we don't need to stop growing and learning once we finish school. The smart ones carry on testing themselves. They continue to learn, and experience new emotions and situations, just as they did as children. Through this they equip themselves to be invaluable members of society, and make a larger contribution to our species as a whole.
Others fall into a routine. A cycle of day to day life that keeps their minds occupied, but inevitably does not test their resourcefulness or help them grow. They make their contribution, but no more. It is certainly not my intention for that to seem insulting. We all gotta do what we all gotta do, but my concern is that people are missing out on the beauty of expanding their minds, or pushing their bodies to new levels of fitness. Just learning something new can give such a sense of purpose.

This is unfinished!

Cogs

I often wonder why people make me feel good, and why people make me feel bad, and how they are able to do this with little more than their presence.

Of course these are people I know, and not complete strangers. I'd be a Doc Brown-esq, nightmare of an eccentric mess if any old passer-by could affect my mood. However, it can take as little as an introduction and a few words to feel an indescribable comfort with someone. It's an almost physical feeling. The presence of a trusted friend is like wrapping yourself up in a blanket in a cold room. 
This is nothing new to describe. We all experience this amongst our loved ones, but sometimes we come across those who have very little affect on us at all. They can be perfectly good and interesting people, with plenty in common with you, a good sense of humour, even good looking, but there is simply no.....feeling; for want of a better word.

I used to look at my horoscope in the vague belief that this was some kind of pointer as to who I would get along with. Inevitably I would also look at the horoscopes of any particular woman I was interested in at the time too, just to see if I had a shot. There's a Sagittarian girl I like, but also a Scorpio. Why do I like them so much? I'll have a look at their horoscopes to see why, then I'll know which one to ask out. This tac was inevitably doomed of course, and I would just go for the one who had a better feel. Phnaar, phnaar!

I thought about auras too, for a while. Not visual glows or supernatural rainbow colours emanating from the silhouettes of those I found extra ordinary, but more a feeling in my invisible cat whiskers. Before continuing, I would like to assure any reader that I do not actually believe I have invisible cat whiskers. It's just a metaphor for something I can't explain. Anyway, I found myself comforted with the thought that I was drawn to people with strong auras, and that was that.

Soon though, it became apparent to me that this thought was pretty arrogant and a little narcissistic. Yes, the people I am drawn to are extra special, but they are extra special to me. What sort of person would I be to assume that simply because I don't find someone else particularly interesting, comforting, funny, or of any use whatsoever, that they themselves don't have people in their lives who find them the most intriguing entity they've ever met? After all, I have friends who have very close friends of their own whom I find as mundane as clipping toenails, yet my friend will hold them with rapt attention. 

For some time, I believed that I was simply too quick to judge and endeavoured to spend more time and effort getting to know friends of friends, or people I believed I should like more. I spent a couple of years doing this, but came to the conclusion that they were just not my cup of tea. They could be perfectly nice, I could hold a long conversation with them, I could even go out for a drink with them, but they simply didn't have that whisker tickling glow. Yet I new they did for others.

The impression I have currently, is of the inner workings of a complicated pocket watch. Full of delicate cogs of various sizes, but all of equal importance. Some are central, and affect the rotations of many around them. Others may only affiliate with only one or two others. All however, are equally important to the workings of the whole. These cogs are not set in one place, but move around the machine, feeling for other cogs which match their grooves and rotations. Some of these cogs will move around the machine together over time, and their teeth will erode and smooth away to fit each other even more smoothly, until the point is reached where they become integral to one another's workings.

How someone makes me feel, and I them, depends on how we fit together as pieces in existence, and where we are in time and space. Groovy.

George Harrison

George Harrison

George Harrison is my hero. There are several heroes who have played a part in piecing me together, but at this precise moment I'd like to talk about this man.

Some of my earliest memories are of the music my family used to play. As a unit their taste could only be described as eclectic, but as individuals they had their own grooves. My Dad loved jazz and musicals of the forty's and fifties. My brother had his prog rocky Pink Floyd and Genesis. My sister was all about punk and new romanticism. They all however, loved the Beatles. I remember days where I'd wake up, pull on some stretchy pamper type nappy things and waddle into my sister's room. She would remove Never Mind the Bollocks from her portable red and beige vinyl record player and put on Magical Mystery Tour, or Sgt Pepper instead. The mad lyrics and close harmony of those albums in particular had enormous appeal to my tiny ears. As early as the age of 3 I'd decided George was my favourite  Maybe because my sister loved the belligerent John, and my brother the straight laced Paul that I immediately picked the side of the one I saw as the talented, unsung underdog. That was that. George was my fave'.

As the years went on, events would unfold every now and then to vindicate my choice. By the age of ten, Monty Python was blowing my mind. Not their series so much as their films. I noticed they were all made by the same production company; Handmade Films. The founder was George Harrison. He had re mortgaged his house to ensure the completion of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. 

I learned about the Concert for Bangladesh, the way he approached the fact that his best friend had fallen in love with his wife in the most positive way, how he set up a humanitarian fund for UNICEF to help children caught in humanitarian emergencies. He would never seek limelight unless it was to use his name to help someone else.

It is his music which amazes me most of all. I don't think the vocabulary exists that can express how I 'see' it. There is an innocence, a simplicity, truth, love, boldness, a naked vulnerability in so many of his songs that they so often make me cry whilst smiling.

After his passing in 2001, his friends and family got together and held the Concert For George. It's a beautiful thing to see and hear as there is nothing but love in that concert hall.
Here's a few links to the concert. I defy you not to get at least a little bleary eyed.

The Olympics are Good

The Olympics are good.

    The crontrarian, the sceptic and the misery guts (I'm looking at you Morrissey http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/olympics/london-2012/9456684/London-2012-Olympics-have-made-England-foul-with-patriotism-says-Morrissey.html) may focus on the corporate branding, the cost and the possible corruption of representatives of the IOC, but the Olympics are good.
They're good in the same way that people are good. Mostly. To quote Stevie and Paul: "There is good and bad, hmmmm, in everyone. But we learn to live, and we learn to give each other what we need to survive. Together we thri-hive....", but I digress. As good people we don't focus on the bad in everyone. We all have bad, but as long as the good outweighs the bad: we're good. Right? It's the same with the Olympics.

    As a species we compete. We compete to evolve as we have done since the first prokaroyte cells jimmied for position in the primordial soup three and a half billion years ago. We compete to be better, fitter, faster, stronger because we're programmed to. And I love that. I love that with all our understandings of the universe around us, we're still basically strutting our stuff in front of all the other girls and boys. 'Hey darlin, look how high I can jump. I dig how fast you run. Lets get together and have babies who can run and jump faster and higher than all the other babies.' A simplification of the sexual imperative, but you you get my point.

    Unfortunately, as we grew in numbers and developed a bit of a collective subconscious we managed to warp this little dance into war. War is bad, but is definitely a competition. The winners get to write their history, pass on their genes and impose their beliefs on any surviving losers. The losers die, or are consumed by the ideals of the winners.

    The Olympic games, on the other hand, is a competition where we don't have to send armies and no one dies. The winners get a big cheer, some bling and a pat on the back. The losers get a big cheer and a pat on the back. Then the winners often retire and coach the losers to become winners, so in the long run; everybody wins!

    One of the wonders of the games is that the winners are almost incidental. The heroes are those who compete in the truest spirit of the games. I give you Eric 'The Eel' Moussambani, who had never seen a 50m pool before the competition, and had only learnt to swim 8 months beforehand. Hamadou Djibo, the single sculls rower from Niger, finished a full minute behind his closest competitor in a 2000m race. Sarah Attar, Saudi Arabia's first female track athlete was 30 seconds off the pace in the 800m. Eddie the Eagle, the Jamaican bob-sleigh team, there is an enormous list of Olympic 'no hopers', but they were all cheered as great competitors.

    Governments may want to be dicks to each other, but the vast majority of us just want to be friends. So we'll use Maccas', Coke and Nike (not to pick on American firms, but those are all I can think of right now), a few possibly dodgy officials and a tonne of tax money to have a couple of weeks that just about everyone is invited to. Then we'll celebrate in a way that transcends petty religious and political differences, and remember that we're really not that different after all.

I can think of nothing else in history, not even in war, that brings together so many non political representatives of so many nations. And they come together to play games and have a party. Beautiful.