Something Lacking.

Do you realise there are no moving pictures of me? Everybody's a movie star in these days of camcorders and smart phones. Except me.

And it occurred to me when the washing machine went wonky this morning that the past tense of 'to ring' is rang, but the past tense of 'to wring' is wrung.

I don't think those two facts are connected in any way. But I do think I need to get drunk more often.

Malfunctions.

The Inventory has a new entry. Previously it stood at: car, computer, mobile phone and TV. Add the washing machine which went on the blink this morning. The indications are that it’s a control unit problem. More electronics, more money.

It appears that electronic things and I conflict. Or maybe my mischievous kitchen sprite isn’t confined to the kitchen. Or maybe the god of money is taking revenge for the fact that I don’t worship him. Anybody got a fairy godmother they could spare?

My Dear Americans...

I gather Romney’s personal rating has improved since his ‘successful’ debate with Obama over the economy. America: Wake Up.

Debating ability is no indicator of deeper qualities, personal predilections, or actual intentions. The biggest gobshite on the planet might also be the best debater. Debating is a game. Look at the man; look at his body language; look at his personal wealth; look at his history and consider which stratum of society he is most comfortable with; and then consider who he’s most friendly with and whose interests he’s most likely to protect.

America is already the crime capital of the developed world. It’s the place where the greatest number of nutcases run around doing crazy, violent, often homicidal things. This is an indicator of a divided society, a place where obscene wealth sits next to obscene poverty, and if you put Romney into the White House you may be assured that America will become even more divided.

I also gather he’s apologised for his ‘47% of Americans’ remark. He says it was ‘completely wrong.’ Bullshit. It’s the easiest thing in the world to be seen to apologise in order to win more votes. How many leopards change their spots?

My small voice whispering in the wilderness strongly suggests that you decline to be fooled by Romney. It suggests that you fear him and where he is likely to lead you.

Women!

I’m finally getting a handle on women. One track minds, all of them.

Do they want me for my body? No. My boyish charm? No. Do they want to stroke the sailing ship tattoo on my arm and say ‘Ooh, Jeffrey. What’s that long thing at the front end, and why is it sticking out so far?’ No. All they want me for is my words.

I’m very disappointed. And thinking of becoming a monk. I found some new Father Ted episodes on YouTube tonight, and the first one I watched had a nun in it. I reckon nuns have style. And wimples. Whether or not they have legs remains to be established.

Am I Back?

Maybe. The last two days may be summarised thus:

Depression (to the occasional bouts of which I’m no stranger) + Resurgence of fatigue symptoms = feeling like shite.

I’ve been riding it with a combination of observation and the doing of simple mechanical things like housework, shopping and gardening (oh, and a two hour editing session with Mel on her first short story.) All of which is, I’m sure, a lot healthier than swallowing chemical medicaments.

So, a quick post on The Presidential Debate. I could ramble on, but it would be turgid and I’m still not quite in the mood to be turgid, so have a bulleted list instead:

• I hate formal debates on principle. They’re all about cleverness and miss too much of what’s really important. Nevertheless…

• Romney looked like something somebody’s just taken out of a box and wound up. I have noticed that rich Americans are in awe of the Barbie Doll look, and that’s the problem. It appears to validate that old (and somewhat pejorative – sorry) maxim about having gone from barbarism to decadence without an intervening period of civilisation. I would find it quite impossible to take such a person seriously.

• Wise people are prone to hesitating. Only the merely clever or well coached are sure of themselves and their opinions at all times. It’s why they tend to be blinkered in their outlook.

• Economics is not an exact science; it contains many divergent opinions and can be approached from different angles dependent on perceived priorities. Mr Romney is a very rich man, and very rich people tend to have very rich friends. However he tries to make his priorities appear, you may rest assured that his friends will be well taken care of. And he’s already admitted writing off 47% of Americans anyway. Apparently, he regards them as being so far beneath him that he’s justified in saying as much publicly (although not to the public, of course.)

Not Worth the Trouble.

I don’t come from a family of long livers. A few of the women made it into their eighties, but none of the men ever did to my knowledge. A couple of them didn’t even manage seventy. That being the case, and especially since I haven’t exactly been diligent in taking care of myself down the years, I expect to come up a little short of average.

And so it struck me this morning that if any woman were to take me under her wing, it would be, in terms of anticipated longevity at least, a bit like taking on a new puppy. And it wouldn’t even be a pedigree puppy she’d be giving a home to; it would be a moody little mongrel with psychological issues and behavioural difficulties.

Oh well, back to the makeshift kennel in the corner of the allotment, then.

The Grog Doomer.

I am a fine dog groomer
All day I groom fine dogs
Of all the looming blooming
Fine dog grooming claims the clogs
(with apologies to Pam Ayres)

You wouldn’t understand, and I can’t explain because I’m no longer permitted to talk about where that came from. Just a bit of Shire business of no interest to those beyond the bounds.

*  *  *

So what of ‘grog’ you might ask. What is it?

Grog was the term applied to the daily rum ration that used to be given to sailors of the Royal Navy before some weasly government decided it was costing too much and doomed it to a netherland of fond remembrance. It was a tradition that went back… ooh… a long way, and it served a purpose. It made the men a bit more gung ho in the heat of battle.

When the gun deck was breathing fire and brimstone and you couldn’t hear the screams for the cacophony of crashing and banging, the bosun would be feeling frivolous:

‘Hahaha! That was good one, eh?’ he would quip merrily as a 25lb iron ball came crashing through the bulkhead at 80mph. ‘Took Harold’s head clean off at the tonsils. Let’s shoot one back, shall we lads? See if we can’t land one between a Frenchy’s legs. That should make his love life a bit more interesting.’

The alternative might have been a conversation that was rather less than morale boosting:

‘Sod this for a game of soldiers.’

‘Sailors.’

‘What?’

‘Sod this for a game of sailors.’

‘Oh, yeah, right. Anyway, I’m off.’

‘Off where?’

‘Er…’

See? Useful stuff, grog.

The Moon and Graham the Brave.

Judging by the position of Mistress Moon tonight, I think there’s a good chance she’ll be shining full in my face when I go to bed. And that isn’t a good thing, is it? No indeedy, not a good thing at all. For we all know what happens to a moonstruck person in The Shire, don’t we? He turns into that most terrible of creatures:

The Werehobbit!

Oh my lordy lord. No one will be safe from the hairy wild thing that lurks behind the newly trimmed hedgerows and visits his horridness mercilessly on lonely night walkers. Neither maiden fair nor grisly farmhand shall escape the claws that catch, the jaws that jigger, and the teeth that tear. The beasts of the field will cower in the corner, praying for a saviour to deliver them from the horrible hairy human.

And then… and then… (and this, children, is the nice bit…)

The saviour comes! ’Tis Graham the Bullock, charging in all his glorious whiteness, stick in mouth, until he reaches the monster and butts it to the ground.

‘Get thee hence, foul fiend,’ moos Graham (and remember, children, that werehobbits understand cow language very well.) ‘Get thee hence and trouble my friends no more, or strike thee I will with my trusty stick. Never more wilt thou howl horribly, nor skulk with whisky sodden and fiercely reddened eyes, nor wake up naked, mud spattered, and freezing cold in a hay barn at the drab dawn of day. Get thee hence, I say.’

And Graham will become the hero of The Shire. He will be lauded and spared the abattoir. His likeness will be hewn from the finest, whitest marble and set up on the village green. And when the sand in his hour glass finally runs out, he will live on in the memory of good Christians all until he passes into legend.

Meanwhile, I’ll just go back to bed and wake up in the morning wondering what all the fuss is about, and why I’ve got a bruise the shape of a cow’s head on my chest, and why there are bits of grass between my toes…

You can tell I’m bored, can’t you?

Making Latex Decent.

Just got back from my first visit to the physio to have the issue of my frozen shoulder addressed. He asked lots of questions, did lots of pushing, pulling and pummelling, and finally said he wanted me to do an exercise in the comfort of my own home. It entails holding something stretchy out in front of me and pulling it sideways.

‘Are you allergic to latex?’ he asked.

‘Don’t know. I’ve never been involved with that kind of woman.’

He gave me a piece anyway. It’s very stretchy and bright yellow. Had it been red I would have considered it indecently decadent, but I suppose yellow is OK.

He also gave me another exercise to do. I have to stand facing the corner of a room, place my hands on the two adjoining walls, and then lean into the angle. Problem: the way Edwardians liked to have their doors sited, my house doesn’t really have a suitable corner. Which indicates, I suppose, that frozen shoulders are a post-Edwardian invention. Maybe God created them to give latex something decent to do for a change.

Isms, New and Old.

I’ve discovered my identity: I’m a spiritual anarchist. I was thinking of founding a Society for Spiritual Anarchism, which would have five tenets:

Ignore all religions

Sweep away all traditions

Sack all the wise people

Accept that neither you nor anybody else actually knows anything, and put your trust in instinct and intuition

Most of all, accept that you’ve probably got a lot of things wrong

I thought better of it, because then it would be another ism, wouldn’t it? And that would be missing the point. Isn’t life complicated?

And on a surprisingly apposite note, I remembered another of my favourite lines from Father Ted:

‘No, no, Dougal. Fascists are men in black uniforms who go around telling people what to do, whereas priests are…are…’