On Vick and the Wigan Connection.

One of my many alter egos would like to make a simple comment:

Vick Hope is a helluva hottie

This particular little reprobate is the one I like to keep safely locked in the attic on those rare occasions when I’m in the company of discerning people. He’s an embarrassment. He’s sexist and shallow, has a taste for lowbrow, colloquial expressions, and objectifies women in the same way that foxes objectify pheasants.

I, the parent JJ, am ashamed of him, and yet I can’t help feeling a certain grudging fondness for the little scamp. He is, after all, the one who invented the character: Black Bessie the Wigan Vampire. Anyone who knows Wigan the way I mostly don’t will understand why that epithet is graced with a hint of comic genius, so he isn't always easy to ignore.

At this point I have to be frank and admit that I only ever met two people from Wigan (not that everyone I ever met told me where they came from, you understand, but those two did.) They were the two girls Barry Haynes and I took up with while we were on holiday in Blackpool when we were fifteen. The taller of the two was the one who made the comment about a pig with its throat cut. I remarked on it in a very early blog post, but different people were reading it then. I doubt that anyone reading the blog now will remember it. At least, I hope they won’t. It might offer some reassurance, however, to know that neither of the girls from Wigan looked remotely like Vick Hope. These are they:

 

 

And this is Vick Hope (Vick is short for Victoria, by the way. And might I just mention that I never, ever listen to BBC Radio 1. She just happens to be appearing every evening this week on a TV programme I watch. She has a brain as well as a face, a body, long legs, and… that sort of thing.)

 

Out of the Mouths of Babes and Furry Things.

Let me say at the outset that I’m not generally a controlling type as the concept is normally perceived. In fact, I regard those who are controlling types (as normally perceived) with scorn and not a little loathing. And yet…

…and yet…

A squirrel taught me today that my response to being challenged with regard to control over my personal environment is rather stronger than I feel it ought to be. Did I say a squirrel? Yes, I said a squirrel. (I never realised just how much attitude those cute little guys with the long bushy tails have. They’re combative creatures, and they don’t care how big you are.)

So I thought about this and soon realised that the need to control your environment is an expression of fear. Fear of what, I asked myself. Well, fear of losing control I suppose. That wasn’t sufficient because the next question was: ‘why should losing control – or even having it challenged – be something to fear?’ Simple answer: because losing control leaves you vulnerable to life’s vicissitudes, and life’s vicissitudes are unpredictable and therefore potentially dangerous.

You must admit, that makes a certain sense and is, perhaps, not so unreasonable (even though the Taoists would say it’s pointless.) Nevertheless, being handed this lesson by a squirrel (rather than a Taoist) seemed a little odd. But maybe we would all be happier and less stressed if only we could stop fearing the loss of control.

And I do know that I’m not the first person to come to this realisation. I’ve heard it come out of the mouths of young people a few times, but because they were young I mostly ignored it. So the next time I hear this bit of worldly wisdom come out of the mouth of a young person, I must remember to ask them whether they’ve had any encounters with squirrels lately.

On Sarahs and Smiles.

I was out in the garden at twilight this evening, contemplating the trees, the birds and bats, the local little people, my navel, that sort of thing, when I suddenly felt the urge to say: ‘Where is Sarah? I want Sarah.’ And so I did (say it, that is.)

Of course, only I know which of the three notable Sarahs I had in mind. You don’t, which seems fair enough to me. (Clue: the one with the loveliest smile. Does that help?)

The thing is, though, I then remembered an episode of Inspector Morse. (My favourite cop show, and the episode in question was one of the best. It was the only one in which the word ‘metempsychosis’ was used. Such matters are memorable to me.) There’s a point at which our intrepid Oxford detective is feeling spaced out and paranoid on account of having been tracked and toyed with by an ingenious adversary, and has more latterly succumbed to smoke inhalation courtesy of the bad guy’s nefarious activities.

‘Where is Lewis?’ he asks while the paramedic is trying to get him into an ambulance. ‘I want Lewis.’

In Morse’s case, the plea derived purely from the fact that he was feeling spaced out and paranoid, and Sergeant Lewis was the only person in whom he placed any degree of trust. Such is not the case with Sarah, whichever one I had in mind. I don’t trust Sarah (any of them) any more than I trust anybody else. I don’t do trust for the same reason that I don’t do religion. I just wanted to see her smile at me, because when Sarah smiles at me it takes my mind off the health issues for all of sixty seconds (approximately.) I just thought it an odd coincidence, and I’m sure that’s all it was.

So then I watched an episode of House in which the patient’s troubles – everything from vomiting blood to wetting himself to seeing double to having his skin turn yellow – all derived from low testosterone; and they mentioned that men experience a drop in testosterone when babies arrive on the scene. I made a post once about the fact that I’d suddenly started noticing babies, didn’t I, so maybe all things really are connected in this best of all possible worlds. Wouldn’t that be nice?

So should I now go on to talk about the latest development on the health issue front? No, I’ll read some more of my book instead.

Postscript:

After writing this I realised something:

I’ve noticed that some attractive people look less attractive when they smile, while some unattractive people become attractive when they smile. But the really lucky ones are the attractive people who become even more attractive when they smile. I never belonged in any of these categories. I’m one of the rare exceptions who simply go from bad to worse, in consequence of which they need to develop permanent frown lines if they’re to have the confidence to hold their heads up in public.

On Purity and a Fail.

For several hours today there’s been a post I’ve wanted to make. It seemed important and I did try, but the words wouldn’t come. Every attempt at phrasing was awkward and inadequate, and the elements of logical expression so necessary to effective communication declined to coalesce into an acceptable form. I found it most frustrating and gave up.

It was about the search for purity (I’ve touched on it before in this blog) and after much reasoning it came to an impenetrable barrier when I tried to find the ultimate definition of the term. I could see it flitting about behind a diaphanous screen, tempting me to reach through and grab it, but it remained elusive and vague and I decided that I’m not yet mature enough to be ready to know it. It seems I am but a minor knight searching for the Holy Grail, and therefore destined to die a lonely death on some blasted heath without ever finding it.

And do you know what started all this? Spending 2½ hours this afternoon cleaning the car inside and out. It’s often said that great oaks from little acorns grow, so maybe the biggest questions can also sprout from the most mundane of activities. For the time being, however, it seems my own oak is still a long way from bearing leaves.

The Twilight Swing.

I often wonder why twilight is so important to me; why the ambient condition at that time of day affects my state of mind more than at any other.

I think it’s because twilight is the fulcrum of the diurnal round, the point at which the head of the boat swings through the prevailing wind in order to change tack, the nether world in which the mind is eased away from obeisance to the god and led unerringly to veneration of the moon. As the light sinks at twilight we experience the essence of flux, which is the only constant of material existence. I suspect that’s what gives it its subtle power to generate a surprisingly profound change in perception.

(The metaphors I’m using are a little fanciful, I know, but the fact remains that there is always something tantalisingly mysterious about nether worlds.)

I suppose the early risers – to which august company I certainly don’t belong – might find the same to be true of the dawn. I find the contrast interesting because it means that their mysterious nether world leads them into the light, whereas mine takes me drifting into darkness. It probably explains a lot.

On Age and Envy.

There are many things I envy about the young, not the least being their eyes.  Bright, clear, replete with the energy and optimism of a road yet to be travelled… And if the eyes are the windows to the soul, then the souls of the young must also be bright, clear, energetic and optimistic, at least in most cases. No drooping lids here; no deeply ingrained and deforming lines; no creeping dampness and paleness as the energy of mind and body runs, like the sacred river, down to a sunless sea.

And that’s why I told the young woman in the pharmacy today that one of the benefits of wearing a face mask is that it highlights the eyes, and that hers were very lovely. Indeed they were. She was obviously of South Asian origin, and inveterate observers like me are prone to noticing that South Asian eyes, especially in women, exhibit a level of power and the ability to compel unparalleled in other races.

I wouldn’t have said it ten years ago because it would have sounded creepy, but that’s no longer a worry because I no longer have anything to gain from the approbation of young women. And so telling a young woman that she has lovely eyes is no different than telling a man that I admire his sturdy and handsome dog. I notice everything and I comment on everything, so why should the loveliness of eyes be an exception?

I was pleased that I’d said it. It’s pleasing that I can now have the courage to say it. And the young woman herself seemed pleased; she said ‘thank you’ and sounded genuine. So maybe I’ve now found something that the young can envy in the old.

Another Excuse.

I’ve been less than attentive to my blog again lately, haven’t I? It had nothing to do with black dogs this time, but rather the boringly mundane matter of being busy. I heard a mellifluous voice drift on the wind from the garden a few days ago. It said:

‘Excuse me, Mr JJ, but you do know what time of the year it is, don’t you? I realise that the air is rather colder than one might reasonably expect this far beyond the equinox – we are plants after all, and so are in the best of positions to notice such a phenomenon – but the spring is springing, you see, and we are united in feeling that you should, perhaps, pay us some attention.’

I was chastened, of course, and so I have been paying my green friends the attention they undoubtedly deserve. I’ve also finished and fitted the new bird table, but have since noticed that I must have suffered a loss of concentration at one point. One of the side panels is a whole centimetre out of proper position, and so the whole looks unbalanced and is causing me some distress. In consequence, attention is needed and will be paid. And then there’s the house to keep in order, and a significant plethora of other things vying for appropriate action. It’s all rather tedious, but that’s how things are at the moment.

Today my mind has been oft distracted by thoughts of the Lady B and the priestess, which is verging on the incomprehensible since I’ve never met the priestess and probably never shall, and my last sighting of the Lady B was around two months ago when she was jogging down my lane accompanied by some bloke who I assumed to be connected with her in some way (her husband, I expect, but how would I know?)

But maybe that gives the clue as to why my thoughts have been oft distracted. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, don’t they? Can’t say I’ve ever much subscribed to the view myself, but I have been known to be wrong.

Being Normal for Once.

What I find strangest of all about YouTube ads is this: Nearly every video you set playing runs for about ten seconds and then a banner ad appears on the screen, partially obstructing whatever it is you’re trying to watch. That’s pretty irritating, right? So surely, everybody but everybody must rush for the little cross in the corner and switch the damn thing off.

That being the case, why do advertisers pay money to have their ad presented that way? Am I to believe that there really are people out there in the world who will forego their chosen video and click on the ad instead? If that is the case, I defy anybody to seriously claim that I’m the weird one around here.

A Bloke Called Philip.

I went through to the living room earlier to watch the only programme I regularly watch on the TV. I got a talking head with subtitles informing me that Prince Philip had died. Well, I already knew that because both the national news and world news pages on the BBC website had screamed it at me in big letters as soon as I’d booted up the computer this morning. I checked the listings to see whether my programme was still due to be shown at the appointed time. They read:

BBC2. 4pm – midnight. A Tribute to Prince Philip.

I checked BBC1 to see whether it had been transferred over there:

BBC1. 4pm – midnight. A Tribute to Prince Philip.

I wondered what on earth was going on here. How can you justify giving over the whole late afternoon, evening, and night time schedules on the two flagship channels to the death of one 99-year-old man, even if he was a member of the royal family? What on earth can you find to say in eight freggin’ hours?

So I decided to work out what I would say if I had the misfortune to be interviewed on the matter. I came up with the following eulogy:

He offended a lot of people with injudicious and insensitive comments.

Some of them were quite funny, so he gave us a few laughs down the years.

He lived longer than most people do.

Cheerio Prince Philip.

But you see, the real problem here is that I don’t understand why some people take the royal family so seriously. It seems to me that if life for the rest of us is a dour, occasionally dangerous, often disreputable and dysfunctional drama, the royal family is basically the sanitised cartoon version. As such, it’s occasionally entertaining but little else.

Meaningful Comparisons.

I read today that Beijing has now taken over from New York with regard to the number of billionaires who live there. The combined wealth of the Big Apple billionaires, however, still exceeds those in the Big Noodle. Don’t you just love statistics like that? Isn’t life wonderful?

What I’m curious to have now is a comparison of the number of homeless people who die of hunger and hypothermia in frigid alleyways on cold winter nights. I do so like balance, you see, especially when it’s amusing.