Are Panic & Anxiety The Right Words.

When I tell people that I have anxiety and panic attacks I often get this response:

"Oh I get panicky too, couldn't find my Oyster card last night!"

Or

"Anxiety? Yeah I get that watching Making A Murderer, not nice is it?"

They don't mean to belittle my situation, but what they associate with the words doesn't even come close to how it feels.

Terror Attacks, Brain Meltdown, Mind Collapse are more accurate. Yes I know they sound like horror films, but actually that's not that far from the truth.

At its worst Anxiety for me is like being in a horror film, with the woozy score from Vertigo. Every phone bleep, every door knock, every sound of footsteps outside could be the dark grey monster that will tip me over the edge and breakdown.

Panic attacks are like the spinning room you used to get when you've drunk too much Thunderbird wine. Except it doesn't feel like it will ever end. The spinning gets faster, shapes, sounds and people distort, like the contrast/sound turned up too high on an old TV. Every bleak thought about every aspect of your life plays at once. All competing with each other for the prize of scariest outcome and worst ending. 

They do pass, always. But that doesn't stop you from thinking the next one might never end.

I'm lucky, after a long time I luckily found a good Doctor who understands and friends/family who will support me, no matter how dark and gloomy I feel. I think I'm coming through the other side, at last. The optimism and hope that was hidden away in a dusty cupboard has come back.

So when you hear the words 'panic' and 'anxiety' please try not to assume you know what that means. It takes huge strength for some people to be honest and talk about what they are going through, don't stop them before they start.

The Stain Glass Window

I have a lot of time on my hands these days so I'll share a story about me. 

I once saw a stain glass window in a house that had a stain glass picture of Jim Robinson from Neighbours.

My job as a care worker for elderly people meant I saw my fair share of odd ornaments and paintings, but this was by far the oddest.

I got the call that a Mrs Draper had broken her ankle and wanted a visit to see if she get any help.

So I left the office and drove to Fowey, a little harbour town in Cornwall.

After arguing with the satnav, I eventually found the house and knocked on the door.

A voice shouted "come in dear!" and I followed the voice into what looked like a living room.

In a corner, sitting in an old armchair was an old lady, one hand held a remote control as she flicked through the channels on a big widescreen TV.

The other was pointing at me.

"Mrs Draper I'm..."

She interrupted me "I'll need my meals delivered, three times a day, can you do that dear?" "And shopping, I'll need shopping ok?"

As I tried to find a way to say something helpful I noticed a small painting at the top of the living room wall.

Looking closer I noticed it wasn't a picture, but a small stain glass window.

I walked towards it as Mrs Draper listed ingredients for a hot pot and as I got closer I saw there was the face of a man made of stain glass in the window.

He looked familiar. Did I know him? 

Those eyes, the hairline, was it someone fam....hang on!

It was Jim Robinson! From Neighbours! Yes!

He was doing that sort of nearly smile he did. Bloody hell a stain glass Jim Robinson, that will be something to tell the office when I get back. Mrs Draper turned her head and...

noticed what I was looking at. She sighed and stared at me, such an icy stare. 

I felt cold, the same cold you feel when you wake from a nightmare and the world is still part scary, you know you've woken up but the fear still drips from the darkness.

"Isn't that...I mean why have...Jim Robinso.....what a fantastic window!" My Britishness was back in control. 

It doesn't matter how weird or scary things are, rationalise and be polite. And smile at walls. 

"You like it dear?" 

"Yes, who madehowlonghasitbeeni'mfromsocialservices..." My Britishness was now in defence mode.

"Oh you're quicker than the others dear, aren't you a bright one?"

I nodded as my brain did the opposite of nodding.

"I collect things, always have, that's why I'm still here, you could say it keeps me alive."

Now I'd read enough stories to know that this is when you look for an exit, say a hurried goodbye and leave.

So obviously I stayed.

And I don't know why, but I sat down on a chair that I didn't even  know was there

I didn't move. No, not didn't, I couldn't move.

"He was in a panto here you know? Big star from Austraila, I worked in the gift shop next to the theatre. Couldn't wait to meet him! My grandchildren loved him. 

Well they did then, now they just hang around all day. He came into the shop on his last day of the pantomime. 

Didn't say hello, just grumpily asked if I sold Cornish sweets, then walked out before I had chance to answer."

"Such a rude man, I'd hoped to have a photo with him for my grandchildren, he just stomped out, nearly got away, but he didn't know who I am, what I do, silly man."

Mrs Draper stood up, all of her slouchy crooked old lady shapes seemed to straighten out. She looked at me, in me, sniffed and breathed in.

"So I taught him a lesson, like I always do, like all the others"

She pointed at the wallpaper. Except it wasn't wallpaper. There were pictures of faces, in small frames. On the wall. Dozens of them.

I moved closer, wanted to look at them. 

But I couldn't. 

Frozen in the nightmare chair that wasn't there. Dizzy and scared. The wall moving towards me.

There are over twenty of us now, trapped in cheap wooden frames on Mrs Drapers wall. 

All day and all night all we have is our thoughts. We see everything, feel everything, but can't move, can't escape. 

There is no day, there is no night. Just Mrs Drapers wall and the sound of screams from the new people who join us.

Sometimes I think if we all scream at the same time someone will hear us and help. 

But we don't. 

So I just watch, forever, and keep telling the story of the stain glass window with the picture of Jim Robinson from Neighbours. 

It's just a website darlings

When twitter became twatter
The bruised egos just got fatter
You treated the trolls to a three course dinner
All for what? To try and prove you're a winner?

It's just a website darlings
Nothing less nothing more
Think before you tweet
Don't become the pub bore

Defending friends is noble, that I understand
But it's hard to give a cuddle with a pitchfork in one hand

You gave them attention then instantly lost the fight
Then took the fun out of funny and two wrongs don't make a right

It's just a website darlings
Nothing less nothing more
Think before you tweet
Don't become the pub bore

Stupid Nature.

I've never had a garden I have been able to enjoy.  Well that’s not strictly true, up until the age of about 12 I think the garden was my football stadium, my jungle, my alien planet and my Narnia, but after 'growing up' I have never been able to settle in gardens.

 

It's either too hot, too cold, too many wasps/flies/alien things flapping around. On the rare occasion when I would get comfortable with a book (and that’s another thing, how are we suppose to get comfortable on garden chairs? its  almost impossible, has anyone invented a garden sofa yet?) then of course the neighbours would decide to work on the engine from an F16 jet they had picked up at a car boot sale, or 43 grandchildren would descend, each armed with a megaphone, a football, cricket bat and enough energy to keep Norwich running on electricity for several months.

The very idea of eating outside was so full of pitfalls that when it was suggested I would start to panic as each danger shot through my mind;

 

Flies land on food.

Flies land in food.

Wasps land in drinks.

It's always colder than you think, or it's so hot that salads explode as they leave the kitchen.

It's always windy. Always.

I can't see the t.v

It was supposed to be relaxing but I would shove food in my face like Oliver Twist before nature invaded my lunch.

 

And I haven't even mentioned barbecues.

 

Well we moved last year, practically in the middle of nowhere, with a proper garden that has nature and strange things. Last winter took so long that I changed my name to Jon Snow and took to whispering "winter is coming" to anyone I saw. The very idea of a summer was a distant memory, or just something you saw in American films.

 

After the Starks had left and the Lannisters had taken back the throne of Coningsby, Spring eventually arrived and a few weeks ago I found myself sat in the garden, something was different and I couldn't quite think why, after a few minutes I realised what it was; I was relaxed.

 

No noise apart from nature noises, it wasn't windy, no Phil Collins Greatest Hits in the background and I was comfortable. I actually felt like I had taken two nurofen for a headache and they were working instantly.

I found myself watching birds going about their daily routine, collecting twigs, having a snack, talking to each other, always busy and it occurred to me that humans really are stupid aren’t they? And so arrogant.

 

We feel superior to nature in so many ways but really we have got it so wrong. Despite what God announced in his press release Sunday isn’t a day of rest for all his creatures is it? Birds don’t have a lay in on a Sunday, or stay up till 3 drinking vodka on a Friday night.

They eat with the seasons, they don’t order food from Tesco, although they can fly so they have an advantage I guess.

 

Nature gets up when the sun comes up, works away, quietly, peacefully, without annoying anyone, has some food and drink, then goes to bed when the sun goes down. And when winter arrives they either sod off to somewhere nice or if they can't fly they hibernate for six months.

 

Whilst we plough on regardless getting up at the same time regardless of daylight or weather, even changing the clocks, yes we have got the nerve to change actual time itself to suit our routine!

 

Driving to work in the dark, coming home in the dark, the only daylight we see is car parks or outside busy shops, the only thing stopping us from going completely mad, or that tips us over the edge of madness, is Christmas. One day to keep us going in six months. Really??

 

All the while the birds and the cats and the bats and the rabbits must watch us and think "what on earth are they doing?!"

 

Anyway my point is this, gardens are great. If you have one appreciate it, spend time in it, don’t try and impose silly human values in a garden, we don’t need to smell burning cheap burgers or the Macarena in our gardens to enjoy them. Sit and watch and listen and you will feel the benefit, as you realise how insignificant we are compared to how significant we think we are.

 

All of this came to me whilst sat in the garden as I watched a pigeon fly back and forth from a tree in our garden, collecting leaves for a new nest at 7am on a Sunday. Then as it flew overhead for probably the fortieth time something happened.

 

It shat in my coffee.

 

Stupid nature.

Bins, Graffiti and The Matrix

So I saw some interesting graffiti near where I park my car the other day, in big black writing, quite neat too. It said REALITY IS ARTIFICIAL, that’s quite deep I thought, especially compared to the normal phrases I see like “Dave 4 Emma” and “Kevin woz ere wiv Baz 2010”. Making us think about how our day to day lives are nothing but an elaborate sham in order for us to generate some form of energy for a corporate Godhead figure, reducing all of us to nothing more than a aaa battery, not even the ones that fit in remote controls, the ones even smaller than that. Meaning all of our lives are in fact the equivalent of watching a low budget long running soap opera omnibus without anyone famous in it, like the Matrix but more Office Admin based. Or Emmerdale, but more realistic.

While all of this was running through my mind I noticed that someone had added to this simple but profound statement. What have they added I thought, a call to raise arms and awaken the human race from the slumber imposed on it? a phone number to join a revolutionary army who will overthrow the duplicitous governments that keep us squashed like sardines in a tin, oppressed by doom, gloom and fear? (That sounds like the worst name for a solicitors doesn’t it? “had an accident? Slipped on a step and had you football career tragically cut short Mrs Miggins? Well call Doom Gloom and Fear and we will arrange your compensation claim for you!”)

No.

It said SO ARE CHELSEA.

I was almost temped to call in sick until then.

My favourite ever piece of graffiti, yes I have a favourite, was one I remember seeing at school, carved into one of those old wooden desks. There were three parts to this particularly piece of work, like a decade spanning living artwork that the greatest minds of year 10’s metalwork class had worked on, each one not just casually written in biro but carved into the wood and then coloured in, so much deliberation and thought must have gone into each addition, knowing it was a permanent mark, like a blue peter time capsule that generation after generation would see and ponder at how children before them had possibly gained this knowledge, making them feel humbled and privileged to be sat at the very desk where three separate people had written the life changing words:

JOHN IS ACE
then underneath

SO ARE LIVERPOOL

and underneath that
ARE SHIT.

Anyway what I want to talk about today is Bins, yes Bins. How much of our lives are spent either trying to figure out what goes in what bin, which bin to put out this week, whether beer cans are recyclable and OH GOD is there anything more annoyingly competitive than refusing to be the one and admit to your partner that yes, the bin is full and I shall take it upon myself to rid this household of the foul smelling rubbish monster and throw it from the house, causing harmony and a fresh linen smell to be felt throughout the land. But no you just try and squash down the weeks’ worth of waste – again, so you can slide in one solitary crisp packet, that you have already gone to the trouble of ironing.

And on this goes for days and days like a new Jamie Oliver Kitchen Russian Roulette Show until finally one of you gives in, concedes defeat and decides to try the delicate act of getting the bin bag out of the bin. We don’t choose this lightly you know as the risks involved are enormous and the chances of a BIN BAG SPLIT are horrifying enough that we daren’t even say the words out loud in public in case people hear us, scream and runaway.

And then we have the endless "can I recycle this" "which bin does this go in" conversation. Sometimes I spend an entire day with a pukka box wandering between the bins and the kitchen wondering what to do with it. When my girlfriend witnessed this once she came up with a solution to my rubbish dilemma.
"I have bought a new bin with TWO compartments" she said, as if world peace was about to break out.
"one is for food waste,and the other is for everything else" at the same time looking at me the same way a parent looks at their child when they have just explained how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly.
Of course this being life, my life, it wasn't as simple as this. I walked over to the "miracle box" and put my pukka pie box in the special compartment. Which was now full. You see this special compartment for ALL RECYCLING was approximately the same size as a rabbit. A small rabbit, with small ears, rolled up to the size of a small hedgehog.
Ok the special compartment was the same size as a small hedgehog.
Which meant of course that the entire bin would need emptying twice as much, making life twice as complicated and boring as before.
The next day as I walked to my car I noticed the graffiti REALITY IS ARTIFICIAL again. I pulled a pen out of my jacket and making sure no-one was watching, I wrote underneath it "SO WHICH BIN DOES IT GO IN THEN".

Bins

Reading Room Live

Me at the Reading Room Live event at the LPAC. With my favourite T-Shirt, T-Shirt fact fans.

New Rules Of Facebook

New Rules Of Facebook

No-one is allowed to post anymore pictures of funny cats with captions. If you want to look at a funny cat you will have find an actual cat doing something funny. Or persuade him to do something funny possibly with the promise of some tuna or a squeaky mouse thing.

No more use of the letters LOL. It’s not a word.If it’s funny say it’s funny, or type Ha ha ha ha at least. The letters LOL are only allowed if using words like Lollapalooza or lollipop.

Don’t type anything unless you are sure it’s more interesting than watching a toilet flush. Admittedly one man’s Keats is another man’s Peter Andre. But unless you would happily have it etched on your gravestone as the one thing people will remember you for don’t type it.

From now on nobody is allowed to tell the world what day of the week it is. Monday’s on Facebook have turned into an endless stream of the same words. “I can’t believe its Monday” “I hate Mondays” “Where did the weekend go?” over and over like an internet with Alzheimers. Similarly when it is Friday even someone that’s favourite film is Home Alone 3 will have managed to figure out that it is indeed Friday, so we don’t need 89 lines of “Thank God its Friday” or “Friday Yay”.

Be. More. Specific. If you are feeling angry, upset, happy or sad don’t just type “is really mad now” or “is so angry now” as your status update. If you don’t tell us why we will assume that you are the biggest drama queen since Christian from Eastenders stole Elton Johns favourite cushion and are attention seeking at a level not seen since Jessie J singing along to songs on The Voice.

Holiday photos. Before posting 435 photos of your trip to Spain ask yourself this; if my friends were at my house now would they want to sit through each and every one of these photos? If the answer to this question is yes, then ask yourself why none of your friends come to your house anymore.

If these rules are broken, even once, then you will be instantly banned then arrested and sent back to My Space for 200 years.

Beige

When was it decided that everything should be beige? or magenta? or any of those colours that are the equivalent of retiring and watching those Michael Parkinson adverts while slowly shrivelling up until you look like a giant walnut with slippers on. They should have colour charts that describe these colours more accurately. So instead of Barley; Death By Deal Or No Deal. No more Harvest Moon. Replace it with Hell On Tea. Get rid of Autumn Sunset, lets call it Midsummer Murdered. When approached by the sales guy in the carpet shop I was in last week, after being asked ‘if I was looking for anything particular’… ‘yes I was looking for a Tuba but you don’t seem to have any in stock IN A CARPET SHOP’. He proceeded to take me through the seven stages of beige, each one being more dusty and boring than the one before. All the while I am being slowly brainwashed by inhaling the evil carpet dust and having the sudden urge to buy the daily mail and eat a nice bit of sponge cake when I get home. No! I refuse to comply to the beige army. I want carpets made from the same material as Joseph’s Technicolour Dreamcoat but fluffier. I want carpets that are the result of a loom being connected to Jimi Hendrix’s Electric Ladyland played at full volume. I want my stairs to look like a waterfall from a Salvador dali painting so that everytime I walk up and downstairs I feel like I am in the Yellow Submarine. What I don’t want is BEIGE.

Reading out loud in a big room with people watching

Ok so after rehearsing infront of my two cats for a few hours in the morning (one walked out and one fell asleep, tough crowd) I made my way to the LPAC and to have a look at the stage. Although it wasn’t the 02 Arena it was much bigger and lit better, than my living room. Although funnily enough I was less nervous now than when I had been practicing infront of the cats, and better lit.
After a few minutes a couple of the other performers (Abigail, Michael and Jodie) arrived and after being shown to our dressing room (complete with complimentary biscuits, yes that’s right COMPLIMENTARY BISCUITS) we hastily made our way to the café to calm down by drinking coffee and prepare our voices by eating sandwiches and crisps.
What became clear very quickly is how well we got on in such a short space time. Before the show I had visions of half a dozen people all sat in corners practising their acts whilst listening to relaxing music on their ipods and not really saying much to each other.
It was the complete opposite, just a few friends hanging out on a Saturday night, having a laugh and relaxing (I refuse to use the word chillaxing. Unless someone gives me the power to destroy words by saying them really loud, which doesn’t seem likely before Saturday at least).
Then the very man himself; Robert Llewellyn arrived. We all went quiet and waited to see how he would be……
Well we needn’t have worried, he was down to earth, funny, told some brilliant stories and quickly became part of the “friends hanging out on a Saturday night” gang. So after all that fun, we were reminded we had a show to do.
Rather like a strange showbiz Doctors waiting room we were called out one by one, hearing the applause from the acts on stage made us feel good, but also we wanted to make sure we lived up to the previous act!
After collecting the last lines of each of our scripts, which lead to a great conversation with the singer/songwriter Michael:
“so how will we know when you have finished”
“I will have stopped singing”
And then again with Jodie;
“What the last line of your act?”
“The End”
“Er ok maybe the one before that one then….”
I made my way to the side of the stage to listen to Mike and prepare to go on afterwards…
After some words of encouragement from a couple of the others I confidently strolled on stage. By “confidently” I mean “nervously” and by “strolled” I mean “shuffled”.
Initially it was a bit of a blur but after a few minutes I began to settle as people began to laugh in the right places. After a few minutes I even started to enjoy myself which was a pleasant surprise and then it was over, people were still laughing and I left the stage to enjoy the rest of a wonderful show. Then a few drinks afterwards to celebrate what had a been a pretty extraordinary night!
NOW I WANT TO DO IT AGAIN.

DVDon’t.

So anyway after spending the entire afternoon in blockbusters you finally decide which dvd to watch. There is no pressure but your entire weekend depends on this film lifting you from the beige of suburban chores and greys of getting groceries to the dizzy heights of Technicolor dolby surround 3D HD Bluray stingray stuff.

You put it in the DVD player.

Then following several bouts of frantic whirling you take it out the dvd player as it fails to play. You repeat this at least 4 times, for some reason whoever borrows films the week before I do coats his hands in strawberry jam, plays Frisbee with the disc, then uses it as a plate for his dog before giving it back to the shop.

After polishing the disc with a variety of cloths, towels and the cat you do the ‘breath on it’ bit for no obvious reason other than its what your dad would probably do (or bleed the bloody radiators), and try one more time.

Hooray the magic box is working!

You do “the magic box is working dance” around the living room with your cat, unless you have a cat like mine that refuses to dance. He also categorically refuses to part-tay but that’s another story.

Then you watch the trailers.

This is where it all goes wrong.

What appears on screen are three trailers for the most amazing, mind blowing films ever made. The make The Matrix look like Police Academy 6 and the Matrix 2 look like….well the Matrix 2. Starring every actor you’ve loved ever, even dead ones, directed by God with a soundtrack by the Beatles and cinematography by Salvidor Dali. They look so amazing you would sell your gran for the chance to watch one of them tonight.

But you don’t, you watch Isn’t She Quirky and isn’t he Funny 3. For 2 and a half hours, then, when you can finally lift your depression of the sofa at yet another failed weekend you take the disc back to blockbusters – but can you remember the names of the films from heaven?? Of course not – so you potter about for another decade and hire Isn’t She Quirky 4 instead.

Damn Machines.

In the olden days when we were cavemen and big brother was only on once a year getting up and going to work in the morning was so much simpler. The sun would come up, you put your caveman suit on, stick the kettle on, remember the kettle hasn’t been invented yet and then go out to work.

Nowadays it’s a miracle we even manage to leave the house without having an Arthur fowler type rocking chair breakdown and steal the Christmas club money. The alarm clock goes off, you spend five minutes checking the time on your phone to make sure it’s the same time as the alarm clock and stumble into the shower grumbling like a goth Boris Johnson with a Bells whisky hangover.  When you leave the bathroom, as you are halfway down the stairs, before you even set foot in the kitchen, you check your phone for text messages. Then you check your Hotmail, check you work email, check facebook, wishing people you never speak to and never intend to speak to, a happy birthday smileyfacelol, check twitter, check the online bbc news even though you are actually listening to the actuak real life news on the real life actual radio just in case the news on the radio is a rather elaborate matrix style alternate reality, check the weather on bbc, check the weather on the met office, listen to the weather on the news and this is before you even leave the house!

It wouldn’t be so bad but you then do  it all over again twenty minutes later when you get to work.

"Today I woke too weak to walk"

That’s my favourite song lyric ever, it’s by Stephen Sondheim.  The way it scans and what it says in seven words says more than most songs  could say in seven minutes.

All of which got my thinking I ought to name and shame some of the worst song lyrics I know.

Thin Lizzy’s Jailbreak has the immortal line ‘There’s gonna be a jailbreak, somewhere in this town’

Well I am no Columbo or even Bob Cryer from The Bill but I would go as so far to hazard a guess that it just might possibly be in the JAIL??

Deacon Blues Real Gone Kid has the chorus;

“And you're a real gone kid
And maybe now baby
I'll do what I should have did”

Now that’s not even proper English! And don’t talk to me about poetic licence it’s just lazy and is probably one of the reasons the country is in the state it is today, well that and Steps getting back together.  It wouldn’t have taken them 2 minutes to change the song slightly and make it about a purchase from Greggs that’s gone past its sell by date and the regret the owner has of not throwing it out before it went a bit off:

“and you’re a real gone bun, maybe now baby, I’ll do what i should have done”.

http://readingroom.podbean.com/

http://readingroom.podbean.com/

 

This month we talk to BBC film critic Mark Kermode about his latest book The Good, The Bad and The Multiplex, comedian, musician and writer Tony Hawks tells us about the trials of turning his bestseller Round Ireland with a Fridge into a film, Science Fantasy author Marie Harbon talks about her book Seven Point Eight, our short story comes from Louis Malloy, and The Reading Room Book Group review Flick by Abigail Tarttelin. All this, plus more Musings of a Muddled Mind with Jamie McKay and poetry from John Welsh.

Never Leave The House.

So I went into town on Saturday, and after roughly 4 years of searching I managed to find a parking space only to realise that I didn't have any change.

 

Dammit I thought, I looked to see if the sweets stall that only sells sweets because people need to change a fiver was there but no it was shut.

 

Ok ok what would Jack Bauer do I thought, and after discounting the idea of interrogating the bloke selling conservatories until he confesses to planning to blow up Argos I realised my only chance is to quickly buy something from toys r us (the nearest shop) and leg it back to the car before I get a ticket.

 

I ran inside the shop, god it was busy AND NOISY, why do they let children into these places?? I frantically looked for the cheapest item I could find (unfortunately the Xbox Connect wasn't it, not that I know what one is anyway it sounds like a park and ride bus at Luton Airport) and hurriedly made my way to the nearest and only open checkout. Only to find the most spoilt child in the world (looking a lot like Veruca Salt from Charlie & The Chocolate Factory "I will sqweem and squeem") has managed to persuade her long suffering parents to buy the entire stock of Bratz dolls, wigs, shoes and most of aisle F.

 

I eventually put my single solitary item on the conveyor belt and shuffled to the front of the queue.

The shop assistant (her name I believe was Abi...) looked at my item, then looked at me, then started to smile, then looked at me again, not in a 'he's nice' way though, it was more of a 'who let him out, it must have been a mistake, he is just a tad on the wrong side of weird' sort of look.

 

"Is that all you are buying sir" she said looking at me, I could tell she was about to laugh

 

"err yep it is" I said looking at what I was going to buy; ONE GIANT GOLD CHOCOLATE COIN

 

"yeah sorry I need change for the car park"

 

then I realised how it looked and the penny (or giant coin) dropped.

 

"not that it will fit in the machine I know!"

 

she started laughing and I turned bright beetroot red and quickly left after paying, imagining that she was thinking I would put my giant gold coin into a blue cartoon parking meter and drive off in my big cartoon clown car, hooting away, with Roger Rabbit in the passenger seat, whilst the loony tunes theme plays in the background.

 

As porky pig would say; Thats all folks.

http://readingroom.podbean.com/

This month the Reading Room Book Group take an outing to the cinema to watch the film adaptation of One Day by David Nicholls, starring Anne Hathaway and Jim Sturgess. Will Hollywood ruin one of our favourite books - or bring a whole new audience to it? We’ll also be talking to actress and writer Abigail Tarttelin about her first novel Flick, Claire Kinton returns with the first chapter of her book Dead Game, we find out how thebookpond.com helps students swap academic books, and our tea break story comes from Jim Gotts. All this plus more 101 Books To Read Before You Die, poetry from Paul Eteng and Jamie McKay brings us Musings of a Muddled Mind.

Signs You May Have Been Watching Too Much T.V

Each day as soon as you wake up you announce 'previously on my life' then proceed to re-enact brief snippets of the day before.

You leave the house with a slice of toast in your mouth as 'Walking On Sunshine' or the theme from Friends plays in the background.

At work you get called in to see the boss, call him Captain, accuse him of eating doughnuts whilst you are on the streets and he calls you a maverick and to get out of his office - even though you work in the Admin Dept of the Tax Office, your bosses name is Derek and he likes morris dancing.

Before going for lunch you tell the story of your incredibly tough upbringing, being raised by 3-legged blind rabbits in an allotment shed in Milton Keynes whilst Fix You by Coldplay mysteriously appears getting louder as you speak.

You come back from lunch punching the air singing  Take That's 'Today this could be the greatest day of our life'.

After a Staff Meeting you tell the rest of the room to 'press the red button now for an exclusive behind the scenes look at your life'.

Rubbish comedians a la Shane Ritchie and Bobby Davro seem to start work in your building. Yes that is Joe Pasquale that started on the reception desk today.

Whenever someone says something slightly rude or strange, you find yourself turning to an imaginary camera and make a bemused face.

Before going on your annual holiday you announce to everyone that you will be back in the Autumn but people can follow your life in a series of expensive audio books available from all good retailers in the meantime.

You don't have Christmas Day but a Christmas Special, that isn't as good as a normal day, lasts twice as long and has a surprise appearance by John Barrowman singing 'Let It Snow' to your Nan.

a coarse and unpleasant instrument

"Lincolnshire was historically associated with the Lincolnshire bagpipe, an instrument derided as a coarse and unpleasant instrument in contemporary literature, but noted as very popular in the county. The last player, John Hunsley of Middle Manton,^[16] died in 1851,^[17] and since then the instrument has been extinct."
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lincolnshire
I think we should bring this instrument back, its obviously overdue for a revival. How bad was it that its last player died and its become extinct. Thats extinct, not unpopular or overlooked but actually extinct. How many other instruments have gone the same way as the dodo? should there be a charity set up to try and protect these troubled creatures? and who is going to be next? Are the triangle's numbers dwindling to a worrying degree? Is the glockenspiel struggling to find food in the current climate? Do we need to try and get the washboard and the spoons to try and breed in order to keep them going? I feel a campaign coming on.....
from wikipedia

Hmm what to write about this week?

I must admit have found it difficult to concentrate on anything else creative the past few days (poor me you must be thinking). My mind keeps switching to recent events and mulling over the why's and how's and what's etc.

 

After a relatively peaceful night, indeed who would have thought that rioting has the same rules as cricket? a little bit of rain and everyone goes in for tea! Who knows if the covers will be taken off tonight and England will go out to 'bat' again?

 

The first thing I noticed in the aftermath of the initial chaos is that it only takes a riot to bring out the inner racist in people doesn't it. Looking at the some of the postings on social networks it seems you only have to scratch the surface of some people with a blunt stick to reveal opinions that would make even Enoch Powell blush. The idea of bringing in the army to start shooting at teenagers and even younger people doesn't seem to be a particularly well rounded argument. Its almost like some people have turned into a psychopathic version of supernanny "you won't eat your broccoli?" "well go and stand over there while I blast you with water cannon and rubber bullets, that will get you to eat your greens poppet"

 

There seem to be three schools of thought on this:

 

1) the people participating in rioting/looting are scum and should be locked up until the world is run by dolphins and we all get around by using jetpacks. I have even seen mention that people have to 'earn' human rights? human rights aren't the equivalent of your Tesco club card you know, "oh I am sorry Mr Fletcher you haven't earned enough human rights points this month for human rights I'm afraid so we will have to throw you in a cave and let you THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU HAVE DONE.

 

2) the people participating are 'misunderstood' and are only doing this in order to get a job interview with WH SMITHS. I don't buy this either really. I have never found this the best way to gain employment even if it does seem less boring than updating your c.v or actually looking for jobs.

 

3) this is where I sit, somewhere in middle of course or as someone actually told me this week "a lily minded liberal". Which I thought was a phrase that only existed in the mind of that bald CID policeman in The Thin Blue Line along with the words "namby pamby". Yes of course what has happened can't be defended, how does looting your local newsagent show the government you aint taking any more? or setting fire to an independent record shop tell the powers that be you have had enough with politicians taking away your money and rights? But at the same time you have to question why has this happened now? At anytime since at least 1979 the poor have been getting poorer and the rich getting richer, governments are known for helping big businesses at the taxpayers expense, large consortiums have always found ways to pay less tax and poorer areas of the country have always struggle to have the voices heard and opinions taken seriously. So why now?

 

I think that just by calling the behaviour deplorable, calling for more police, water cannons etc and thinking that by smacking England in the face a couple of times the government and those that agree with them are frankly missing the point. To put it simply its like taking painkillers to cure a headache without finding out whats causing the pain in the first place?

 

With this happening on such a mass scale its not as easy as that, I have been trying to think of a good analogy but this will have to do:

 

If I was to run around my local town shouting that "YOUR SHOES ARE MADE OF JELLY BRYAN!" in the faces of innocent bystanders for an afternoon I would quite rightly be escorted away by police and hopefully someone would look into my brain and try to understand if I am mentally unstable, in which case treatment and/or therapy would be made available. Or if I am simply being annoying they would probably put me in a room, take me to court or fine me. The point is (yes I do have a point) that people would look into why I was behaving that way and if possible help, or at least help understand what prompted my jelly shoe theory.

 

But if a thousand people ran around my town informing people of the jelly shoe situation the solution seems to be, at least in the eyes of the government, to lock us all up and hope we go away quietly for a bit. Giving politicians more time to cut police/health/education services (indeed those very people that would investigate mentally unstable no doubt) in a strange attempt to sweep everything under the carpet until after the next election.

 

So anyway as it has become clear I don't have all (or many really) of the answers, but that people should think before strapping on their rubber bullet gun and jumping on the water cannon bandwagon.

 

YOUR SHOES ARE MADE OF JELLY BRYAN!