Stuart 201 - The Rise of the Libido

Hello again.  Last time I took you on a meandering path through my early childhood, so tonight we get hot and steamy with the sordid tales of my teenage years.  People of a nervous disposition should look away now...

My time at Townhill Primary came to it's logical conclusion, and my move from primary, to secondary education, courtesy of the teachers and fellow pupils of Queen Anne High School. It was like being ripped from the comfort zone which was the familiarity of primary, and thrust, wide eyed and restless into the shark pool of high school - at least that's how it seemed at the time. So indoctrinated were we of tales of never ending bullying and brutality, that we took to travelling in packs, the Townhill people in one pack, those from Commercial Primary in another, and so on for all the feeder schools which populated QAHS.  I remember bits of my first day, we were herded to the assembly hall, where we were given an introduction by, I think the rector, but can't be 100% sure, anyway, we had already been assigned houses and classes, and I found myself in class 1C2, in the house of Carnegie. We were rounded up by the person who would become our registration teacher (the name of mine escapes me, she was a woman, or so it was alleged) and like the proverbial lambs to the slaughter, out we trooped.  Still, the ties to our primary schools abounded over all else, and our troupe of reprobates still found itself factioned by primary school.  All old grudges or vendettas were instantly forgotten as you bound yourself with familiarity in the shape of people from your old primary. It would take a while for the barriers to come down, but slowly, they would.

I actually don't remember much of my first year at high school.  There was so much to take on, gone was the cosy environment you were used to, in it's place was a bewildering array of classes, rooms, teachers, protocols, we were shunted from pillar to post. Maths, English, Music, Languages (in my case German), Classics, History, Modern Studies, Geography, Chemistry, Biology and Physics.  Throw in the odd class here and there of SHE (Social and Health Education - I still don't know what the point of that was), Domestic Science (where I learned to bake an apple crumble), Technical Drawing (where I learned that even with a ruler, I could be trusted to draw a straight line), Woodwork and Metalwork (I still can't believe they let me loose with power tools), one class per week of Religious Education, and of course, gym.  Gym was a particular brand of misery for me, for the sports I enjoyed (and showed at least some degree of competence at) were those which weren't 'cool', in other words, I didn't like football. I didn't mind watching football, but unlike my father (who in his younger days was semi-professional) and my elder brother (who played for well known Junior teams), my footballing prowess was... well, non existent. I liked racquet sports (tennis particularly), I wasn't bad a cricket (I remember cracking someone's ribs with a well aimed full toss once), I had enough size on my side to be fairly reasonable at rugby, I was pretty good at hockey, but that was pretty much it.  Track and field bored me, my absolute lack of ability at basketball was matched only by lack of ability at football and at Queen Anne, basketball and football were the two dominant sports.   So, it came to pass that I was never one of the 'cool' kids, but I actually found that I was ok with that. I had some friends who were in the cool group, but I was always on the periphery, hanging around like a fart in an elevator.

The big changes in my life, however, were starting to manifest themselves outside of school. By the time the summer holidays at the end of first year had some and gone, and I was a world weary 2nd year (Still in C2, but now prefixed by the all important '2' - I wasn't one of the new kids on the block any more!) returning to school, I found myself paying more and more attention to the girls in my class, for lo, the interesting bumps they had betwixt their neck and navel were starting to demand attention.

There was a reason for this. For, during that summer, I became familiar with a rite of passage known to boys since time immemorial. Any gentlemen reading this will find themselves nodding sagely, with a wistful look on their face, as they too recount the first time they learned of the particular pleasure which can be found from 'relaxing in the gentleman's way'.  As there is no delicate way of describing this part of my life, I shall just barge on like a bull in a china shop.  Yes folks, you have guessed.  That summer, my left hand stopped being just the thing I wrote with, and became my self-contained portal into the world of shaking hands with the unemployed. Before long, it appeared that there was almost nothing on earth which was incapable of causing some degree of urge from the nether regions.  All of a sudden whoever it was who decided that 'Page 3' was a good idea was essentially worshipped.  It didn't take much to act as a starting gun for another bout of hand to gland combat. I'm pretty much convinced that my parents were on the verge of sending me to the hospital, I spent so long in the bathroom I suspect they were worried I had dysentery.  All of a sudden, school became an exercise in trying not to walk around all day with a semi, lest your school trousers (the fashion of the day demanded that they be fairly tight of leg and snug of groin) act as a sanding pad against the old soldier. What made it worse for me, was that my English teacher was the legendary Mrs Riddell. Mrs Riddell was, it was widely agreed, a looker. One of my memories from 2nd year English was overhearing some construction workers as they passed my classroom, ogling at teacher from outside, when one was heard to utter "she's a f**king stunner eh, she'd get it".  The classroom went silent, Mrs Riddell went scarlet and all the boys in the room I think crossed their legs as if controlled by some Pavlovian instinct, whilst all the girls narrowed their eyes and looked accusingly at whatever boy they had a crush on.   Being a competitive soul, even with myself, eventually I decided to see how many times in one day I could crack one off. I'm not going to lie, it hurt, but, in true Mastermind style, I'd started so I was going to finish.  By the time I did, my left arm was cramping, my heart was racing, my nether regions were howling in distress, but I had managed it.

I was still at high school (just) when I had my first proper encounter with an actual living, breathing girl, as opposed to the underwear section of the Kays catalogue.  I won't reveal the (un)lucky girl's actual name, let's call her Jemima, but she was my first real girlfriend, and my first physical encounter of the interesting kind.  We were both of the age where experimentation gets the better of you (although as it turned out, Jemima had been more experimental than I was - I wasn't the only one grateful for her existance!).  I remember the event with startling clarity, what was on the tape she put on (a mixture of Black Sabbath and AC/DC), the day of the week (it was a Saturday), although the actual date escapes me.  Anyway, we had been going out for what was essentially forever (i.e., more than a fortnight) and we had kissed, I'd given her boobs a few nervous fondles, and we were in her house, everyone else was out, we got to kissing and then she started to divest herself of clothing. Again, not going to lie, this actually confused me, I remember it being a warm day, but even so... Eventually, she took pity on me and more or less commanded that I too make my birthday suit the Mode de Jour.  She presciently ascertained that I'd never done this before (I'm not sure how, although I think the mixture of lust, confusion and blind panic in my eyes may have something to do with it) and so pushed my back on the bed and more or less just jumped on top of me.  I will be forever grateful that she did for, if I'm being honest, I wasn't really sure what the hell I was meant to be doing.  I'm sure if you ask any of my exes, they will say that not much has changed!! At least then I had the excuse of being 16 (as was she, so it was all legal!). Anyway, as it finally dawned on me that I was actually doing IT, twanging the one string bass suddenly became the second best thing I could do, and second by a long distance.  It was all I could do not to sing out loud.  I clearly remember afterwards wondering "ok, so what do I do now..." I wasn't sure if I asked for feedback, tips on how to do it better, did I ask her to give me a score, I was utterly ignorant of post coital protocol. I think I said something like "wwwuuuuuhhhh.. Uuuuuuhhhhhhh. Crikey. Phhhhhhhhhhhhh.. wow... ".  What can I say, I've always had a way with words.

Of course, I was now convinced that I was a ladykiller of the highest degree, second only to James Bond (and even then, only just second).  If only I knew that I was about to embark on what can only be called "a bit of a dry spell".

Tune in again tomorrow for part 3, where our hero completes high school, eventually gets a girlfriend and learns that consuming too much alcohol and vomiting all over your friend is, for some inexplicable reason, frowned upon!

Stuart 101 - The Early Years

I'm nowhere near famous. Certainly not famous enough to merit an autobiography, but that mere trifle hasn't stopped me thinking about making some kind of note of my life thus far. Why? I have no idea, but recently it has, for some unknown reason, seemed like a good idea. If nothing else, it will hopefully spark some happy memories for me, and will, I hope, be at least vaguely amusing.

Everything you are about to read is true, some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent (i.e., me, of course!). There may well be some gratuitous nudity at some point. You have been warned.

Where do I start. Well, I was born 2 months early, 2 months to the day, in fact.  I was yanked out on November 15 (which was a Wednesday and, as I was even then nice and considerate, I popped out at 4:30 in the afternoon - no reason to keep mum up all night really, was there!), when I wasn't due to make an appearance until Jan 15. I always have had a thing for being early, although as I get older, it seems harder and harder to remain punctual! Apparently when I was born, I could fit into a shoebox. Given that I was 2 months premature, I'd have been happier had the hospital shoved me in something a bit more appropriate than a shoebox, maybe, oooh, I don't know, an incubator, perhaps?

It's fair to say, I was something of a surprise.  My dad was 40 when I popped out, my mother 36, my brother 16.  Apparently, I was the result of a broken leg.  "How so??" I hear you cry.  Apparently, dad had broken his leg and couldn't jump off quickly enough, the result - one of his little swimmers struck the gynaecological equivalent of oil and after a couple of victory laps, hit the button marked 'Fertilise".  I'm reasonably certain that my mother thought I was trapped wind for the first few months.

Anyway, despite weighing only around 3lbs when I was presented to the world, and causing a bit of concern for the first couple of weeks, by mid January the nursing hospital decreed that I was well enough to go home.

So, my mum and dad loaded the 2 month old me carefully into the car (I never asked either what the make of car was, I really need to try and remember to ask my mum at some point), and left the hospital to take me back home to Townhill. All was good with the world. Of course, this being me, it couldn't happen the easy way, and so it came to pass that as mum and dad drove me home (I have a mental picture of them having glowing smiles and singing along to a Julie Andrews song for some bizarre reason), dad decided to go rally driving. By that, I mean hit a patch of black ice and flipped the car, which would up on it's roof, in a ditch.  My comments on this are sadly unrecorded for posterity, but as it meant a swift return to the nursing hospital, it's fair to say I was probably fairly pissed off.  As luck would have it, I appeared to have escaped major injury and after a couple of weeks of observation, operation 'Take Stuart Home, v2.0' was a success.

My recollections of the next few years are hazy at best, not going to lie.  So, to fill the space, I will mention a bit about my family.  My parents, Vi and Sandy were Fifers born and bred, but they had moved to Whitney in Oxfordshire to find work.  When mum was finally convinced that she wasn't just suffering from a massive bout of constipation and did actually have a small person growing inside her, she decreed that she was going home to Scotland to have the baby.  My mother, who I love dearly, is a fearsome beast when roused, and knowing my father, I think he'd have known better to put up any kind of resistance beyond a cursory "are you sure, dear?". When I was born, I had 3 living grandparents, my 'big gran' (my maternal grandmother) and my 'wee gran' (who was, apparently genuinely titchy, I don't think she quite made it to 5') and my 'di'.  My maternal grandfather died in the 50s, so I missed meeting him by a considerable margin. I had the usual assortment of uncles, aunts, cousins etc.

The halcyon days of my early childhood were spent in Wilson Street, Townhill, where my mother still resides. It's sometimes kinda strange, depending on my mood, being in my mum's house, if I'm feeling particularly introspective I will wander into what was my bedroom and think back.  I can remember most of the posters I had on the walls, I can remember all the various room configurations, how the room looked when my bed was against this wall, or that wall, where I kept my toys, little things like that. Any time I feel like that and I go in there, some of things which pop into my head are quite strange, for example, I remember Sundays as a kid being really quite depressing, but I don't know why. It's not like I hated school, I actually quite liked going to school, but for some reason, Sundays always resonated badly with me, and it's as true today as it was then - I still don't like Sundays.  I'm sure there's a reason for it, but I've yet to figure it out!  I had the same interests as any small child, namely, eating, sleeping and of course, practising for my future as a lothario, learning, as you can see, how to look good with a pipe (although I am sadly lacking a smoking jacket).  There's always something authoritative about a guy with a pipe.

One of my earliest memories was nursery.  I must have been, I'm guessing, 4 when I went to nursery, which was held in a community hall which was an annexe to the local library.  My overarching memory is standing at the window was my mum walked away, crying, I'm guessing because I didn't want her to leave.  I'm fairly certain this was a recurring theme, but other than that, I remember vaguely enjoying my time at nursery, which makes my perpetual wailings at the start of every day somewhat odd. Anyway, I remember some things more than others at nursery, I remember a sort of indoor climbing frame, stickle bricks, and free milk. Whole milk as well, none of your semi-skimmed stuff.  Actually, the milk must have been fairly gross, but at the time it was great! It came in little 1/4 pint miniature glass bottles with a silver foil lid (I must confess my detailed memory of the bottles comes from primary school, but as these were the same as we got in nursery, I think I can get away with it), into which we poked thin blue straws.

No sooner had I adjusted to nursery, than the next great upheaval in my life occurred - Primary School.

I was fairly lucky, in that my parents house was literally a minute away from Townhill Primary.  Don't believe me? I took this picture from my parents front garden a few years ago, the school is the building on the left

It was great.  I could essentially wait until I heard the bell ring for the start of the day, and then leave the house.  After the bell rang, the kids had to line up in the classic Noachian 2 x 2 arrangement and wait to be allowed into the classes, thus affording me enough time for one more cosy second before I was out of the door, over the wall (what can I say, I was a rebel) and into the line with my classmates.

One of the peculiarities I've discovered when I got thinking about this is how little I remember of my primary school days. For example, I remember a few of my primary teachers, Miss DuPre in P4, Mrs Rowan in P3 (I think - actually, an odd memory form my time in her class is the time I got into trouble for smacking her on the ass. I don't remember why I did it, I'm sure it must have had a good reason, but that's long gone!) I think my P7 teacher was Mrs Bell, but that's all I remember.  Similarly, my classmates from those times are equally hazy,which, given most of them were in the same class as me for my entire life at primary is a bit odd.  Some I remember with clarity, or at least parts of them. I remember a girl called Andrea who lived near my gran, my best friend from primary times was Alan Grant whose father was some kind of shepherd I think, Denise Lumsden (who has recently become a FB friend, so if you are reading this "hi!"), Andrew Gaitens who later lost an eye in some kind of accident, there was a guy called Rodger, a girl called Linda (who may, or may not have been the first girl I kissed, you'd think I'd remember stuff like that huh, but no, apparently not), and a whole bunch of other people.

School days were taxing, but not crazily so, although I did exhibit annoyingly lazy traits quite early on which became a recurring theme throughout my scholastic life - I figured out how much effort I'd need to put in to make sure that anything I did I could do adequately enough to pass, but not so much work that I'd actually excel. If I had the chance to go  back to my young self and offer one piece of advice it would be this - "you aren't that dumb, if you work hard, then you can achieve things, so don't be a dick and get on with it".

Summer holidays were never ending, or so they seemed. Summers in retrospect always seemed warmer, longer, more fun than they probably were.  A lot of my time during the summer holidays was spent with my big gran, both my parents worked, so my gran looked after me, I sometimes would have to stay there overnight, and for some reason her house always vaguely scared me, although I'm not sure why.  These memories have just popped into my head actually, I've not thought about her house in Forest Place for years, but now I am, I don't remember many specifics, other than a picture of a wedding (one of my uncles) on the small dresser which was in the spare room, and the texture of her sheets, which were different from the ones my parents had.  I do remember she had an open coal fire, with a coal bunker around the back, also remember her kitchen, which was smaller than the one in my parents house, and had a small table upon which I would take my lunchtime repast on those days where I went to my gran's for lunch from school.

My big gran and I were always close. Some of my happiest memories from my early childhood involve my gran, mum and I taking walks through the forest which formed the backdrop of the parts of Townhill village where both my parents and my gran lived. My big gran was always something of a character, as she gold older she got a bit more eccentric, although she remained in full control of her mind until about 2/3 weeks before she died at 94. She was never one to hold back any opinions, I once remember visiting her in hospital where she proceeded to announce that "that poor auld thing over there, she's just no right", before shouting across the ward "I SAID, YOUR NO RIGHT ARE YOU". The poor thing she was talking too just nodded a silent assent. It was often the easiest way to deal with gran, just agree, and then move on!

You may be wondering why I'm talking more about my maternal grandma than my paternal grandparents. Well, my dad's mum died when I was very young, I must have been about 7 or 8, and she died on Xmas eve.  To be fair to my dad, despite having lost his mother the day before, he made sure that Xmas for me went on as usual.  I don't have many artefacts from my childhood, but one thing I do have is a book. It's called "The Little Boy and his House" and it formed part of my Xmas present from my paternal grandparents. It's one of my most treasured items and would be one of the things I would rescue should my house ever catch fire. My paternal grandfather followed a couple of years later, so by the time I was about 10, both of my paternal grandparents had passed on, so it was just me, my parents and my big gran.

That said, I can still remember some  things about my dad's parents - they had a whistling kettle for one thing. Not for them the convenience of a normal plug in kettle, no, if they wanted a cuppa (and my wee gran did, pretty much constantly - I'm sure she consumed half the tea produced by the good people at Tetleys) they put the water in the kettle, put the kettle on the stove, and waited for the whistle.  My gran (or di, I don't remember which) also had a real fondness for beef flavoured crisps. Even now, on the rare occasion I have a packet of beef crisps, the smell automatically makes me think of my long departed grandparents.

Anyway, I think that makes a logical breaking point for tonight - if I write too much, then no one will come back for the juicy expose of my early teenage years - the life, the love, the frankly alarmingly frequent bouts of onanism...

What Makes a Memory...

Hi. It's been a while! Did you miss me?  For once, my lack of blog hasn't been due to having nothing to talk about, I'm not actually sure why I've not written anything for a while.  Never mind though, I'm here now!

When you think about it, human memory, and indeed, memories, as strange things. They are real, but yet, somehow not, an incorporeal snapshot of a moment in time.  People tend to think of their memories as being solid, inviolable, not a subject for consideration - we know what we remember, and what we remember, we know. Is that really the case though?

Memory is very subjective - some people have good memories, some bad, most, like me, somewhere in the middle. I should point out at this juncture, I am very aware of the difference between a memory, and something you remember - the two aren't exactly the same.  Think of them as being like two species from the same genus. People like to think of their memories as being absolute - how could they be anything but, the will argue - we know what we have experienced.  A lot of the time, yes, you probably do, but, equally, a lot of your memories will be either faded, partial or flat out wrong, hazed by the distance of time.  How many of you remember your first day at school?  I mean really remember, remember the feelings, the sensations, the whole thing. I can't. I remember what I think my first day at school was like, but I couldn't stand up in court and swear an oath that it was absolutely correct. That said, I can barely remember what I had for dinner yesterday!

The reason this topic has been on my mind recently is because I've noticed that various strange memories from my past are popping up, unbidden, random and generally trivial.  For example, why did my mind decided to pop a memory of the old public conveniences in Dunfermline into my head. What use does that serve?  Similarly, why is it when I think of my late father, the first memory of him which pops up is of us playing tennis when I was about 10?  (You may think that this memory is inspired by Wimbledon, it's not, it doesn't matter when in the year I think of him, at some point the memory of tennis will pop up). I can't remember in any detail my first kiss, something you'd think would be permanently hot-wired to the front of my mind (her name was Lisa, we went to school together, her dad knew my dad, other than that, I remember nothing about it, other than it happened), yet I remember in vivid detail the first time I was able to ride my bike without  stabilisers.  Was learning to ride my bike a more momentous occasion than my first kiss?  I don't think so. If it was though. then surely passing my driving test would eclipse riding my bike? Apparently not, for my memory of my driving test is vague, other than being told I passed.

For the record, the day I learned to ride my bike was, fittingly, the day I did a cycling proficiency thing at primary school. I was in Primary 2, it was a sunny day, and the playground of Townhill Primary had (well, still has) a slope, going from the school building to the bottom wall. I'd tried time and again that day to ride in a nice straight line, turn and  go back and then stop.  The proficiency part of the test, the practical, if you like, took place on a wide stretch of pathway between the main school building and the huts at the back, and I was struggling. As my time to sit, and undoubtedly fail, my cycling proficiency exam drew closer, I remember being actually scared, so, in one last attempt to somehow overcome whatever was going on in my head, I pushed myself along with my feet on the ground, in the manner of an old velocipede from Victorian times.  As I got to the slope something compelled me to lift both feet and I was away, I was freewheeling down the slope, turned and then whatever force coaxed my feet from the ground then prompted me to start peddling. Before I really knew what was happening, I was riding my bike up and down the playground thinking that this was the greatest thing in the world, ever, and would not be equalled, my blonde locks flowing in the summer breeze.  Newly emboldened, I sent back to where the tests were being done, went once round to show I could pedal, turn and brake, and when I got back to the teacher, promptly fell off.  I still got my certificate though, so I guess there was a happy ending!

I still don't know why that one incident has such a lasting grip on my memory, although at least I know why it has been in my head of recent times - one of my former primary school classmates became my FB friend a few days ago, triggering a mini tsunami of memories from those distant, halcyon days. A time where the world seemed a lot different, where summers were long and hot, where the single worst insult anyone could utter was that you had an ugly schoolbag, and where, for some reason, it was considered an absolute anathema to be accused of the heinous crime of kissing a girl!

As so often happens, I start writing these things with no idea, however vague, of how it will end.  Most of the time I'm not even sure what I'm going to write about until I'm half way through, at which point I usually make the fatal mistake of starting to think about it, which just causes problems. So, I will leave you with this - yes, memories are precious, but the memory you are going to make tomorrow - that's the most precious one of all.

What Makes a Hero

When you picture a hero, what do you see? An actor, maybe, they are certainly often the centre of hero-worship, as are rock stars.  If you are a sporting type, then maybe your hero is your team's star player/striker/quarterback/pitcher/enforcer/whatever.  If that's who you see as a hero, then that's perfectly cool, it's all good, after all, heroism will mean different things to different people.

Many people cite members of the emergency services as heroes. Our police officers, firemen, medical personnel, and they are right. These guys are heroes, as are our (and by our, I mean whatever you, the reader, will define as 'our') military personnel, guys who put their lives in the line hourly, never mind daily.

Those guys are heroes. No doubt. But there is another class of hero.  The ordinary guy (or girl) who, when placed in an extraordinary situation, will go so far above and beyond what could be reasonably expected. I'm not suggesting that these people are more or less heroic than the others already mentioned, that would be very unfair on pretty much everyone, I think once we get to the stage of being a hero, to then try and assign levels of heroism does a terrible disservice to all concerned.

So, what prompted this. I'm watching an award winning docu-drama about 9/11, which focuses on some of the unheralded acts of heroism, the guys who, despite the danger went up the towers to see if they could rescue others. Just ordinary people, doing extraordinary things.  Similarly, during the 7/7 attacks in London, ordinary people went into the flames, put themselves in mortal danger.  In both instances, people are alive today thanks to the actions of those who didn't let the danger they were facing stop them - both civilian and emergency services. In the case of 9/11, sadly many of these heroes paid the ultimate price for their bravery.

When I watch these documentaries, when I read about these stories, it makes me think - if I was in the same situation, would I be able to do the same? I'd like to think I would, but the reality is, I doubt it. I guess in truth, I'd never know unless I was actually thrust into such a circumstance, and you will forgive me for hoping that never happens.

For once, I didn't write something to get to a specific point, I wrote this because I simply wanted to record my admiration and respect for all of those people who show an incalculable degree of courage, of selflessness, of simple human decency, those people who restore ones belief in the positive side of humanity.

I've never dedicated a blog post before, and I doubt very much I will ever do it again, but these simple words, such as they are, are wholly inadequate to express the true measure of heroism inherent in those special few.  So I would dedicate this post to all of the heroes of 9/11, of 7/7, and those who continue to put themselves into the gravest degrees of danger, that the rest of us don't have to.  Sometimes, thank you just doesn't seem to be sufficient, but sadly, it is all we have.

When all these changes come...

Tomorrow, will see the end of an era, and a bit of a sad day for me. One of my best friends and workmates is leaving for pastures new, just a couple of weeks after another mutual friend left, leaving me the only one of the three remaining. Sad times, but, Mark is off to bigger and better things (as hopefully will I be soon too!), so Bev - good luck in your new gig, it just makes it all the more important that we get OCS finally up and running after what, about a year of talking about it??

Anyway, onto the main parts of the blog.  As I mentioned last time, I was reading a book which had me totally and utterly hooked all the way through. Then I got to the ending. I have to be honest and say that, whilst the book still remains one of my all time favourites, it had exactly the kind of ending I don't like. The ending was somewhat ambiguous, which I do understand, and can see how people may enjoy that, it means that they can try and extrapolate their own continuance of the story.  I, however, am not a fan.

I like the end of my book to be just that - an end. I want to know what happens to the central characters, I want some sense of closure, I guess. Now, I know what you are thinking. "But Stuart, real life isn't like that, life itself doesn't come in chapters, nor does it often tie up all the loose ends at the end of a story".  No arguments from me there, but that is exactly why I want my books to be different! I am aware that life doesn't work the way it does in books/movies/plays/shadow puppetry/mime (as an aside, mime isn't 'art'. Learn the f**king words, that's art!), but when I read, I like to do so to escape from reality for a while, I want to live vicariously through the characters and there situations, and that means I like to know how it ends with no ifs, buts, or maybes!  A simplistic view of literature? Almost certainly, but I can be quite a simplistic person when I want to be!!

I've also been thinking about writing again recently, and I have no idea why. I have the seeds of an idea in my head, but nothing beyond a couple of strapline thoughts. If I thought for a second that I'd see it through I'd try and flesh these thoughts out, because I think I could possibly have the beginnings of a good idea, but me being me, I would go it it hammer and tongs for the first few pages until I ran out of steam, then I'd think "I'll leave it for a few days", those few days would become a week, that week would become two, then a month and before I know it, I've retired and gone senile before another word has been struck.  Maybe I need a writing partner, someone to take my ideas and polish them into something that doesn't suck.  Any volunteers?

I have strange ideas about writing sometimes. For example, I've often thought it would be quite a good laugh to write a script for a Shakespearean themed 'adult entertainment' movie (yes, I know no one watches them for the plot, but that's sort of the point!).

"Forsooth, my lady, for lo, it would give me great delights were you to permit me to issue forth across thy countenance divine"

Yeah, I have too much time on my hands. And I am also aware that, in line with Rule 34, it will already have been done. Frequently. And probably very badly!  Who knows, maybe one day I'll get my act together and write something! I even have some screenwriting software installed (it's called Celtx, and it's very good and most pleasingly, free!), all I need is to find some degree of imagination.

So, if anyone fancies writing something with me, get in touch!

'Playing poker with my soul...'

What makes a good book?  Is a good book one which, when you get to the end, you close it thinking 'that was a good story, I liked that'.  Sure, that would be a definition of a good book.  How about one where you think, upon it's completion 'I learned something from that, cool'.  Yep, no arguments there either.

What, then, makes a great book?  For me, a great book is one which draws me in to the story to such a degree that I start to feel an affinity with one or more of the characters, one which makes me lose all track of time. One where you find yourself deliberately reading more slowly as you become aware that you are approaching the end, because you don't want the story to be over. I'm reading a book at the moment which ticks all of those boxes. I read a lot, I'll get through 20-30 books a year.  That may not seem like a lot to some, but I think it's a decent amount of reading, and I genuinely don't remember the last time I got drawn into a book the way I have with this one. 

Part of what makes it such an engrossing book is the aforementioned affinity I have found with one of the characters.  Despite this being a work of fiction, I have subconsciously found myself drawing parallels with my own life as the characters life is played out in front of me - the death of his father, estrangement from his brother, and of course, his unrequited love for another of the characters. I feel way too much of his pain on that last point, trust me, particularly as it was his own (in)action which caused him to lose the girl he loved. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.  Not the same t-shirt, but one from a related line certainly.

A great book to me, is one which makes you look at yourself and wonder how others see you. What do I mean by that, well, I'll try to explain, but I'm not very good at this sort of thing, but here goes:  

When you start a book, you have no preconceptions about any of the characters - you haven't been introduced to them, you have no idea if they are heroic, villainous, cowardly, anything - all you get to know about the character is what you read as you go on.  It's analogous to meeting someone for the first time and figuring out if you are going to like them. You also get to look at the characters through each other - you get to learn about their interactions, what they truly feel about each other, all of which combines to build up the pictures and abstracts in your head about the sociology of the cast of characters. When that is done well, so well in fact that you find yourself forming some sort of 'bond' (for the want of a better term) with one (or more) of the characters, it may make you wonder what those characters would think of you. Ok, maybe that's just me then, but it does give me pause to think 'I wonder how other people do actually see me...'  Ironically, I'm not sure I would actually want to know the answer.

When I started writing this, I had an idea about getting some stuff off my chest, out of my head, I have one of those strange minds which seems to find it easier to let thoughts go when they are written down, I guess it's part of my strange connection to the written word. I am constantly fascinated by language and it's power.  Sadly, despite this, and despite my reasonable vocabulary, my capacity for writing flowing and silken prose is somewhat restricted. It's why, no matter how much I would like to, I will never be an author.  It manifests itself in other ways too.  I find it very hard to talk about my feelings, to anyone. Every time I try, I wind up over thinking things, and then whatever I had in mind to say, comes out all garbled. By the time I've done that, and then reworded it in my head so it comes out closer to the way I originally intended, it's generally too late, I've made a bit of a mess of things.  This is never truer than when a woman is involved, as I'm sure all my exes will attest, as will any unfortunate soul I have taken a noteworthy liking to and tried to woo. As an aside, no one uses 'woo' as a term for making attempts at exhibiting a courtly desire these days. Sorry, back on track...

So, you will be wondering, dear reader, what the heck I'm talking about. How did all this come together in my  head, and where do books fit in... Well, the part of the book I'm currently completely enthralled with features the protagonist suffer a very very similar fate with his love interest. Obviously, that resonated with me, now more than ever. I will spare you the gory details, but there has been a specific reason for my malaise of a couple of weeks ago, and it was strange to see something which is so utterly personal to me, play out in front of me in the book, in a manner which so closely resembles my recent experiences.  It doesn't take much to thrust me into the throes of introspection, but that certainly did it - seeing, in black and white, a literary depiction of one of my biggest failings, feeling a strange jarring in my mind as I found myself thinking "just say it, for **** sake, why are you skirting around it... Oh. Hold on... that seems eerily familiar!".

Before I got to that chapter, and those pages in that chapter, I was already of the opinion that the book was one of the best I'd read for a while. The more I read, the more inclined I am to say that it's one of the best books I've read ever, and over my life, I've read hundreds.  A book which captures and holds your imagination, which makes you buy into the characters (which are so amazingly well developed), and makes you look at yourself?  That's a very rare thing indeed.

So, my friends, I will leave you with my thought of the day - if you love someone, let them know. Don't skirt around it, don't dress it up in flowery language so that the meaning is diluted, or indeed, lost. In my rare moments of clarity it occurs to me that Occam's Razor doesn't only apply to physics, chemistry etc. It can just as easily apply to language - strip away the words which don't need to be there, which don't contribute to the sentiment you are trying to portray, and what you are left with is the truth.  If only I was able to take my own advice, huh!

Oh, and if you are wondering why this issue is titled as it is, I really couldn't think of a suitable title, I happened to be listening to a song which has that line in it, it's a favourite song, so I thought what the hell.

Until next time folks. Take care.

We Were Promised Jet-Packs...

Over the past few days I've been reading bits and pieces, nothing of any real consequence (or so I thought) but noticed a pattern forming – a lot of the things I read, or read about, pertained to how people in the past, had a view of the future. For example, for some reason I started reading about 2001 – A Space Odyssey, and it's sequel 2010. Both of those years have, obviously, passed without anything like the levels of technological advancement as postulated in the books (and movies).

I know that they are works of science fiction, not science fact, just as Star Wars were sci-fi, Star Trek, Stargate (I'm starting to notice a trend here!), but it made me think about how people in the past, viewed the future, and how much of what has been written about has actually come to pass. A cursory glance around the internet throws up things like:

CCTV – from '1984' by George Orwell, written in 1949.

Global telecommunication – Mark Twain (yeah, it surprised me too) in 'From the London Times of 1904' which he wrote in 1898.

Communications Satellites – Arthur C Clarke is widely credited as being the 'inventor' of the geosynchronous satellite, which possibly over-eggs the pudding somewhat. In a magazine article called 'Extra Terrestrial Relays', published in 1945 he first postulated the idea, although Hermann Oberth (1920) and Dr John R Pierce (undated) have made similar claims.

iPods – An early reference to what could be considered a video iPod or video phone can be found in HG Wells' 'When the Sleeper Wakes', published in 1899, although I'm sure Bill Gates will claim he thought about it in 1898.

Test Tube Babies – Aldous Huxley's magnum opus 'Brave New World' introduced the idea of a world populated by machines, rather than natural birth.

CD and DVD – EE Smith (no, I'd never heard of him either until I started doing a bit of research for this) introduced a metallic disc (which, in his book was made of platinum alloy) used for storing information in 'Triplanetary', published in 1934.

Robots – The word was famously coined by Karel Kapek (the word is of Czech origin, 'robota' meaning drudgery) in his 1920 book 'Rossum's Universal Robots'

Nanobots – The world of nanotechnology was first seen in a story in Astounding Stories magazine called 'A Menace in Miniature' by Raymond Gallun way back in 1937.

Credit/Debit Cards – A feature of Edward Bellemy's 1888 novel 'Looking Backward' was that money had been eliminated, and in their stead people carried cards which were used to pay for stuff.

There are, of course, many more, some very well known (submarines by Jules Verne, tanks (the shooty kind, not the watery kind) and the atomic bomb, both my HG Wells – he was such an optimist – the iPad and online newspapers, both by Arthur C Clarke, the list goes on), some more obscure.

So, looking around us today, we would see a world full of wonder, full of technological advancement (something I touched on in another blog), yet there is an aspect of 'The Future' which is a common theme to many sci-fi works, namely that the world of tomorrow will be a veritable utopia, where pain, disease and poverty are eradicated. Sadly, this is (thus far anyway) not even close to being the case.

It was an article about child poverty in the UK which actually got me thinking about this. It is estimated that approximately 3.5 million children in the UK live in poverty. 75% of the British children who have serious problems with asthma come from the poorest 10% of the population. Infant mortality rates are much higher amongst families who are living under the breadline, which leads me to wonder how much of an impact the rise of the technological revolution has really had. 

Yes, technology makes life easier – if you can afford to have it. Technology can help us understand the universe, can allow us to break down and examine the human body to it's simplest parts, it can help us talk to someone on the other side of the planet as easily as if they were in the next room, so why is it then, that all the amazing advances in technology, all the understanding we now have of life, the world, everything, how is it that despite all we as a species have achieved, we cannot create a world where children don't go to bed hungry during school holidays because their parents (or, in a number of instances, parent) relies on free school dinners to keep their children fed. 

From a global perspective, is it more important to the world that we spend $300 billion (yes, three hundred billion dollars) on the F-35 Lightning II JSF development project (bear in mind, I am a huge aviation geek!!) when there are already aircraft in the world with very similar capabilities, or we take that money and use it to develop ways of maximising food production in the 3r4d world? And yes, I know that there isn't really a single aircraft which does everything the F-35 L-2 does, but that's neither here nor there.

Is this a naive, massively simplistic view of things? Absolutely, I'm not going to deny that. It's also not a dig at the Pentagon for funding the JSF programme, I used that as merely an example, as it's something I was familiar with, I could find hundreds of examples in pretty much every country on earth. 

Will there ever be the utopian society we have been promised? The cynic (or realist, depending on your point of view) in me says there won't be – human nature being as it is, I doubt we will ever have a society where everyone has what they need to live comfortably, there will always be those who want more.

Technology, ladies and gentlemen, is progressing at an amazing pace. In little over 100 years we have gone from the Wright brothers groundbreaking first flight, to sending people into space with such frequency that it becomes fairly routine. We have gone from wax cylinders to MP3s, from the telegraph to the internet, from thinking that the sun god Sol was responsible for making the sun rise in the morning, to being able to work out what powers the sun's interior. Sadly, we as humans have not made the same development. If we had, if humankind had developed at the same pace technology has, I think we would be a fair few steps closer to Utopia.

Now... where's my jet-pack...