Christmas

Hello and Christmas greetings. As the holidays, and I mean holidays in the American sense of the word, loom I thought I would donate my last post of 2012 to this ‘magical’ time of year. When you look at Christmas as a whole, the celebrations, the traditions, the meaning, it can be a little bit vexing. So many appended customs, stolen traditions, and general misconceptions put together tend to make things very confusing. Particularly, if you think about it too much. I try not to think about it too much, but sometimes I just can’t help it. So, what I’d like to do this month is to be helpful. To clear up some of the general ambiguities related to Christmas, hit you with some trivia and maybe even impart a little bit of knowledge, but most importantly help you sleep a little easier.  And when I say "you", what I really mean is "me". 

I want to first say that I will in no way be dealing with the topic of religion in this article but for obvious and unavoidable reasons I may have to refer to religious figures. This is in no way, shape or form a reflection of whether or not I believe in the entirely fictional character Jesus. Only joking, I’ll try and remain impartial.

Okay let’s start with Christmas day. The actual day. The 25^th of December, the birth of Christ, right? Wrong. The truth is that, if we assume the birth of Christ actually happened, no one knows exactly when it happened. The religion of Christianity was spread in no small way by the Roman Empire, and Christmas as a festival was not celebrated until well over 300 years after the birth of baby Jesus. Depending on sources the reason this date was chosen varies. However, popular belief is that it was set to coincide with southern (winter) solstice and, as Paganism was pretty popular back then, the day was stolen. Not very festive I think you’ll agree!

Okay, next up is the Christmas trees.  This festive necessity is a product of our German neighbours. Well done Germany,you did good. In its original format edible treats were left in the branches. Prince Albert (Queen Victoria’s husband) who was of German origin helped to popularise it when he and the Royal family adopted the tradition here in Blighty. That said Prince Albert was not the first Royal to be involved in tree decorating shenanigans but he is seen by most as the person responsible for its widespread adoption over here.

Now let’s discuss Turkey. I’m thinking poultry here, not geography or synonyms for 'idiot'.  Despite what you may think, turkeys are not native to Europe, and they were first introduced to England in the 16^th century (from America). The person credited with the introduction, William Strickland. Therefore, on Christmas day, when you’re chewing your way through a grotesquely large, dry, probably fairly bland bird, ask yourself and/or the chef or house proprietor the following question  -Why? If the retort has anything to do with tradition then you will be able to educate the ‘retorter’ with the above information, simply pointing out that turkeys are a relatively new resident of these shores, of about four hundred years. Okay, so they’re not that new, but still, I reckon a goose is better on the taste front so it’s probably worth being a little bit pedantic in the interest of your stomach.

Personally, I struggle to think of Christmas without giving some thought to the more needy. That brings me nicely to point four, Bob Geldof. Bob, for those of you who don’t know (and I can only assume you have been living on the moon for past few decades if you don’t) is an Irish singer-songwriter, turned political activist who has helped to bring us the Boomtown Rats, Live Aid and, lest we forget, the hit Christmas song ‘Do they Know it’s Christmas?’. He has helped to raise countless millions of pounds for very worthwhile charities and causes, primarily promoting awareness of poverty in developing countries. Bob however is still needy. Despite being worth around £32 million and having ‘non-dom’ tax status, he has not been able to afford the halo he has so much wanted and worked for. Joking aside the man has done an awful lot of good. This from someone whose only other real achievement was ‘I Don’t Like Mondays’ is pretty bloody impressive. So whole heartedly I say, well done Bob. Also, if he were to ever read this article, I’m sure he’d be happy that he got more ‘air time’ than Jesus has in a Christmas-related article. 

It’s A Wonderful Life. It really is, but in this instance I am of course referring to the film. Despite its secured status as an all-time Christmas classic, what you may not know about this movie gem is that it actually wasn’t very well received when it was first released. In fact the film recorded a loss of over US$500 million at the box office for RKO.  It was released in 1946 to mixed views and lost out in popularity to the much more acclaimed Miracle on 34^th Street.  Thankfully people did a u-turn and woke up to the genius and warmth of this film and it continues to be a staple part of the Christmas diet. Whilst on the subject of this film I think it’s worth mentioning some interesting research I discovered about Mr James Stewart. Turns out, and forgive me if I am teaching you to suck eggs, that Jimmy was not only a distinguished actor, but also a Second World War hero. Joining the Air Force as a Private and rising to the rank of Colonel in four years. Pretty neat, huh? (Hopefully that will come up in a pub quiz one day otherwise there’s a genuine danger I’ve lost you ten seconds of your life.)

When reading up on Santa Claus I of course first consulted Wikipedia. It informed me that the origins of Santa, aka St Nick, were derived from the 4^th century Greek Christian Bishop St Nicholas. Wikipedia also told me that he was famous for his generosity and gifts to the poor. No surprises there. It then goes on to mention a story involving him helping the three daughters of a pious to whom he gave dowries, so that they wouldn’t have to become prostitutes. Hmmm, I can’t say that part of the St Nick story has ever appeared in any Coca-Cola commercial I’ve ever seen. 

On the topic of Coca-Cola; a common misconception is that Coca-Cola had some influence in the colour of Santa outfits. That is not the case, as drawings of Santa in a red suit pre-dated Coca-Cola’s 1931 advertising of Mr Claus in a red suit. That said it is an easy mistake to make, as many early drawings of Santa include him sporting a dashing green or even tanned outfit. Whatever tanned is. Now how‘d you like that for some Christmas trivia?

And with that I think I’ll say good bye for the year. Happy Christmas people and thank you for reading.

Where do we go from Leggings?

A few weeks ago, I found myself walking through Hyde Park with an old friend. We were reminiscing about university, and about some time we had more recently spent together at a social event. As we discussed the merits of this event, a female jogger ran past us both, sporting a pair of leggings. This instantly silenced the two of us. It then almost immediately sparked a new, entirely different conversational topic. However, before I begin on the re-telling of this topic, let me say this: no rude, crude or obscene comments were made during this conversation. In fact, whilst the jogger was in sight, not much was actually said at all. Nevertheless, once she had passed us, it set off an observation my friend had clearly been thinking about for a long time, and wanted to verbalise and share with me.

He started by informing me that a little over one hundred years ago - around the time Queen Victoria was occupying the throne - allowing your ankles to be displayed in public was considered to be the height of scandal. I have since checked this information and all I can say is thank god we are not Victorian. I thanked him for the potentially useful pub quiz tip-bit, but asked him why he was thinking about Victorian fashion and trends. He answered by pointing to yet more joggers, and answered clearly and simply that it was because of leggings.

Naturally, I didn’t understand.

Fortunately, he was willing to elaborate to clarify his position. Firstly, he enlightened me as to his mixed feeling about leggings. He liked them, because they could be quite revealing. However, he disliked them for exactly that same reason. He mused that given the geographical location and the dress restrictions imposed by the weather, he felt that leggings were about as close to being naked as anyone could really come, whilst remaining publicly ‘decent’. He explained this by saying that, whilst more material was involved in an item of clothing such as leggings as opposed to something like shorts, they were a tad tighter and as such left almost nothing to imagination. Hard to disagree with that really; he had made a valid point.

Now, it may seem that we were just watching runners of the female variety, and engaging in a bit crumpetering. But, as you can see, my friend was really just discussing the pros and cons of leggings. And that’s hardly a crime now, is it.

The conversation then changed direction. He began to talk about time travel.  He mused that if you were to go back in time by, for instance, twenty years, the changes in our physical environment between now and then would not have been that big. Okay, so our cars may have gotten quicker since then, our buildings a little taller, and mobile phones no longer need to be carried around in a rucksack. But really, not a lot has altered.

Subsequently, he went on to say that if you could invent a device that could somehow shoot you into the future (we will, at this point, for the sake of argument call the device a "time machine"), then probably the biggest differences would come from the people themselves.  This, to me, seemed like a sensible conclusion. He reasoned that, if you were to go into the future, you would have to mentally prepare yourself for the technological advances before you went. For example in Victorian times trains were a big part of society. If a Victorian were to suddenly find themselves here, in 2012, then the sight of a car would no doubt be a little alarming, however, I doubt the cocept would be unfathomable.

Which led him to his final thought.
 "…Where do we go from leggings?"
 "I don’t know," I replied.
 "Neither do I," he continued. "Neither do I."

Silence consumed the both of us, as we continued to ponder what could possibly follow leggings.
 "Maybe spray-on trousers," he mused. "Or perhaps merkins."

To The Dreamer...

Since my last blog posting almost a month ago I've had a touch of ‘writers block’.  I’ve written a couple of small snippets for a book I’m working on but nothing very substantial. The reason behind this is a combination of factors. First off, I've had a rather hectic month. A very rather poor excuse I know, however, in the past forty days I've attended two weddings, one of which I was the best man for, organised and attended a stag do, had my, my fathers, my step-mothers and house mates birthday all to squish in. Secondly, and probably more importantly I don’t want to write dross and I do tend to write dross when I don’t have any real ideas.  I’m also fully aware that if I write about things I have no interest in, then that becomes transparent, if not to the general audience at least to me.  I sat at my desk thinking these thoughts and staggeringly the inspiration for this month came to me. You see it’s not just writing that suffers when I am not interested it’s everything, work, relationships, even sex. If your hearts not in it, it’s probably just not going to be that good. More to the point it will not be excellent, and excellence is what we should all at least strive for.

This got me thinking further, by now, the old grey matter was beginning to thaw out. If excellence is dependent on what I do, why am I not dictating what I do more vigorously? All I can say is, I honestly don’t know.

There are certain people who believe, no one does a job they enjoy. This is frankly utter crap, and an ideology made up by un-happy cynics and those who have given up. I hope the very writing of this article exempts me from this group, even if just for the moment. I met someone recently who does a job they love. A job they have wanted to do since they started university and are now actually doing it.  It’s a beautiful thing. You can’t help admire anyone who does a job for the best part of twelve hours a day and not only doesn’t moan, but is happy about it. One day, I too hope to fall asleep from pure exhaustion and contentment like they seem to do, following a job well enjoyed and done.

When I was younger I wanted to be an artist. I drew, I painted, I mused a fair bit, okay, a lot. I gave it up, as with other things at various stages of my life, because I was hit by an overwhelming sense of realism, and that the things I loved doing would not make me any or enough money. When I gave up on art I was about fourteen. Similarly when I was about twenty I wanted to be a photographer. I tried volunteer work, took pictures for my student union paper and a local free magazine, but ultimately I gave up to take a masters degree in business. Hardly inspirational, unless of course you’re a capitalist and then it could be.

So what’s my point? Is it that I’m a sell out? I am a sell out, but that doesn’t need to be a permanent state, and that actually isn’t my point. My point is, what if all the dreamers throughout history had stopped dreaming? Let’s start with a literal example perhaps, Martin Luther king for instance. What if he followed up the words “I have a dream”, with “But I also have a mortgage to pay, so let’s not rock the boat too much”.  Nelson Mandela, had a dream and a twenty seven year prison sentence to boot and he never gave up.  Athletes, footballers, X-factor contestants, Einstein, Columbus, Neil Armstrong all have or had dreams.  Most dreamers will fail, but some won’t.  Musicians (I don’t include X-factor contestants as musicians, in the same way McDonalds doesn’t count as food) don’t suddenly become famous, they work, they dare, they dream, they achieve. Sentimental mushy crap, I know. But I’m right. The problem is some people often see the end product of many years of labour and assume things are easy. Things are not easy, dreams are hard, but giving up won’t help.

How many people, and it would be really funny if you actually stick your hand in the air at this point, wanted to do the job they are doing now when they were little. How many people at the age of ten, wanted to work as a banker, a lawyer or an accountant? I’m guessing not many, and if you did want to be accountant at ten I genuinely feel sorry for you. A question for any male readers; How many of you after watching Top Gun for the first time wanted to be a pilot, after watching Batman a Superhero, or Harry Potter a slightly annoying little wizard? I’m guessing there are a fair few hands in the air now.

Okay, so granted aspirations change as you get older, that’s a natural part of growing.  However, growing doesn’t need to mean growing cynical!  Don’t give up on the things you love, even if you’re laughed at, discouraged or mocked. If you really love doing something then it won’t matter if you make a living out of it or whether you’re even that good at it. If it makes you happy keep going.  That’s why I write, because it makes me happy. It allows me to express myself, and despite the fact that I would love to get published one day, that is not why I do it. There is this amazing part in the book (and film) High Fidelity, where the protagonist, who for those of you who haven’t read it is a music buff, girlfriend manages to persuade him to do a live music night to publicise a record he is paying to get recorded. He doesn’t want to do it, but she convinces him by making him understand that once he does it, he’ll no longer just a critic, a hack, a bystander.  Instead, he will become part of the music scene, irreversibly so. He will have contributed, given, enriched (hopefully) to the very thing that he loves the most.  That is how I feel about literature. I will probably never be able to construct characters like Oscar Wilde, discuss social barriers and change like George Orwell or frankly tell a good story like the above referenced Nick Hornby, but I don’t think that matters. Sure, I’d love to do all of those things, but that’s not what it’s about for me. If I can get just a handful of people to read what I write and engage with it, then realistically that’s probably enough. Of course I want more, but I’d carry on doing it anyway.

 So for people who dream big, for people who want to change things, people who want to build things, write things, makes things, draw things, photograph things, tell things, to all those who want to achieve more and are pro-active about it, to people who want to make the world a better place, to  the people who want to help other people,  to all those who have woken up one morning and thought, ‘I can do better’ and have...to everyone who wants to be something they’re not, and is not sure they’ll ever be, but tries anyway,  to all of you I say this, dreamers I salute you!

Say Hello, Wave Sayonara

I was in a pub the other day, watching the world go by, having a pint but more importantly I was alone (I want to point out I was waiting for a friend). Why was being alone important? Well it afforded me the opportunity to observe the after-work drinking rush. Seeing the steady stream of boozers heading from the City, leaving and meeting their companions is truly a spectacle. The most noticeable thing I observed was the contrast of non-verbal greetings on show.

To start with there’s ‘The firm handshake’. It’s classic, simple and, speaking as a Brit, comfortably distant.

Second up we have the traditional handshake, but with a twist. For example a handshake with an addition, like a thumb twiddle or a change in movement midway through. I first learnt of this greeting through episodes of ‘The Fresh prince of Bel Air’, and was exposed to it in earnest at University, all be it to a less extreme extent than the outlandish handshakes concocted by Will Smith. Whilst I am a firm believer in the traditional handshake as an ‘adult’, many friends never moved on from the twist and still, when meeting up, insist on using it. This has the propensity to turn a greeting into something of a dance, where I normally end up feeling un-cool or old and leaves the initiator looking superior. Perhaps that’s the point.

Then there’s the kiss. My female Brit friends tend to meet with a peck on the cheek, and this seemed to be the most common method of greeting within the pub I was in. We all know that the French say hello with a kiss on both cheeks and some of my Spanish friends kiss both cheeks twice. The latter has always struck me as excessive; that’s four kisses per person, which makes large group meetings lengthy and wet. But who am I to pass judgment?

Finally, we have the hug. This is reserved for close friends, family and on the odd occasion ex-girlfriends.  Just be careful you don’t hold on too long. No one likes a clinger, and avoid (as a friend of mine used to do) smelling hair, it’s weird.

My point being? Know the rules and know the variations of greetings. I saw a couple looking generally perplexed by a simple handshake and kiss; the two were clearly on different pages of the greeting book. However, if you know the rules you’ll be fine, right? Wrong! I have a friend from London, who kisses three times (probably just to confuse me), a French mate who shakes my hand, never kisses and hates physical contact and a couple of twins that insist on kissing each other on the lips.  That, coupled with the fact I shake my brother’s hand and never hug him, and that my university mates still pull out the traditional handshake with a twist followed through with a hug routine every now and again makes for utter greeting chaos. So in the absence of any useful advice on how to elevate or solve the greeting conundrum, instead let me just say be wary and goodbye. I mean Sayonara.

I want books, physical books!

I’ve just watched a short documentary about the demise of a famous music store in New York, Bleeckers Bob. The half hour piece (or three minute BBC cut) describes the last weeks of a once ‘great’ record shop in Greenwich Village, Manhattan, and frankly it makes for depressing viewing. In its hay day this place was a Mecca for big music names, celebs and ‘cool kids’, set in an apparent vibrant and raw artistic area. Now the rent increase has forced the business to move, or close its doors forever (the documentary doesn’t say which it will do).  The fate of Bleecker Bob is not a unique one. The declining interest in physical music formats, coupled with their expense and the inconvenience involved in procuring them, has steadily helped to make record stores amongst those marked for high street - and in this case back street - extinction. It’s sad, but in the case of music it’s not hard to see why and how it has happened. Music is an evolving art, and as such it’s always likely that the method and medium in which it is distributed will change along with its artistic content. In my own, relatively short life I have witnessed the death of cassette tapes, the birth and death of MiniDisc (remember those!), and the longevity of CDs. All of which will become superfluous because of a multitude of technologies that, whilst lacking in physical presence, are all much more convenient.  It’s not just the small guys who are feeling this shift in consumer trends. Chains like the once mighty HMV disbanded their US operation in 2004 and Virgin Mega stores(one of Mr Branson original enterprises) closed down in 2009. If I was a gambling man, I would not put money on resurgence and I don’t feel I would be going too far to say in the next decade these brands will be as alive as Woolworths. Depending on which source you trust or read (http://gizmdo.com/5873471/digital-music-sales-beat-physical-music-sales-for-the-first-time , http://mashable.com/2012/07/24/music-sales-decline/), download sales have now overtaken those of CDs. One thing that no source will dispute is that number of downloads are increasing and physical format sales are recoiling.  Now, I don’t really want to talk about records, tapes or CDs. I actually wanted to talk about books and bookshops. However, the above documentary was what first sparked my thought pattern and I feel the synergy between music and literature is very relevant. 

In the past few years the rise of the Kindle has indeed made the availability of books much easier. The device has the ability to store hundreds of books and is roughly half the thickness and twice as light as a standard book. iPad’s, tablet PCs and smart phones all have similar capabilities and the amount of people with one or more of these devices is soaring. I’m fairly confident that within my lifetime (providing I live to an average life expectancy) books will be an item confined to eccentrics and collectors.  Does this annoy me? Hell yes.

Logically speaking there is no reason whatsoever that I can think of why the replacement of books by cold lumps of electronic plastic should bother me quite as much as it does. Kindles and eReaders are nice looking, light, convenient and they are great space savers. They are cheaper (once the initial model has been purchased) and probably more durable than real books.

So, what could I possibly have against electronic books? As it happens rather a lot actually. There is no feeling to an electronic device such as the Kindle. You cannot turn the pages of a Kindle. You can’t roll it into you jacket pocket (granted they are so small you probably will never need to) and there will never be any indication of how loved a book has been by the way a Kindle looks. I have many dog-eared books in by bookcase. This annoys some people, but to me personally, I take this as a good sign, the books been read, it’s been handled. A Kindle may look worn, but this is more of an indicator of how its owner treats it and bears no insight into the number of times the contents of the Kindle have been read or how feverishly the pages have been scrolled.

Next there is the smell. Spoken like a true nerd, books do smell. I like that smell. Well mostly I do. I went on a picnic on Sunday and a copy of the book I was carrying is now soaked in tzatziki, so that may be on the tangy side of the smell spectrum, but no doubt you get the picture.

There are also the social ramifications associated with departing from physical books to eBooks. Take the library for instance; do you really think they will exist if all books are electronic? ‘It’s doubtful’ is the most positive response I can give. Is that a loss? I think so, yes. Bookshops will close, that much is a certainty. Commerce dictates that they will, but what does that really mean? It means no more browsing. It means you’ll have to go online and buy your books, but how will you know which books to buy without being able to finger the first few pages of the current best sellers? Easy, the Internet will tell you based on your most recent choices. What a nice, convenient, surefire way not to experience anything new. Libraries and bookshops will not be alone; don’t forget bookbinders and printers who also stand to lose out.

The rise of the eBook has given rise to another trend, one that I must mention but do so cautiously: self-publication. I want to prefix the next few sentences by first saying that there is absolutely no reason why people should not self publish. It’s a great way to reach a lot of people and ultimately there are very few financial overheads. It would be somewhat hypocritical of me to say anything else given the format of this blog. However, what I do have an issue with is the quality assurance aspect of self-publishing. If we go back to the music industry once again for example, there are instances where people have produced and recorded their own record and made a success, David Gray being a high profile example. However, type into YouTube the name of one of your favourite songs and you’ll be sure to get ‘Joe Blog’s Cover of...’ by the dozen-load. The problem then becomes that the artist you are looking for of arguably greater talent (and I did say arguably) becomes lost in a wave of mediocrity. The same has and will continue to happen with self-publishing; people who would otherwise struggle or be unable to publish a book through traditional channels, for a multitude of reasons, can quite easily publish electronically. This in theory will dilute the overall quality of the books read and written and as such, at least for me, will encourage me to read less. I know there are many counter agreements for the use of self-publishing and to discuss the subject in detail would require a blog of its own. However these points are in at least some way valid, at least in principle and as such strengthen my own opinion of the physical medium.

Lastly and on a more practical note I want books because they look good. If the unthinkable does happen and books become a past time, what the hell am I going to fill the corner of living room with? Unlike a good friend of mine who has recently moved in with his girlfriend, I’m not up for putting scented candles, pictures of loved ones and fake Egyptian artefacts in my bookcase! I want books. Physical books.

Loud Mouths, be Quiet!

This article is dedicated to one of my most despised social groups, verbally loud people. It has been inspired by an incident this week that has reinforced my utter distain for these people. I was in a high (well high-ish) end restaurant in Bath, where a large table of men and their partners were also sharing a meal. Sadly, they also shared their conversation with the rest of restaurant, and frankly the conversation was not up to much. What was distressing about this particular scene was that the people involved clearly felt like they were somehow enlightening the rest of the diners with their anecdote and stupidly overly boisterous shouts and comments. In reality they were drunk, witless and borderline repellent. The irony really being that if they had also been quiet I wouldn’t be bad-mouthing them, however their insistence that everyone listened to their verbal excrement has instead prompted me to write this.

What this incident highlighted was that some people just want to talk crap, loudly. If my post-eighteen year old life has taught me one thing it’s that there is a forum for airing conversational rubbish of this type and it’s called the pub. Getting pissed up and spouting bollocks is fairly common, but why go to a quiet place to do it? There is a frankly idiotic mentality to acting stupid and then enforcing your stupidity on those around you. That is unless of course, you’re an idiot. Now, I’m not saying all loud people are idiots. I have many very audible friend and colleagues who are oodles smarter than me. However, when they’re in a quiet restaurant, they talk quieter. They have a magical quality called ‘self-awareness’ and somehow know, that in certain places, they don’t need to yell at the top of their voices. I for one feel genuinely self-conscious when, for instance, I take a phone call on a bus or train. I don’t want to be that person who everyone is listening to discussing whatever it is I am discussing. This doesn’t make me a prude! I am not alone in my feeling. In fact I’m pretty sure I represent the softer-spoken majority. Loud mouths aren’t hard to spot; they tend to be the people with zero discretion, but masses of ill-informed opinion.

Now this may seem a little bit harsh. I don’t care. I, like most people, have at one time or another talked utter shit, however, I do this to my friends (and quietly). The difference you ask? Simply this, my friends choose to be my friends and can stop me, or stop being a friend, at any time. Loud mouths shove their conversation down the throats of any geographically unfortunately bystanders.   

An old work colleague said to me once that he didn’t believe in raising his voice. When I asked why, he said that if I needed to raise my voice then, either my argument was poor, or the person I was talking to wasn’t worth bothering with. Not a ridiculous sentiment I thought and for some people, possibly something to think about.

Love

I'm sat in bed with a cup of piping hot Lemsip and after a month of hecticness, I have decided to break my blog silence. I'm afraid you'll have to excuse my regularity, or indeed lack of regularity, of which I have been producing these blog postings. I have, however, got extenuating circumstances in the form of new job and as such I have been much engaged getting to grips with that. I have thought about writing this month almost every day. However because time has been a little tight I knew that whatever subject I chose I would not be able to do it justice. I have also rediscovered a desire to read almost constantly in my free time and have curiously found myself declining a social outing in favour of a good book and a cup of tea. Sadly, neither of these things have led to me writing. These things are neither relevant nor I doubt of any interest to you, so instead of continuing with my pointless explanation, I will make a start.

I want to talk to you about love. Aha, I think I may have at last got your attention. That's right, I want to talk to you about love. Such a broad, vague word. A word which when used in one context can relay the most powerful of human emotions, yet when used in another can merely describe a tepid like for an innate object. I do not, however, want to discuss the meaning of the word love in detail. That is a subject way beyond my understanding, as I am only one person with limited experiences (both in the human context and the innate object context). I do however know what the word love means to me. I believe the subject has entered my mind today primarily because I am bored and ill. I think for this reason the things or people I love or have loved spring to mind more readily because when you're ill you want them more. In short, I'm feeling a tad lonely.

I think in order to continue I need to stress that I understand that my dissection of a word and the feelings of that word are based wholly on my own experiences and will in no way reflect you. the reader's, ideas. Nevertheless it's nice to get the grey matter working and as such I have divided the word love into four types, or categorised them if you like. There are more, I am sure. However the four listed below are those which I consider the most relevant to me. It would be a fair question to ask why I want to discuss love and what it means, and sadly I have no deeper answer other that it's something I have been thinking an awful lot about recently.

Love in the Context of a Lover

Love in this context has never been something I have ever been completely comfortable sharing, verbally or physically. I've told approximately two women in my life that I have loved them, one when I was hungover and never meant, and the other whom I thought I was deeply in love with. The latter of which I have now not seen, spoken to, or texted for over five years, and the chances are I never will do. I think love in this context is what people most associate when the word is used; to me this is certainly the case. It can be the most heart-wrenching, draining, saddening thing, yet the most satisfying and purest form of love. It is the type of love which makes you want to dedicate your live to someone, unequivocally. It is also quite frequently mistaken (in my opinion) for lust. I have read many books that depict love and romance, but when sitting down to write this it's Shakespeare's sonnet 116 (below) that comes to my mind most prominently. Why? Simply because, unlike Hollywood's notion of love, Shakespeare captures something more true and often absent from films. Love is not fickle and love is not fleeting. It is not something which, sadly and inconveniently for anyone who has been wronged, that can be switched off.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
   If this be error and upon me proved,
   I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

When thinking about this sonnet, I wonder whether I have ever really been in love at all. I wonder whether the rules in which society operate, where divorce is rife, will allow it. I mean how can you truly get to the "edge of doom" when it is easier to walk away long before that point? This is not a dig at divorce or marriage or even society but instead a observation, all be it a slightly cynical one. One day perhaps I'll understand it a lot better, at least I hope I will. There are after all a lot of very happily in love people, so I can't pretend that one day happening to me would be exceptional. Well lets hope not anyway!

Love in the Context of a Friend

Sure, I've (and slightly embarrassingly so) told a few mates in the pub from time-to-time that I've 'loved' them, but in retrospect and in the cold hard, sober light of day, it was perfectly feasible that I'd been a little hasty. However I do love some of my friends, just possibly not all the ones I tell I do when I'm drunk. I believe the ancient Greeks call this kind of love agape, the kind of love formed without sexual attraction.

I have many acquaintances, friends who I enjoy immensely. I do not however feel this type of love for many. To me, in this context, I think to qualify for this kind of love you are most importantly not a friend of circumstance. If you can keep a friend located on the other side of the country or in some cases the planet, they are probably a good friend and more likely to fit into category. These people you rely on. They help, I believe, to define your life and I hope in most cases in positive way. I also don't subscribe to the notion that people not in contact regularly cannot be close. Frankly that's rubbish; some of the most precious people I know I don't speak to for months on end,. However when we do do speak, conversation is never labored (worth mentioning that I have many good friends who I see almost ever day as well). It seems an obvious comment to make but people who help you probably are candidates for this kind of love. Friends that inspire are also fitted in this section.

This is a very overlooked source of love. Possibly another reason for choosing this topic, this month, is because I have a good friend moving to Australia at the end of the year. A great great friend, but as a consequence of him moving away our contact will be diminished pretty substantially. Maybe, all I'm really trying to say with this kind of love is don't take it for granted. It's less obvious than the first type, and also more easily withdrawn. Value and treasure, when appropriate, and if possible acknowledge without the aid of alcohol.

Love in the Context of Things


What do I mean here? I love my car, I love my bike, I love my house, I love chocolate.  Generally, dictionaries describe love in terms of 'things' as something close to a "Whole-hearted liking for something". I'm not sure why the word 'like' can't be substituted for the word 'love' if that is the case. Love seems like a slightly over-the-top verb to use for, for example, chocolate. However if the dictionary definition above is to be believed, and I'm inclined to say it is, then I guess peoples' popular use of the word is correct. Personally I don't think this is really love, instead just a poor use of a vocabulary. I do it myself, in fact I'm not really sure I know anyone who doesn't, but nonetheless the extensive use of any word can lead to it being worthless. Just something to think about.

Love in the Context of Places


For me this is really an extension of the love of things. The same rules apply but, unlike with things, I think this love is more genuine, possibly because it doesn't involve anything physical or tangible. The love of the car has almost a sense of materialism about it, which is not the case with a place. A love for a place is all about the feeling, and what is love but a feeling.


I know, I've not really explained anything particularly revolutionary in this article, discussed anything of value or enriched the reader's life. I apologise for that, but it has been something mulling around in my brain for some time and I wanted to get it down on paper.

What can I say, I 'Love' to write.

Book Memory

It was Wednesday and it was raining. Light, drizzly, rain and although it wasn't what I would have called cold, the wind definitely had a chill. However, this is not a weather report so let me move forward with the story. I’d just been for lunch with a friend near Bank and I had plans in north London with another friend later that day for dinner. It was two in the afternoon and I had around four hours to kill. Given the weather conditions, a stroll through the park was out of the question. I’d also already had about four cups of coffee so finding a Starbucks or somewhere similar was probably not the most prudent of ideas. Besides, a four hour stint at a coffee shop is pretty excessive by almost anyone’s standards. Instead I decided to peruse Leadenhall Market's shops as a time-filling exercise, firstly because I was in the area, but more importantly because it was warmer inside! To cut to the chase I made a visit to Waterstones and it was here that I was confronted by a book I haven’t seen, let alone thought about, for well over a decade – Sue Townsend's "The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, aged 13 ¾’’. It conjured memories which had been long forgotten.

I bought it of course, how could I not. I was a late-comer to Sue Townsend's classics (apparently this instalment is thirty years old), however when reading it about fifteen years ago it left such an impression on me that I can remember exactly what I was doing at the time. Sounds strange but I think, looking back on it, it was the first book I actually enjoyed reading (and also the first book I wasn’t forced to read). I reckon it’s a little like the first time my Dad took me to a football match, such was the power of the experience that I can remember exactly what was going on in my life at that time. I suppose it’s true with anything that is important; it helps you to contextualise your life. In the case of Adrian Mole, seeing this book took me back to my secondary school days. For a split second I was sat in our school's far too modern-looking library, with the sounds of shouting from the sports field outside rising above the noise of the commercial lighting system. Most of my memories from school seem to contain bad weather, so maybe the conditions on this wet Wednesday were partly responsible for jolting my memory too.

Adrian Mole (not personally of course, but his diary) had provoked a strange reaction in me, and this got me thinking. I hadn’t needed to even re-read the book, just the sight of it had provided enough stimulus to spark off an entire chain of repressed memories. I liked this feeling and I wanted more. When I got home I examined my bookcase to see if there were any other examples which concealed such vivid memories. There were, and unsurprisingly they were among my favourite list of books. However, the memories affiliated to them were a mixed bag.

One Day – I read this book whilst living in a flat, roughly sized ten feet by ten feet, in a house off Portobello Road; cracking location, crappy flat. Features included a cockroach infestation and a mouse problem. My bed was on stilts and gave what the estate agents called "a mezzanine level", but was actually a bunk bed without the lower bed. The idea being to put the bed above the floor and utilise the space below. The outcome was a bed about four feet from the ceiling and more often than not a writer with a sore head. At the time I had boycotted TV and had no internet connection. I moved into the flat for pretty much the sole purpose of finishing a first draft of a book I was working on. I came close to insanity a few times. One Day had not really taken off back then (well, not to the extent it eventually did) so I had no idea what to expect. When I finally opened it, I finished it on the same day. It gripped me from the opening, to the final sentence. I recall feeling profoundly hard done-by when the book ended, thinking. ‘This was the book I wanted to write’.

1984 – Possibly one of my favourite books, and by my favourite author. I read this for the first time towards the summer of my final year at university. My girlfriend at the time had lent it to me to read, and as such I felt obliged to do so. I am so glad I did as I really enjoyed it and it also came in useful because I managed to reference it in one of my final year exams, where I discussed the impact of technology on society. Despite the depressing nature of this book (although also brilliant), it will always remind me of a girl, the summer and of the end of university. This book has nothing to do with any of these things, however I will always attach these memories to it.

The Picture of Dorian Gray – For anyone who has had a lousy summer break then you’ll know that

entertainment of any description in a quality form is a welcome distraction. Oscar Wilde, in this his only full length novel, achieved this nicely, supplying a welcome break from my mundane summer holiday, if only for a day or so anyway. I bought this book along with Pride and Prejudice in the interval between my second and third year at University whilst at home in Bath. I purchased the two because they were books, I thought, I was supposed to have read. I hated Pride and Prejudice, it bored me half to death and I must confess that to this day, despite a few more attempts I have never managed to finish it. With ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ it was a totally different story (obviously – see title). I was engrossed and couldn’t put the thing down. I recall finding an oak tree in one of Bath's parks and sitting under it for hours uncovering the sordid Victorian world described in its pages. That summer it rained, I was living with my parents after experiencing the freedom of University and my love life was flatter than a pancake (possibly even a crepe, as they are flatter still). However, this book gave me a welcome respite from these depressing truths. So thanks Oscar.

Then We Came ToThe End – I really enjoyed this story, but seeing the cover of this book now makes me feel ill. I loved it for the fact that, in the context of work, it seemed to know exactly what and how I was thinking and feeling. Books which can relate to you in this way are very rare and this one does it marvellously well, a very well-written and thought-provoking book. So why do I feel nauseous around it now then? Simple really, I spent two weeks in hospital when I was reading it and those two weeks were possibly the most traumatic of my life. I would have never admitted it at the time but I was scared to death, and the book cover now just serves as a reminder of that period. It’s a shame really, because I doubt I’ll ever re-read the book now, despite its enjoyable nature.

Now I will leave it at that I think, as listing more would be a bit self indulgent and honestly that was not the point of this blog. The point is simply to acknowledge that beyond the story, a book can have many more meanings, formed by a reader's own life and their own experiences.  Wilde comments plainly in his preface to ‘The Picture of Doran Gray’ - “It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Down and out in Paris and London...I mean Camberwell!

Carrying on from last month's slightly upbeat blog, I wanted to share with you my experience of Camberwell. Not that all my experiences of Camberwell have been positive, but still, it’s where I have held residence now for almost three years and holds a special place in my life. I know, I know, I can hear you gagging from all the heartfeltness but hey it’s the way I feel. Also, as a disclaimer, I want to point out for anyone who saw the title and thought this may have anything to do with George Orwell, I apologise profusely. You have been, to coin a cockney saying, “mugged off”.

For those of you who are not from or do not know London, Camberwell is located in the south east (of London) somewhere between Elephant and Castle and Brixton, and Oval and Peckham. I would assume that most people have a heard of these places and if you haven’t maybe you should Google the following: riots, test match cricket, Only Fools and Horses and Michael Caine.

In preparation for this article I did a bit of research on Camberwell. However there was unsurprisingly - but disappointingly - very few ‘facts’ available on the Internet. So, in the interest of having at least a couple of historic gems, I decided to consult the oracle of unverified information. That’s right Wikipedia. Wikipedia describes how in a bygone age Camberwell’s name could be directly translated into either ‘Well of Britons’ or the less politically correct ‘Cripple-Well’. Wikipedia goes on to explain how Camberwell was either a place renowned for its healing qualities or a place where lepers were expelled. Given that this is slightly breezy information, I decided to leave the history lesson for someone more qualified. However it does illustrate how drastically divided the views of Camberwell can be, even the historical ones. If you go online and try searching for Camberwell, the most high ranked returns will probably include the Arts College, the Sexual Health Clinic and Kings College Hospital. So from that, the most basic of information, we can deduce that Camberwell is a place of ‘arty types’, Doctors, nurses, and people who like to have lots of unprotected sex. Having checked the Camberwell Tourist Information website, they have opted to highlight its artistic nature and the (now historical) healing springs rather than its STD hotspot, ex-leper colony side. My experience of Camberwell, like everyone else’s it seems, is varied. Let’s begin with the bad. I want to knock down the reputation of the area just a little bit more, before gradually building it back up.

It was dark, it was the summit of the night and it was blooming hot. My room, which faces Camberwell high street, is an ice box in the winter but a green house in the summer. The window is open and the sirens from Kings College Hospital keep me from drifting into a deep sleep. In the distance, from my unsettled slumber I hear shouting, two men, wasted by all accounts. From the hot summer's evening the voices of these two men radiate. Louder they get until their voices are fully audible.


"I'm gonna f**king stab you!"

Silence follows. I'm now awake ,really awake. It continues.

"I'm gonna f**king stab you in the eye!"

A sentiment thatis then reiterated a dozen times. I’m in bed, with work in the morning, mentally urging them to shut up. Then they do. This is scary. Complete quiet ensues. Has he stabbed him in the eye? Oh I hope he hasn’t, god I hope he hasn’t. Then the argument starts up again. This is a relief, at least everyone has their eyes and no one’s gotten stabbed.

“I’m gonna f**king stab you in the eye!”


The noise disappears the way it had come and then the streets return to relative silence, disturbed only by sirens.

Okay definitely not a unique incident in London, but one of quite a few social disturbances on my doorstep. The police are called out roughly at weekly intervals, just to our section of the high street, normally to disperse the mixture of crack addicts and drunks that seem to enjoy loitering outside the many bookies and pawn brokers. I’ve come home from work to, on more than one occasion, someone urinating on my front door. Once I confronted the person, who became massively embarrassed and tried to make it up to me by apologising and then offering me his hand to shake. I declined. I once witnessed a pregnant women smoking crack in a carpark just around the corner. Large gangs often congregate, smoking and drinking openly in public. Police move them on, but they come back the next day.

At this point you’re probably thinking something like, “Why the hell do you live in this place?!” or “I thought you were going to carry on your positive vibe from last month's blog!”. Well calm down, just calm down, I’m getting to that. If I jumped straight to the good stuff I’d be accused of gushing, and get comments like, “you’ll grow out of it” and “when you’ve lived there for a while you won’t like it so much”. So let me start my counter argument by saying that since leaving home at eighteen this has been my longest residence. I won’t lie, I’ve thought of moving a few times but to be honest I just can’t do it and I’ll come to the reasons why now.

To start off with there’s the location. It sits smack bang in the middle of Zone Two and it’s cheap. It may be south of the River, but you can be at almost any point in Zone One within thirty minutes on a bus, or ten to fifteen minutes on the Tube or Overground. I know there are always going to be people who live north of the River, who will be saying (these are actual things that people have said to me by the way) “It’s South London so it doesn’t count as London” or “It’s a bit rubbish, not much there”. But these are hardly  compelling arguments and to be honest I don’t really care. I normally ask people why they don’t like South London specifically. The responses vary but the normal reply is something like“I don’t know, I never really go there”. Well that’s a bit like the spoilt child who doesn’t like chilli because it doesn’t look very nice, but has never tasted it. Enough on that anyway, otherwise I might digress and discuss the stereotypes of both North and South Londoners, which for the most part is irrelevant to my point.

Secondly, as the Camberwell Tourist Information website points out, there is a large artistic community. Camberwell is home to the Arts College and the South London Gallery which has housed work by some of today’s most celebrated artists, including Damien Hirst and Tracey Emin (apparently). Also, Florence Welsh (Florence and the Machines) and Guardian columnist Zoe Williams live in the area. All this I have to say doesn’t really concern me greatly. It’s nice to know a few 'famous' people have taken up residence nearby(or studied here) but it doesn’t increase my enjoyment of the area. What does, however, is the mixture of personalities you find on an average day. I didn’t live in London a decade ago, but I would imagine that ten years ago Shoreditch would have been a lot like Camberwell is today, only Shoreditch moved passed its rough and ready stage and is now one of the London 'hot spots', particularly in terms of the night life. I imagine in some capacity Camberwell has been on the cusp of popularity a few times, but never managed to break into the inner sanctum of coolness. From its cult reference in ‘Withnail and I’ with the Camberwell Carrot, to its vivid inclusion in The Room of Lost Things (although specifically the book focuses on Loughborough Junction), to the songs written about it by the likes of Basement Jaxx. In my opinion, which means very little in the grand scale of things, the place just needs a bit of plugging and for what it’s worth I’m willing to try. When you can’t afford to be part of the centre of things, and in this instance I mean popular areas like Hampstead, Shoreditch and Islington, Angel etc etc, instead of worrying about it, I’m just going to try and move the centre. Also, and less selfishly, the place deserves some good publicity.

Thirdly, people talk to each other. I know it’s strange for an inner-city-London borough but it actually happens. I know my neighbours, we have mid-length conversations with each other, they may even come to dinner one evening. I know the main staff in all the local take-out establishments and the three staff members who work at the local shop. People, when they’re not threatening to stab each other, are much friendlier here. I remember buying a Christmas tree last year from my greengrocers and the old man reserved the best one for me by putting it aside, despite the fact he could barely carry the thing. I obviously tried to help him but he was having none of it. Instead, if my memory serves me correctly, he called his wife and the elderly couple lugged the tree "round the back" for me. I felt awfully guilty, but it was pretty sweet to watch this elderly couple working in unison. We actually have a green grocer, which seems to be a fading part of local communities. But not just that, we also have a butcher, a baker, a flower shop and a fish monger. A friend of mine joked, when she read the draft of this blog, that all we need now is a candle-maker. What’s more is that despite the Morrison supermarket just seconds away, people still make use these independents.

I lived in Notting Hill (as did George Orwell, which means I have actually made one reference to him) for almost a year when I first came to London. I think the only conversation I had with someone in the area was a plumber who came round to fix my shower, happy days. I smoked back then as well, which normally gives shopkeepers the opportunity to strike up a rapport with their customers. However none seemed in the slightest bit interested.

The fourth and final reason that I'm fond of Camberwell is because of its architecture. Again, I know some people will doubt what I’m saying here, but walk up and down Camberwell High Street and New Camberwell Street, and point me in the direction of a tower block. You know the ones I mean, the ones built in the sixties, where design and taste went out the window in the interest of providing affordable accommodation to a growing population. Purposeful and necessary as they were, I don’t think anyone could argue that they are aesthetically  pleasing. Camberwell has a number of lowrise estates, but I think you’d have to go towards Elephant and Castle and Oval before you find what I would refer to as a proper estate. The rest of the buildings (excusing the hospital which I think we can forgive as it’s not only useful but also one of the best in the country) are Victorian and Edwardian style terraced houses. If you look behind even the pawn brokers the houses there are quite pleasant. I live behind a bookie in a converted factory and although you have to walk down an alley to get in, which obviously has its disadvantages (see 'urinating in doorway' experience above), the actual building and brick work is really pretty cool.

Before I sign off I’d like to invite people (and I'm sure I’ll regret this) to give their own views and experiences of the area. If you’ve never been to Camberwell, maybe let me know one reason you love the place you live. However, if you comment on Camberwell be kind. I bloody love this place, puss-filled boils, warts and all.

Ten Things I Love About This March

This month, as a bit of a change of pace, instead of yet another rant I thought I'd 'write happy'. I've read a few articles lately that, most notably, talked about enjoying the 'little things' and urged the reader to embrace the joy of life, as well as the things that it brings (A pause to reflect and wax lyrical and Beta Male: a few of my favourite things | The Times) .  I don’t want to regurgitate the same sentiment. However I have decided to heed the writers’ advice and to seize the month of March, and maybe even beyond if this 'embracing' malarkey works out. Who knows. With this in mind I would like to share ten things from the wonderful month of March that have made me happy. I'll try my best not to share too smugly - after all, no one like a smart-ass, or even a smug-ass.

Talking of smug individuals leads me nicely to number one of the things that has recently made me happy: Kermit the Frog. Smug but loveable. The ultimate beta male and a prince among, well, frogs I guess (as well as Muppets, Men and Muppet-Men). Let's be honest, even for the most hardy of people there is a simple pleasure attached to this green fluffless puppet. Indeed, for me at least, he reminds me of the optimism of childhood and the hopefulness that innocence brings. He's weedy-looking, he's got no real talent, he's green and a Muppet. None of these debilitating factors hinder him. With his band of faithful friends there is seemingly no task too great for Kermit and his fellow Muppets. With the arrival of the new film they are everywhere and, after over a decade in the wilderness, I welcome them back with open arms. I challenge anyone to watch the new film and not smile. It simply can't be done. Unless, of course, you’re a dick.

The Muppets new movie once again leads me nicely onto the next subject and number two on my list: singing. Now, I want to stress at this point that I am not referring to well-coached tuneful singing. I am referring to the bashful tone deaf singing you only ever hear when people think they are alone.  Shower singing, cooking singing, naked singing…Okay ignore the last one. But hearty, wholesome, warm singing. If you still don't get me, think Brian Blessed belting out Mustang Sally whilst cooking a fry up. I love to sing. Of course, not in front of other living people, but I still love doing it. The shower is my particular favourite, and what's more if you can get your 'funk on' early in the morning, I find my mood is lifted throughout the day. Ignore me if you want but this is a free source of cheer and I bet anyone who by chance overhears you will smile too.


Onto number three: the Sun, and I'm not talking about the newspaper here people. I'm thinking more along the lines of the flaming ball in the sky. Rare as it is in England, it's a dead cert for bringing a little bit of joy. I hate February as a general rule, I suppose I'm a little like Garfield in that respect. It's cold, rainy and Christmas and the enthusiasm that New Year brings are well and truly over. March on the other hand brings 'close of play' on the worst of both the weather and the dark dank days. That fiery sphere has been pretty active this month and good on it. So here's a shout out for the Sun; keep it up big fella.

Terry Pratchett is down at number four. Well done Terry. Why is Terry Pratchett on my list? Well because he's funny and I am reading one of his books at the moment. I’ll let you join the dots.  I'm reading Mort and it's the first book by Mr. Patchett I've ever read. I'm not going to lie, I think he's done well. The writing style reminds me of Douglas Adams and is the sort of humour that unexpectedly jabs you in the ribs and forces a laugh out of you. On the basis of this book, I have no doubt I shall read more. My brother, a Pratchett addict, has informed me it's not even his best so I thoroughly look forward to the next, whichever one it is.

At number five, with the shortest explanation, I have Fulham FC. I love Fulham. We've won three of our last five games; not the worst (or the best) run of form, but I know that's about as good as it gets, so well done chaps.

The sixth reason for loving March is because of friends. Not to be confused with the comic, long-running American TV series ( I do like Friends, but I think my like for Friends the series extends past the month of March). I don't really know I've ended up with quite so many genuinely nice people in my life but I have. This month for various reasons I have had more than a normal quota of support from them and the funny bastards they are have made me chuckle throughout. I remember an old western film I saw when I was about six years old. I forget it's name, but the protagonist said that if you can count more than a handful of good friends then you're a blessed man. After this month I feel blessed. 

Now we're getting towards the tail end of my list and, as it's been a rather good month, there are quite a few things that despite their excellence still won't make the cut. But enough about that that, I said I wouldn't be smug. However, it does go some way (hopefully) in illustrating exactly how brilliant the next selection is. So without further ado, at number seven we have the IKEA pillow. If god made pillows then he'd have to stop, because IKEA would put him (or her) out of business. I have no idea how, for the bargain basement prices they charge, they do it, but they do. IKEA pillows are, to resurrect an old 90's word, 'boss'. They have managed to capture the cartoon properties of a cloud and then somehow store and package them in a cotton container as fit for purpose pillows. I know there will be people reading this and not believing, and the truth is I just don't care. Believe me or not, the truth is the truth, and that’s a fact.


At number eight we have resignations, and to clarify I’m talking job resignations. Slightly odd to have resignations on my list of things that have made me happy, so I'll do a little explaining. Firstly there is my own. I resigned from my job this month after a fairly unhappy period. No bad feeling or anger was attached to the decision (on either side) but the general direction which I wanted to go in and the direction the company was going were the polar opposites. I've had, on the whole, a good few years there and will look back with happy memories. But giving my notice was definitely the right choice. At this stage I don't have another job to go to. However I liken the feeling to when I had just finished University. I felt scared, because the future was somewhat uncertain, but at the same time felt like I could do anything. I have that same excited/scared feeling now and am going to embrace it rather than worrying about it. Now I couldn't really mention this subject, particularly this month, without giving some reference to Greg Smith the Goldman and Sachs executive. He resigned from his job by writing his letter of resignation in The New York Times, entitled 'Why I Am Leaving Goldman Sachs'. Greg, you have balls the size of watermelons, nice work (on the letter, not on your balls).

Number nine was a no brainer for me: family. As previously mentioned, I resigned this month (see eight). Had it not been for the support and understanding of my family I wouldn't have had the guts to do this. Thanks guys, it means a lot. Also I know I drive you all a bit loopy, but whether you know it or not, you're always making me smile.


Last of all, for number ten I have the Internet. This would be a little harder to explain if I didn't have the advantage of being able to add links below. Most of these are links to advertisements or television clips, but thanks to the wonderful Internet, they are available to share and entertain on demand. Obviously, I understand that this is not the sole purpose of the Internet. However it is a happy by-product of being able to share media. The few clips I have selected below, although not massively high brow, made me laugh out loud and after all that's happiness in its purest form.

- This is why the ipad can't replace newspaper

- Are we the bad guys

- Darth Vader being a smartass

Before I finish I want to leave you with something. This is by no means an exhaustive list, not even close. However, it does illustrate how much good there is in an average life, in an average month. Look around occasionally, smile more, because - to rip off a Budwiser slogan, "Good times are out there

Non Social Media

So I've just spent the past six days in Dubai. In a nut-shell, for people who have never been, Dubai is hot, extravagant, rich and well let's be honest sandy. It was the first week-long holiday I've had in a few years and the reason for choosing Dubai was to visit a friend. As a result I spent the week living within an expat community. To a large extent the social community resembled closely that which I had left back in Blighty. However, with subtle differences. The most noticeable of these is that Dubai is a very large city, but it has a town-type feel. What I mean by this is that people seem to be less anonymous. Now this may not necessarily be a feature of Dubai itself but more of the expat community, although not having lived in either I can't be sure. What I can tell you is the environment I found myself in was one where people were close, the atmosphere was friendly and there was a solid sense of inclusion.

The purpose of this month's blog is not to discuss Dubai and the social difference between the clustered communities that exist there and those in London. It's to illustrate a point, and I promise you I do have one. Whilst away I witnessed a dispute which started, as so many arguments do, on a drunken night out. The original incident occurred in restaurant the day before my arrival, where the offending person made (apparently) a bit of a scene and verbally insulted a number of the establishment's staff and other clientele. From what I gather the restaurant in question markets themselves as a loud sociable venue, so unpleasant as these things are, they're probably fairly common place.

The repercussions for the offender were harsh, and were aided and exaggerated by the availability of technology.

As you may expect the following morning the offender issued a prompt apology via text message. It was ignored and with a medium such as text messaging silence can be deathly. This continued for a couple of days and after a number of failed attempts at communication Facebook was used to try and solidify the apology and appeal to those offended in an open forum.

One of the great things about Facebook and other similar sites is their availability to the masses. They provide 'The Average Joe' with the opportunity to spread their opinion to a vast range and number of people. This is why we love them. For the most part I tend to use Facebook as a way of providing friends with a high level commentary on my life. Well, that and a way to publicise the odd witty observations. I don't think I'm particularly unique.

In the case this week Facebook was used as a method to try and restore social equilibrium. It didn't work and instead highlighted a very, very visible way in which to vent frustration. The opportunity was not wasted and a number of fairly tame, but very visible, snide comments ensued. 

In the circle of friends I have, Facebook isn't used as a bitching tool. That said I have made a number of foot-in-mouth comments which easily could have been misinterpreted and erupted in on-line arguments. Thankfully that hasn't happened, but more down to luck (and a high level of tolerance by my friends) than my own judgement. Sadly however, I have witnessed it amongst two people I know and it can get messy. If you take an average Facebook account holder and estimate that they have around one hundred contacts, if an on-line argument occurs between three people, comments could be visible to three hundred people! Now, given the offender in this case used Facebook as a way to apologise, abusing them to hundreds of people seemed somewhat harsh. More than that it highlights how cheaply someone's credibility can be put into question, with very little thought from the aggressor. Once upon a time if you had some 'beef' with someone you talked to them about it. Even the most active busy-body probably couldn't publicise their opinions to more than ten or so people using the traditional methods of slander, speech. 

I've omitted both the name of the guilty and well the guilty (the aggressor and the offender)  in this article, because frankly the process of 'misdemeanor followed by bollocking' is not a new one. It's old, very old. However, what it did make me realise was how easily someone can be socially isolated by the use of social media. Now personally I don't think that was what it was meant for. In truth I don't think either the offender or the aggressor this week appreciated how detrimental Facebook could be. But that's the problem. As Facebook users, we are encouraged to say what's on our minds, for better and for worse. As the use of social media becomes a more prominent part of our life style, as indeed it has over the past five or so years, I have absolutely no doubt that these type of incidents will become more frequent. There's a massive difference between online banter and online abuse; notably tone and context, which are easily misinterpreted. 

Looking beyond the case above, posting abusive or inappropriate messages on Facebook can have far-reaching consequences. Posting an insult may seem harmless or even funny at the time, but you only have to look at sites such as Failbook or Lamebook to realise how horribly devastating they can be. I have family members on Facebook and a throw away comment from 'friends' could easily lead to a great deal of controversy. Just imagine, your old dear reading a post about a conquest from the previous night, left by a mate. Probably, she wouldn't be impressed and I dare say somewhat disappointed, all because of nothing more than a lack of thought from the poster. The misuses of social media are potentially endless but thankfully I think most people have the common sense to use them with at least a minimal degree of respect. However next time you post a throw away comment consider who could be reading, because not only does a derogatory comment leave a black mark on the recipient, but it also can say a lot about you too.

The Angry Bus

Okay so last week I'm on the bus. It's half past seven, it's Sunday evening and there are three fellow passengers with me. One's an old man, who's sat across from me and the other two consist of a mother and her pram ridden son. There's nothing in this set-up that could conceivably suggest that anything exciting is about to take place. The woman's on the phone, she's talking and then starts to becomes agitated. Now, I don't think I can really repeat in a public forum exactly what she said but here's a quick summary. She began to explain (in explicit detail by the way) how she was going to kill her ex-boyfriend , with a hammer, and then later take their son to his funeral and make him urinate in his fathers grave. Very nice I'm sure you'll agree.

This obviously appalled me, but what struck me afterwards was the anger of this women and her almost insistence on letting the bus know exactly how angry she was. I have no idea why, It was only myself and the old guy on the bus and he looked none too impressed either. I'd love to say this was an isolated incident but sadly that's not the case. Well, maybe it is, I haven't heard anyone threatening to kill someone then excrete on their grave, but there have been some other examples of shocking public behaviour. Three days ago for instance, two ladies, in their fifties may I add, shouting and fighting. It was about half past four on a Monday afternoon and there were more than a few children on the bus. This may not sound too bad, but it was. The bus driver pulled over and refused to drive on, until they vacated. They argued and fought as we drove off down the road.

Another hate filed bus ride came when a preacher decided to use the number 35 to Clapham as his church, in rush hour.  As you may imagine this went down like a lead balloon. I don't want to get into any kind of discussion on religion. People have their own opinions and views and as far as I'm concerned that's fair enough. However, using a bus as a place to preach is pretty in your face (all be it fairly ingenious), but my 'beef' isn't really with this either. It was the reaction it produced, anger like I have almost never seen before in my life. I would imagine there will be people (myself included at the time) who would find the idea of a man preaching on a bus too intrusive, but why is that? If I was stood at the bus station for twenty minutes, which is approximately the same time as my journey that day, would this have been as infuriating? I'm guessing no.

Buses are obviously not to blame for the problems aboard, they are after all just vessels, but for some reason people do tend to act strangely on them. What I find equally as curious is that these types of events don't seem to happen on the tube, or at least not nearly as frequently. I used the tube for almost two years before moving to an area in South east London which required bus use and I didn't see one, fight, argument or threat on someones life. It could be said that this is most likely because tubes don't run all night. However, none of the above happened after the water shed. Does that conclusively mean that tubes are safer and better than buses? Of course not, I could have just been lucky, or unlucky depending your angle!

Buses for better or for worse tend to be more vocal places. You can use your phone, something which is restricted on both Trains and Tubes and also there is a massively diverse population. I honestly can't think of another situation where so many different people have the opportunity to meet in a completely neutral place. When you think about it, it's hardly surprising that occasionally there's a little hot headedness. I have sat on many a bus after work and felt my blood pressure rise. It maybe the guy behind me tapping his foot or the lady in front listening to her music too loudly, but for whatever reason, seemingly un-intrusive acts become grating as hell in the bus arena.  Thankfully my passive irritableness has never flourished to full bus rage, however it affords me a least some sympathy to the more minor aggression related incidents, although not those involving hammers.

I'm aware this may sound like one long anti bus rant so I want to balance things up a little. I love the bus. I would use it any day over the tube, because frankly I prefer daylight. There's also at least a small chance of getting a seat in the morning, and well there's also the cost which is considerably lower.  It is however an unfortunate inevitability that you will have to put up with a few muppets every so often.  I'll leave you with this, use buses they are generally great. However if you are the hot blooded type, the next time you feel a bus related tantrum coming on, take a breath, enjoy the view and relax. What ever you do, don't become an angry bus person!