I went to a christening last weekend (not the one just gone, the one before that). Apart from the immense tedium of one and a half hours of pious crap and the hypocrisy of the catholic church [Dear God-Botherers, want people to come to your church? Then why not try not boring them to tears on a Sunday when they could be sleeping!], it was a very strange sermon.
What would be an appropriate topic for a Sunday when a child is being christened in front of the congregation? Innocence? The wonder of life?
Or paedophilia?
Nice choice Father. How thoughtful. Funnily enough, though, he did not mention that centre for excellence in abusing young boys - the catholic church. It wasn't quite draw-droppingly inappropriate, but it was close, and it was noticed by - oh - everyone there.
So, I didn't find religion, and I lost even more respect for those who spread His word. Still, it was amusing in a dark, ironic way...
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Man's best friend
The platform at Liverpool Street was quieter than the main concourse; cooler, too, without the glass roof acting like a greenhouse. The train had not yet arrived, but the platform had been announced, and the platform edge was filling up with commuters on their way home. Karen walked to her usual position, where she knew the doors would be: glad to be out of the office. Next to her was a man, waiting patiently, his golden guide dog by his side. Karen looked briefly at her watch – needlessly, because she had seen the time on the platform indicators – and rested her summer jacket on top of her briefcase on the ground. The train was still a few minutes away.
“I haven’t seen you here before. I’d recognise your beautiful dog if I had.”
The man turned to face her. “No,” he said, “I normally go via King’s Cross, but obviously I have to get home another way.”
“That must be quite difficult for your dog, a change of routine and everything.”
“She’s a wonderful dog – very intelligent, even for a guide dog. In fact, I’m a bit sheepish because I owe her an apology.”
He paused, knowing that he had Karen’s undivided attention.
“I gave her quite a telling off last week. On Thursday we were waiting at the platform – at King’s Cross. It was quite busy, but we were at the front of the platform – being let through busy platforms is one of the benefits of having her – and ready to board the train. When the doors open, she started barking and pulling me around. She’s never done that before, always been as good as gold.
“Rather than let her cause a scene, I pulled her back and let everyone else on. While we waited for the next train… Well, I gave her a piece of my mind.
Of course, before the next train turned up, the service was suspended and we had to leave the station. I was furious.”
Karen nodded for him to continue, mumbling “u-hu” when realising the futility of her nodding. She was bending down, stroking the dog.
“I found out later that it was the carriage that the bomb went off in. She saved my life. I feel awful, thinking about how I told her off… I’m just glad that she stuck to her guns.”
Karen was wide eyed, “do you think she knew? Could she smell the bomb? Or the fear?”
“I have no idea. I guess so – dogs have an amazing sense of smell. But she must have known. I’ll not doubt her again. And I’ll keep spoiling her until my guilt goes”
He swallowed hard, laughed gently and stroked his dog. Karen smiled, and continued talking to him – both of them – as the train drew up.
“I haven’t seen you here before. I’d recognise your beautiful dog if I had.”
The man turned to face her. “No,” he said, “I normally go via King’s Cross, but obviously I have to get home another way.”
“That must be quite difficult for your dog, a change of routine and everything.”
“She’s a wonderful dog – very intelligent, even for a guide dog. In fact, I’m a bit sheepish because I owe her an apology.”
He paused, knowing that he had Karen’s undivided attention.
“I gave her quite a telling off last week. On Thursday we were waiting at the platform – at King’s Cross. It was quite busy, but we were at the front of the platform – being let through busy platforms is one of the benefits of having her – and ready to board the train. When the doors open, she started barking and pulling me around. She’s never done that before, always been as good as gold.
“Rather than let her cause a scene, I pulled her back and let everyone else on. While we waited for the next train… Well, I gave her a piece of my mind.
Of course, before the next train turned up, the service was suspended and we had to leave the station. I was furious.”
Karen nodded for him to continue, mumbling “u-hu” when realising the futility of her nodding. She was bending down, stroking the dog.
“I found out later that it was the carriage that the bomb went off in. She saved my life. I feel awful, thinking about how I told her off… I’m just glad that she stuck to her guns.”
Karen was wide eyed, “do you think she knew? Could she smell the bomb? Or the fear?”
“I have no idea. I guess so – dogs have an amazing sense of smell. But she must have known. I’ll not doubt her again. And I’ll keep spoiling her until my guilt goes”
He swallowed hard, laughed gently and stroked his dog. Karen smiled, and continued talking to him – both of them – as the train drew up.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Filthy Lucre
Here I am, four days into my new job, and I suppose I'd better get my first impressions down before they become general feelings and, subsequently, entrenched dogma. (I say here I am: please understand, I am not still at work; they've not been that harsh on me in my first week.)
Well, I certainly know I'm working. Unlike some jobs I can recall (the last one, notably), I'm actually occupied. All the time. With frequent deadlines.
"We have to get this out TONIGHT..."
Etc.
Unfortunately, most of my work thus far has been using the world's worst computer program. PowerPoint. It's not just that it is overused and makes people rely on flashy slides rather than fine oratory - although it clearly is. (One day, I dream of seeing a presentation by someone who can present - really create a good impression - without slides or pre-prepared overheads. My lecturers, back in the day, used to do it. The ones I remember best, and who were the clearest and whose information actually stuck, were those that didn't use projections. They merely drew anything vital on the white/blackboard. The use of slides - especially with handouts - is an invitation to fall asleep.) No, it's bad because it doesn't work. 'Can I change this colour?' Can I bollocks. 'I just need to align these.' Why won't you fucking align? God stike down this beastly machine.
The people? Well, everyone has been too busy. Which is odd, because if the company disappeared tomorrow, nobody would miss it. It's not like doctors or teachers or policemen, who would be missed if they all disappeared. Yet everyone seems to think their job is so important. You have to laugh at them (not out loud, though; that's a sure-fire way of making enemies). I'm going out tomorrow for someone's leaving do. It's not that I know them, but - as my new colleagues have said - it's a good time to meet everyone in a more relaxed environment.
The machine that makes tea and coffee actually just provides hot water with 'dark' flavour in it. I never thought I'd miss the FoulBrewCoffeePotStuff from the last place.
I do miss The Boy and Our Mysterious Ladyfriend. However, The Boy hasn't updated his blog for a while. I think he might be pining...
Or fucking. I'll believe what my ego wants me to...
Well, I certainly know I'm working. Unlike some jobs I can recall (the last one, notably), I'm actually occupied. All the time. With frequent deadlines.
"We have to get this out TONIGHT..."
Etc.
Unfortunately, most of my work thus far has been using the world's worst computer program. PowerPoint. It's not just that it is overused and makes people rely on flashy slides rather than fine oratory - although it clearly is. (One day, I dream of seeing a presentation by someone who can present - really create a good impression - without slides or pre-prepared overheads. My lecturers, back in the day, used to do it. The ones I remember best, and who were the clearest and whose information actually stuck, were those that didn't use projections. They merely drew anything vital on the white/blackboard. The use of slides - especially with handouts - is an invitation to fall asleep.) No, it's bad because it doesn't work. 'Can I change this colour?' Can I bollocks. 'I just need to align these.' Why won't you fucking align? God stike down this beastly machine.
The people? Well, everyone has been too busy. Which is odd, because if the company disappeared tomorrow, nobody would miss it. It's not like doctors or teachers or policemen, who would be missed if they all disappeared. Yet everyone seems to think their job is so important. You have to laugh at them (not out loud, though; that's a sure-fire way of making enemies). I'm going out tomorrow for someone's leaving do. It's not that I know them, but - as my new colleagues have said - it's a good time to meet everyone in a more relaxed environment.
The machine that makes tea and coffee actually just provides hot water with 'dark' flavour in it. I never thought I'd miss the FoulBrewCoffeePotStuff from the last place.
I do miss The Boy and Our Mysterious Ladyfriend. However, The Boy hasn't updated his blog for a while. I think he might be pining...
Or fucking. I'll believe what my ego wants me to...
Catalunya is not Spain (apparently)
Barcelona is full of people with terrible haircuts. The blame, I believe, lies squarely at the door of Fernando Torres. Last summer, Torres was officially in possession of the world’s worst haircut, parading it through Euro 2004 until the world’s scorn and his own shame led him to cut it off. The Spanish (or maybe just the Catalan) seem to have taken it to heart. There are awful feathered mullets everywhere; it looks like they have cut the fringes themselves, without the aid of a mirror, but couldn’t quite reach the back – at least not all of it. So they are left with a strangely layered front and a ratty mullet rear. Some have clearly tried to hide this by flushing their own heads down the loo, leaving a streaky badger bleach effect. They look – if possible – worse.
Neon pharmacy signs have been elevated to an art form in Barcelona, as if – like Las Vegas – each farmacia is trying to outdo the next. Of course, there might be an ulterior motive. The flashing red and green signs are quite hypnotic, but also cause headaches and nausea. And where can you find a cure for these ailments? Exactly.
The Girlfriend and I couldn’t be bothered to pay to go inside the Sagrada Familia. We can read about the history later, and neither of us was interested in climbing the towers. The older façade is particularly foul: impressive but gaudy. The newer façade is much better. Angular, stylised and almost threatening, with spires topped by berries of colour, exploding with contrast against the drabness of the concrete or worn stone colours of the church.
Plus, I’ve been in inside enough churches during the past two weeks; I don’t need to see another.
A respite
She was working a quiet shift. It was another typical Saturday before the season started. One family were on the terrace. Local, probably: the son was telling an animated story, and his parents – although engaged in their own separate conversation – were encouraging and laughing along with him. The locals sat inside, under the cool fans, watching the lottery numbers appear on screen and occasionally making comments across the bar to each other.
Outside, the hot air was thick with ladybirds. Thousands of them: flying, walking, fucking. Hundreds were crushed on the pavements, where they had stopped to rest. Or to mate. Ladybird landing is an imprecise art; many were landing on their backs, struggling to right themselves. The only way to do it was for them to open their wing cases and flip themselves over. It took them a long time to work this out. Each one that landed rolled and shook itself for seconds, nearly a minute, before it tried to use its wings. Then it flew off again.
The new customer at the bar was different. He was alone, but he was not local. He was relaxed, but hot. She walked out to him. Tourist, she thought. He ordered a coffee. She offered him water; he didn’t want it. He looks hot, she thought, I’ll take him some anyway. He thanks her. He tries to order food. His French is weak: it’s been 14 years since he learnt it, and it has been used once, briefly, since then. She doesn’t speak English. She could do without this; she could be sitting inside in the cool. But he’s friendly and he smiles and he’s no trouble. Sitting there, reading his book. And he’s covered in ladybirds, and seems to find it all amusing. They work out what he wants to eat. He speaks to her, “qu’est-ce que c’est, en Francais?” He’s pointing at a ladybird. She writes it in his notebook – coccinnelle – and she walks away.
On the road? I can't even get off the rails...
He continues writing in his notebook, deftly flicking coccinnelles off himself: if you flick them hard enough, they can open their wings and fly away; if not, they hit the floor with a light crack, before righting themselves and flying off.
He finishes his food and leaves money for the bill. She doesn’t see him go.
Outside, the hot air was thick with ladybirds. Thousands of them: flying, walking, fucking. Hundreds were crushed on the pavements, where they had stopped to rest. Or to mate. Ladybird landing is an imprecise art; many were landing on their backs, struggling to right themselves. The only way to do it was for them to open their wing cases and flip themselves over. It took them a long time to work this out. Each one that landed rolled and shook itself for seconds, nearly a minute, before it tried to use its wings. Then it flew off again.
The new customer at the bar was different. He was alone, but he was not local. He was relaxed, but hot. She walked out to him. Tourist, she thought. He ordered a coffee. She offered him water; he didn’t want it. He looks hot, she thought, I’ll take him some anyway. He thanks her. He tries to order food. His French is weak: it’s been 14 years since he learnt it, and it has been used once, briefly, since then. She doesn’t speak English. She could do without this; she could be sitting inside in the cool. But he’s friendly and he smiles and he’s no trouble. Sitting there, reading his book. And he’s covered in ladybirds, and seems to find it all amusing. They work out what he wants to eat. He speaks to her, “qu’est-ce que c’est, en Francais?” He’s pointing at a ladybird. She writes it in his notebook – coccinnelle – and she walks away.
On the road? I can't even get off the rails...
He continues writing in his notebook, deftly flicking coccinnelles off himself: if you flick them hard enough, they can open their wings and fly away; if not, they hit the floor with a light crack, before righting themselves and flying off.
He finishes his food and leaves money for the bill. She doesn’t see him go.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
The Secret Diary of The Circus Beyond, aged 29 and one-third
0430 (BST) – What the hell kind of time is this to be up in the morning? Shower. Final check. Final final check. Lock door. Reopen door. Final final final check. Lock door leave.
I do love being up early in the morning. I just don’t like getting up. Even at 5.30am, the sun is well up and people are out and about. Had the best drive of my life on the way to Stansted: music blaring, clear roads and sunrise.
0630 – No wonder Britain has such a bad reputation abroad. Apart from the odd businessman, the majority of Stansted seems to be taken over by Hen Night or Stag Weekend halfwits. I was lucky enough to share my flight with the gelatinous Sharon, Di, Ness and their shrieking harpy cronies. I knew their names because they were on their backs; I knew they were together because they all wore silver cowboy hats. Classy.
1100 (CEST) – There appear to be more dogs in the airport than in most parks back home. And everyone is smoking. Everywhere. The signage is bloody awful, and I eventually make it to the train. Is it this difficult for tourists arriving in London? (Probably.) Barcelona Sants station is full of beautiful (and firm) women, but appears to be in the middle of nowhere. I say appears, because I don’t want to battle through the taxi rank and bus station to go anywhere (much like Victoria, I imagine). However, I have a Bonka in the Ars – as everyone should do – and laugh at the Spanish girl signing the godawful Barney dinosaur song.
1400 – Find the baggage lockers, which I had assumed they would have got rid of after the Madrid bombings. Have a couple of hours to walk around Barcelona. Also find vending machines selling Actimel and printer cartridges (separate machines, obviously…).
An art gallery? That's just showing off
Walk up to Montjuic, for the fantastic views. Shows the contrast with the views of London from Hampstead Heath or Ally Pally. The architecture is flat (by comparison) and in vibrant reds and oranges. There are minimal grey and glass tower blocks, and it’s reminiscent of a shanty town. I get the feeling that if one building were taken away, the whole place would crumble.
It’s eerily quiet. None of the fountains is on, and there are very few people around: mostly Brits and Yanks. I realise that it’s siesta time, but surely there is money to be made; maybe it is out of season.
A statue and I enjoy the view
1630 – Now this is what Barcelona is famous for. A robbery, on a train, that was impressively carried out. A woman, who looked like John Candy but not quite as fat, was helped to put her case on the stand by a random man. About two minutes later, she realised that her purse had been taken, including her passport and credit cards. She handled it quite well, but had no idea what to do. She eventually cancelled her credit cards. She thought that two of them did it: one ‘helping’ her (as a distraction) and the other picking her pocket/bag.
I still have the niggling feeling that she was a grifter, getting cash off other people to help her through the tough times (and no doubt offering to send it on to them when she gets home)…
I do love being up early in the morning. I just don’t like getting up. Even at 5.30am, the sun is well up and people are out and about. Had the best drive of my life on the way to Stansted: music blaring, clear roads and sunrise.
0630 – No wonder Britain has such a bad reputation abroad. Apart from the odd businessman, the majority of Stansted seems to be taken over by Hen Night or Stag Weekend halfwits. I was lucky enough to share my flight with the gelatinous Sharon, Di, Ness and their shrieking harpy cronies. I knew their names because they were on their backs; I knew they were together because they all wore silver cowboy hats. Classy.
1100 (CEST) – There appear to be more dogs in the airport than in most parks back home. And everyone is smoking. Everywhere. The signage is bloody awful, and I eventually make it to the train. Is it this difficult for tourists arriving in London? (Probably.) Barcelona Sants station is full of beautiful (and firm) women, but appears to be in the middle of nowhere. I say appears, because I don’t want to battle through the taxi rank and bus station to go anywhere (much like Victoria, I imagine). However, I have a Bonka in the Ars – as everyone should do – and laugh at the Spanish girl signing the godawful Barney dinosaur song.
1400 – Find the baggage lockers, which I had assumed they would have got rid of after the Madrid bombings. Have a couple of hours to walk around Barcelona. Also find vending machines selling Actimel and printer cartridges (separate machines, obviously…).
An art gallery? That's just showing off
Walk up to Montjuic, for the fantastic views. Shows the contrast with the views of London from Hampstead Heath or Ally Pally. The architecture is flat (by comparison) and in vibrant reds and oranges. There are minimal grey and glass tower blocks, and it’s reminiscent of a shanty town. I get the feeling that if one building were taken away, the whole place would crumble.
It’s eerily quiet. None of the fountains is on, and there are very few people around: mostly Brits and Yanks. I realise that it’s siesta time, but surely there is money to be made; maybe it is out of season.
A statue and I enjoy the view
1630 – Now this is what Barcelona is famous for. A robbery, on a train, that was impressively carried out. A woman, who looked like John Candy but not quite as fat, was helped to put her case on the stand by a random man. About two minutes later, she realised that her purse had been taken, including her passport and credit cards. She handled it quite well, but had no idea what to do. She eventually cancelled her credit cards. She thought that two of them did it: one ‘helping’ her (as a distraction) and the other picking her pocket/bag.
I still have the niggling feeling that she was a grifter, getting cash off other people to help her through the tough times (and no doubt offering to send it on to them when she gets home)…
My last day at work
Well, well: What a drama.
I say drama, but most people – the media excluded – I saw or know took the events of Thursday morning with a large shrug. It might have helped that I had spoken to The Girlfriend just after the tube was shut down, so I wasn’t too worried: she was bitching about the bloody network; I was bitching about what a good advert this was the day after we’d won the games. Of course, we’d (all) been told that it was a power surge closing down the system, and everyone was searching alternative methods for getting to work. After 30 minutes waiting for a train into Liverpool Street, I was informed by RealSister that there had been a bomb at King’s Cross (the mobile network was holding up pretty well at this point), and then by the platform staff that no trains would be running ‘for the next hour or so’. So I tried the bus, until I was informed that no buses were going to central London.
I walked home, two and a half hours after I had left it, stopping in Curry’s on the way home to see the news. It was obvious at this point that it was rather big. Nobody was particularly put out, however. Most were still concerned with phoning the office or trying to make their way in.
What followed was a triumph of sensationalist news-casting and sensible humanity. All the news channels, and subsequently the papers, were giving it large: Drama; Tragedy; OhMiGod; Fear. Except, of course, that the pictures they were showing showed none of these (bar the images of the bus and the dead). The majority of the people in the pictures – hell, the majority of those involved directly in the incidents – weren’t looking shocked or scared or frantic. No, people were just getting on with it.
Interviewers tried their best to get an overblown emotional response from victims. They didn’t get it; instead, people who were within an inch of death were matter of fact, calm and rational. No doubt they were scared. No doubt they had witnessed atrocities few of us could imagine, but they didn’t lose their resolve.
Unlike the TV stations, who seemed to lose all sense of perspective, desperate for some emotional poster-boy or -girl to give a ‘real face’ to the story. Instead, they had to follow up with stories about how London is unbowed and will go on regardless. Well, how about getting out of our fucking faces and letting us.
Rolling news is almost always abysmal. Yes, it’s there when the story breaks, but when you haven’t had any new information for hours, it descends into cliché and desperation. Which it did rapidly. Why not just tell us what happened, and what is being done. Leave out the ‘human interest’; leave the victims alone. Starve the terrorists of publicity. And for fuck’s sake, let us get on with it; leave those unfortunate to grieve, in peace.
Personally, I got a couple of days off (the police asked me to stay out of the centre, and I always do as they ask). The Girlfriend discovered that the Piccadilly Line bomb was on the carriage of the train she normally gets, at the time she is normally on it (who says laziness leads to an unfulfilling life), but we aren’t taking part in What Ifs. A temporal gap is as good as being miles away (as she was, in Finsbury Park). We’ve been expecting this for years, and (as insensitive it is to say it when so many are mourning), 50 dead out of three million passengers a day is fair odds.
The best thing, though, was the phone calls from friends and family; people who you wouldn’t expect to be thinking about you. It makes you feel loved, really.
I say drama, but most people – the media excluded – I saw or know took the events of Thursday morning with a large shrug. It might have helped that I had spoken to The Girlfriend just after the tube was shut down, so I wasn’t too worried: she was bitching about the bloody network; I was bitching about what a good advert this was the day after we’d won the games. Of course, we’d (all) been told that it was a power surge closing down the system, and everyone was searching alternative methods for getting to work. After 30 minutes waiting for a train into Liverpool Street, I was informed by RealSister that there had been a bomb at King’s Cross (the mobile network was holding up pretty well at this point), and then by the platform staff that no trains would be running ‘for the next hour or so’. So I tried the bus, until I was informed that no buses were going to central London.
I walked home, two and a half hours after I had left it, stopping in Curry’s on the way home to see the news. It was obvious at this point that it was rather big. Nobody was particularly put out, however. Most were still concerned with phoning the office or trying to make their way in.
What followed was a triumph of sensationalist news-casting and sensible humanity. All the news channels, and subsequently the papers, were giving it large: Drama; Tragedy; OhMiGod; Fear. Except, of course, that the pictures they were showing showed none of these (bar the images of the bus and the dead). The majority of the people in the pictures – hell, the majority of those involved directly in the incidents – weren’t looking shocked or scared or frantic. No, people were just getting on with it.
Interviewers tried their best to get an overblown emotional response from victims. They didn’t get it; instead, people who were within an inch of death were matter of fact, calm and rational. No doubt they were scared. No doubt they had witnessed atrocities few of us could imagine, but they didn’t lose their resolve.
Unlike the TV stations, who seemed to lose all sense of perspective, desperate for some emotional poster-boy or -girl to give a ‘real face’ to the story. Instead, they had to follow up with stories about how London is unbowed and will go on regardless. Well, how about getting out of our fucking faces and letting us.
Rolling news is almost always abysmal. Yes, it’s there when the story breaks, but when you haven’t had any new information for hours, it descends into cliché and desperation. Which it did rapidly. Why not just tell us what happened, and what is being done. Leave out the ‘human interest’; leave the victims alone. Starve the terrorists of publicity. And for fuck’s sake, let us get on with it; leave those unfortunate to grieve, in peace.
Personally, I got a couple of days off (the police asked me to stay out of the centre, and I always do as they ask). The Girlfriend discovered that the Piccadilly Line bomb was on the carriage of the train she normally gets, at the time she is normally on it (who says laziness leads to an unfulfilling life), but we aren’t taking part in What Ifs. A temporal gap is as good as being miles away (as she was, in Finsbury Park). We’ve been expecting this for years, and (as insensitive it is to say it when so many are mourning), 50 dead out of three million passengers a day is fair odds.
The best thing, though, was the phone calls from friends and family; people who you wouldn’t expect to be thinking about you. It makes you feel loved, really.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
I dream of sleep
I'm shattered, but I have been a busy boy. Two days (and a little more) walking around the whole of Barcelona and two days in France. Mostly without sleep. I got in at 12.30 this morning, was up again for work (only two more days to go!) and soon I will be sleeping. It does mean that I have a travelogue to add over the next few days (having said that, I will be out for the next three nights, so when it all gets added, I cannot say). So a busy week of writing - fortunately I jotted down my travels as I went along - and a play review, a leaving do and a birthday party to add later.
I'd best get onto it...
I'd best get onto it...
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