3.30a.m. Christmas Morning

Hmm, I choose this of all nights not to be able to sleep! I think it's anticipation: a left-over from childhood that remains with me as the eternal spark of Christmas as it should be.

Looking out of the kitchen window, the world looks very peaceful and still. The road is quiet and the lights reflect perfectly off the river where the water lays as still as the night itself.

There is a dangerous melancholy about me. The peace has lulled my brain into unguarded thinking.Instead of dwelling on the wonderment of children waking to the excitement of presents and THE day being finally here, I think of the way Christmas has become. Please someone, reassure me that kids still experience the magic that cynical adulthood has crushed - or, perhaps, misplaced?

Maybe I'm just too old for it all? I watched EastEnders tonight with all its careful preparation for the chaos characteristic of Albert Square life and was totally immune to the implosions of families apparently to come. Then I saw the Salvation Army band playing carols in the Square and got totally emotional.

Now I'm not a greatly religious person but part of Christmas is still hearing the chapters in Luke's Gospel . There is something comforting about the constant of the words and the message contained within. I hear Wham! or Slade and feel nothing - Oh Come All Ye Faithful or Silent Night serve not only as a reminder of a life of past Christmases but carry a beauty which, to me, is so totally perfect and totally evocative of a moment. A moment that makes me hope that mankind can live together.

I've posted very little over the past few days. I have held my thoughts and emotions in check. The question: Is this because I can't let myself get too excited for fear of disappointment or I don't feel I deserve to be allowed the pleasure of "joining in"?

Anyway, it is of no consequence now, Christmas is here and I shall be spending a full day, surrounded by people. It should be great.

Yesterday I only managed 5 Christmas kisses (and one of those was from a bloke!). I must be slipping!

Maybe this year is strange because of Dad. I think of him a lot as he so loved Christmas. I can't honestly say I miss him - but I miss what he represents. I suppose Christmas is a bit like that too.

Happy Christmas XXX

A Christmas Blog

Inspired by others out there, I thought I'd do my own Ho Ho Ho Christmas meme. I've not thought of questions (nor answers!) in advance so step one is brainstorming a few of the former. Now, you can't see this bit but I'm taking a Sheaffer Imperial (filled with brown ink) and jotting down various ideas. Not the easiest of tasks as the (previously broadcast) tidy desk has disappeared under a morass of papermoney, mugs, paper, tissues and.............hang on..........where on earth did that come from? Oh, how gross! I think Reg must have popped round.

Anyway, I now have a list so here goes:

• Ideal Christmas: Warm inside, dark and stormy outside. The room filled with loved ones...............Oh, you know what I mean. I'm sure everyone has the same ideal.

• Best Present Ever: Absolutely no idea! I have strong memories of a scooter when I was about 6. It rained for several days and all I could do was use it up and down the hall. Most frustrating.

• Christmas Food: I'm not a turkey person really: give me roast beef any day. Having said that, cold meat and pickles is always my favourite bit and I shall be doing my Coca-Cola ham as tradition dictates. We're actually going out for our Christmas meal for the first time ever so that should be whizzo. No washing-up and, as the restaurant is literally next door, no worries about getting there or back. We've also been invited to a friend's pub for a private evening and more food so basically, the diet's totally buggered that day.

• Christmas TV: Having made my annual Radio Times purchase, I see that the schedule is as bad as always. I shall watch some carols at some point, Corrie and Eastenders - apart from that, little else appeals. Is it me or is it Society? Once we were happy with Morecambe and Wise and even Noel Edmonds. I think Christmases were gentler then and we had no wealth of expectation as we do now.

• Christmas Film: As a kid at Christmas, I'd sit there and watch all the "greats" like High Noon, Ivanhoe, Jason and the Argonauts etc. Mum and Dad loved their films and it was tradition to sit and tick off the ones they really wanted to see. As I went through this year's, I found myself thinking how much Dad would have liked them.

• Christmas Song: Sadly, when they all start blaring in the shops from October onwards, modern songs seem to lose their appeal. Having said that, I shall probably slip on a Christmas songs CD to listen to on my iPod Christmas morning when they seem to take on a different light. Ideally, I would love a Sally Army band outside the window playing carols because I still think they're the best Christmas songs. Silent Night is the most incredibly evocative tune of past Christmases and will reduce me to an emotional wreck.

• Best Christmas Character: Has to be Father Christmas of course! Sitting telling tales of his preparations for Christmas when the kids were smaller was wonderful and their faces as they scanned the Christmas Eve skies for a glimpse of him are still very real. I still tell my children that Father Christmas is real if you want him to be (and I still believe it too).

• Best Christmas Memory: Obviously, Christmases when the kids were young. Seeing their faces and enjoying their happiness and excitement was a privilege. The frantic building of toys and the desperate search for batteries was a real joy! Let's face it, Christmas is a time for children of all ages and I would give so much to recapture that feeling.

• Christmas Wish: A Christmas time-machine! Oh, and I'm ever hopeful that, one day, Steve McQueen and his motor-bike will get over that bloody fence!
  

Other Christmas memories I have: Walking to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve with my girlfriend when I was about 20. It was snowing and the roads were silent and white - absolutely magical. I remember Christmas Eve as a kid myself. Mum and Dad would come in and put my presents on the end of the bed once they thought I had gone to sleep. I, of course, was still wide-awake and lay there petrified that they would see this and take the presents away again.

The room was freezing cold (lino and no central heating) and I would take my Christmas stocking and dive under the covers where it was nice and snug and warm. In the darkness, I would slowly, carefully and quietly remove the contents: a few nuts and a satsuma at the toe but also perhaps a metal racing car or some soldiers. Laying there, still shivering with excitement, I would eventually drift off to sleep - Christmas had finally arrived.

I still long for Christmas although it is a much more muted affair these days. This year will be stranger than most as Dad used to so love Christmas and my thoughts are of him quite a bit. However, now's as good a time as any to wish my few faithful readers a very peaceful and wonderful Christmas. May you all be surrounded with joy, happiness and the greatest present of all - love.

The Pen is Mightier than the Bored

These days, for reason unknown, I just can't seem to write. It's as if my brain won't permit me to do something I enjoy now that I have given myself the freedom to do so.

I remember once someone said to me that I tried to destroy anything that made me happy as a way of punishing myself. It's something I've pondered on long and hard and I think that, whilst once it was probably true, nowadays I have come to terms with it and have adapted my life accordingly. I take the easy option these days as, since I retired, my challenges have become less and I have the luxury of walking away from those that don't appeal. Perhaps I'm just getting bored with writing? I had certain things I wanted to get out and (maybe) they are all now released therefore the desire has been assuaged.

Personally, I think I have just put a pressure of expectation upon myself: a bit like when you're asked to give a specimen. You can rest assured it's the one time you can't co-operate.

I hope that, one day,I can get back into unconscious writing and thus rediscover something that gave me so much pleasure and was a real therapy once upon a time. Perhaps I'm scared of writing? Early this morning, I was re-reading some stuff I wrote several years ago when I was fairly screwed up and the sheer intensity and "nakedness" of it made me almost wish I was back there. I wrote because I had nothing to lose. I wrote because I needed to release things within me. I wrote, I think, because I had nothing else to give.

They were interesting days. I was asked if I wanted some time away from the world, which I gratefully accepted and my private health insurance paid for a few weeks in a lovely old building in Hove which had been converted to a Clinic. At that time, I had really withdrawn from the world and to be somewhere that I could be myself with no pressure, surrounded by others who understood my feelings, was just wonderful.

I wasn't totally gaga - I'd apparently "burned out". I just wanted time and peace and solitude. A place to relax where I could do what I liked, when I liked and how I liked. At first I just read, relaxed, wrote and chatted to the other people there. The nursing staff left me to my own devices as I was effectively on holiday and I was free to come and go as I pleased. They did try to get me to come to discussion groups but I wasn't very good at those as I kept disagreeing with the lady running them to the extent that, one day, I was asked by her if I wished to take over their running. A challenge which I accepted and we all had a great time.

Sadly, I was looked on as a bit of a rebel (funny that!) and was once told that I should be setting a better example to the younger residents as they looked to me as a leader. Oh. I led alright. It was great being classed as psychologically poorly because you could do anything and get away with it. We had food fights, practical jokes galore, all sorts of silly pranks - and they couldn't touch us for it! It was the 1998 World Cup whilst I was there and we decorated the smoking room with banners, flags and other assorted football accoutrements and had a thoroughly wonderful time. I used to drive home at weekends but really looked forward to getting back on a Monday - a little oasis of allowable madness in the great insanity of the outside world.

I was there for several weeks in total and they were some of the happiest and saddest times of my life. I met real people, stripped of all pretensions and controls. They were being themselves, as, at long last, was I and that forged some really strong friendships. The problem was, of course, that we all had problems and it was both a privilege and an agony to see veneers removed. We shared great highs and dreadful lows and there were many times when we would sit there all night, secure in each other's company, talking about our doubts and our fears. Often, this would be therapeutic for those involved but, just sometimes, I would see the results of the agonies within. Someone would disappear for a while and then return with bandaged wrists or freshly-scarred bodies. Their agony became our agony as we all closed ranks against the world.

I was never very good at allowing my feelings to show and tended to pretend I was fine. Once, for reasons I forget, I allowed myself to let out my emotions. It was a strange experience: half of me wanting the uncontrolled sobbing to continue whilst the other half of me was desperately fighting it. I was doing fine until a (rather nice) Norwegian nurse came up and cuddled me and that was the signal to regain control. Lesson Number 1: never let them see.

You see, I can talk about it now because it's impersonal. Should people read it, they don't know me so they can't judge me. It's also predominantly historical now so I can talk about it freely. When I finally finished there I don't think I walked out a different man but who knows? I'm certainly better these days although I still have my periods of introversion, isolation and self-doubt. But then, who doesn't?

I'll leave you with something I wrote in honour of my time there.

Owed to T********** Clinic

Life is just a bowl of corn flakes
You wake up every morning and it's there
The world's in collusion to enhance the illusion
It's a cereal killer beware.

They send us men to mend our minds
If we've got minds to mend
If they can't find it, never mind! It
Proves we're round the bend!

Another session to combat depression
To learn, perchance to live.
So much travail, to what avail?
I'll take, why can't I give?

Pretence is my defence.
A ruse by any other name.
A fraud, a sham, who gives a damn?
The whole thing's just a game.

To blur is humane: to forget, divine.
Just hide behind the mask.
Plus ca change, mais where's the new day?
It's such an uphill task

Secure withing my counsel house,
Unsure of what to find.
Potions and pills merely camouflage ills.
I'm scared of finding my mind!

Religion is an opiate.
Oh God, please let me sleep.
Is this all dreams or what it seems -
A thought that's gone too deep.

Come Morpheus, take me to your arms,
We've got a date to keep.
I promise true I'll dream of you
But I just can't get to sleep!!!

© GH 23 July 1998

An Apple a Day............

When I was a kid, there weren't, of course, the amazing toys that children have these days. I had my toy soldiers, my toy guns and a tortoise called Esmerelda. As you can appreciate, I was militarily inclined as a young'un: Esmerelda didn't really come in useful apart from yanking her little tail and lobbing her like a hand grenade but she played her part (albeit briefly). I had a Scalextric and a lovely train set as well but they were occasional fads and these stopped when my Mum informed me that she'd sold them "as I no longer played with them" - bless her!

Maybe because of the dearth of technology (not to mention money) in those days, I am an archetypal "boys toys" candidate and the latest addition to the fold is the new sixth generation 80gb iPod Classic which I bought yesterday. I've never had an iPod so spent a happy time trying to work out exactly what it did and how it did it. This failed miserably so, resisting the urge to read any manuals, I decided to plunge in and import some of my mp3s. It can hold about 20,000 songs or 100 hours of video so I had plenty of scope: the only trouble was, where did I start?

I decided to go for my Terry Pratchett audio books - some 36 of them, and started working my way through them, unRARing and then importing. The problem was that the nice people who allowed me to share these (wink!) weren't exactly tidy in the way they put the files within each audio book. Oh sure, they went in fine and I could play them but the iTunes list was soooooo messy! Different files within a single book titled differently and (horror of horrors!) lots of spelling mistakes. Aesthetically and semantically, my anality genes were up in arms (now, there's a vision to conjure with) so I had no alternative other than to go through and put it all right. By 4am this morning I had those I had "podded" looking all neat and tidy so stumbled off to bed, only to wake again this morning, loins girded, prepared to finish off the rest.

Let me say, at this juncture, I was also indebted to our new Tassimo coffee machine which had provided me with enough caffeine the day before to keep several hundred narcoleptics wide awake (I wonder what's the collective noun for narcoleptics? A kip? A flop?). For those that are looking for a Christmas pressie that makes great coffee and even passable tea, quickly and with the minimum of mess and faffing around, consider a Tassimo. Currently on special in Tesco for under £60 and most worthwhile.

Anyway, where was I before the commercial break? Ah yes........the Pratchetts finished, I played around for a while with video but still can't work out just how to transfer YouTube vids. None of the stuff on Google made a lot of sense so I put it on the back burner and prepared for the main task of music selection.

Oh my gosh, where does one start? I initially thought to put everything on there but then realised I would need several more iPods, given the several hundred CDs we have - not to mention what I have as MP3s. OK, be logical, Graygray: what has priority? I immediately dashed off around the various CD staches in the house and came back precariously balancing 27 Neil Young CDs. I put several on (which is actually dead easy) and then stopped..........will I really listen to them all? The audio books alone will take me some 288 hours to get through therefore should I be selective in the music? I wandered round gazing at the CDs once more. Ooh, that one's got one I really like and this one's got a couple and............aaaaaaargh! Is the rest of my life to be devoted to feeding the insatiable iPod?

I eventually stopped playing and decided to go out and buy some dinner, pleased that I had finally joined the ranks of Podders. Proudly sporting my insignia of the white lead as I wandered the shelves of Scummerfields, and idly noticing that for once, their shelves were actually stocked; albeit with several hundred different makes of Christmas biscuits and several thousand barrels of Twiglets, I stopped every 20 seconds as I changed my mind about the music and chose something else. It was like being in a sweet shop with such a selection to choose from but I finally settled on the latest Kaiser Chiefs album.

Now I don't know about you, but it's very funny watching people listening to personal music. Their mouths occasionally emit a tuneless drone as they subconsciously sing along and, after seeing the feared glances in my direction, I realised I was guilty of the same crime. Strangled groans along the lines of Ruby, Ruby, Rubeeeeeeeeeee were drowning out the musak of the store speakers as I searched desperately for something non-Christmassy to eat. I was also suddenly conscious of bopping around as I stood and gazed catatonically at the mountain of mince pies where real food once existed. I grinned embarrassedly at the onlookers and hid for a while behind some boxes of Easter eggs before finally making my escape.

It's a time-consuming pastime loading an iPod but I'd better stop now - it's time to go explore some more torrents.

Boy's Toys? I love 'em!

Pomp & Circumstance

Now most of my life I've been a bit of a rebel: walking on the cracks on the pavement, gaily passing under ladders and even, (just occasionally) not saying Good Morning Mr Magpie, should I see one in solitary splendour. I remember about 30 years ago, as a reasonably senior member of the Inland Revenue in Brighton, strolling in wearing an earring and seeing the looks of shock on the faces of the other Inspectors. It was a small victory against the Establishment and one of many over the years.

I like to be different. People know it's me wandering around the town as nobody else wears a full-length leather coat and black suede stetson hat and I see nothing wrong with asserting one's personality (or should that be eccentricity?).

Having said that, I watched the documentary on BBC1 about the Royal Family and was totally blown away by the whole programme. I know a lot of people who would have us as a Republic; they talk of the money wasted on an outdated, anachronistic and iniquitously inherited aristocracy, they speak of the money wasted in ceremonial matters and the vast upkeep required to keep the Royals in splendour. No doubt they have some valid reasons for their beliefs and, equally, I would probably agree with some of them, but the bottom line is .............I am a staunch Royalist: I always have been and always will be. I can't rationalise it and don't really feel the need to. All I know is that seeing the pomp, the ceremony and the sheer bloody hard work which goes into making our country the envy of the pageantry world makes me pretty damn proud to be a loyal subject of Her Majesty.

I was in awe at the efficiency of the Royal household. If nothing else, it proves that tradition can be useful. The whole well-oiled operation; whether it be visiting dignitaries, investitures or just plain everyday Court duties is based on precedent and an incredibly organised machine. One can only imagine at the number of hands shaken over Betty's reign, the endless speeches given and listened to, meaningless conversations and ceremonies and the knowledge that her every move is watched. Even worse, her every public move is choreographed. No popping out for a quick 30 minutes, no throwing a sickie - just a life of total duty. It's the same with a lot of the other Royals (and I know the argument about so do a lot of other people).

They were born into a life not of their own choosing, a destiny to which their choice has not been taken into account. The argument that they live a life of luxury doesn't hold water with me - I certainly wouldn't trade places (apart from the getting into footie matches free). Sitting down to nice meals is great but I'd rather do it with friends and not with 200 people I don't know. Going to watch a gig is great but sitting through a Royal Variety performance? I think not! Even having everybody watching their Ps and Qs all the time rather than just enjoying a social moment is enough to put me off.

There are plenty of valid arguments both for and against the Monarchy but it boils down to one thing for me - I get a real thrill and pride watching the pageantry and revelling in the tradition. I remember in my Foreign Office days, sitting at a window in Whitehall watching the State procession when Emperor Hirohito visited London. Sheer magic. I've been lucky enough to (in a very small way) be part of the great British tradition and wandered the halls of history. The sheer majesty and splendour of the great London buildings and palaces is awe-inspiring and I would hate to see it all become anything less than a working environment.

Had I pursued my career at the Foreign & Commonwealth Office then, by now, I might be speaking from a position of greater knowledge. However, I shall have to wait a little longer until I get the letter from Downing Street informing me of my recognition for services to Queen, Country and the Haribo Corporation.

Until then, I shall still stand proud as the National Anthem is played and raise my glass to the Queen - God bless her!

A Little Bit of Me!

Now, as you all know (and presumably concur, otherwise you wouldn't be reading this), I use the internet a lot for a number of reasons. I sometimes try and picture other people sitting there in their anonymity and wonder just how near to the truth I sometimes get.

I had the idea of making a brief video of "my space" just so that anybody interested or nosey enough can see part of my real world. It's hardly Tarantino (no blood) or Spielberg (no great visual effects): in fact, it's a very wobbly video taken with a normal camera and with a croaky voiceover. The one thing it does do though is take away the anonymity of cyber-contact and, hopefully, gives a bit more insight into the reality of .......well, reality.

The internet is a great way to hide oneself and create a whole new personality. From what I have seen, it gives some people a confidence that is maybe lacking in their real world and, with luck, crosses over to have a real affect in their lives. The danger, of course, is that it replaces real life. Both Bertie and I know that this won't happen to us!

I wonder if, one day in the future, popping round to see friends will be replaced by cyber visiting where all are clustered around their monitors? No more having to go out on a cold night, no more frantic tidying, no more drink-drive problems - all you do is stay at home and indulge in cyber intercourse. One of the main advantages would be if the company is boring......"Oh dear, the PC's gone down!" And think how much less traffic there would be on the road too.

You may laugh but who would have thought 20 years ago, the effect that the internet would have on our lives? Shopping has changed irrevocably, knowledge has increased with the advent of the great god, Google and, as an added bonus, there are no longer mail shots from the likes of the Encylopaedia Britannica dropping through the door. We can watch missed TV programmes, forget the hassle of writing and posting hand-written letters and find music and media never before thought possible.

It's like mobile phones; you walk down a street and there will be numerous people jabbering into their phones. Just how many of those calls are really that important? Has it increased social activity or is it just a means of passing the time as one is wandering? Will we all, one day, lose the art of personal social interaction or am I just being cynical?

Technology has a lot to answer for. It's the boon as well as the bane of our lives but, whatever one's view, it's undoubtedly here to stay.

Anyway, back to the video. Here it is for what it's worth........Welcome to Bassett Towers!

Atishoo, a tissue

In my long and arduous life I've had my fair share of illnesses. I remember a picture of me as a cherubic toddler with golden blonde curls appearing on the front page of the local paper, the Evening Argus, when I was in hospital aged about 4. Sadly, it was not me and (I vaguely recall) a teddy bear that occasioned this media exclusive, but the famous person who was visiting the hospital at the time who had also muscled in on the picture. I think it was someone like Princess Alexandra but sadly the news clipping has long since disappeared (as have the cherubic looks). That was the highspot on the illness front as, for some strange reason, they tend to be unpleasant events. The reason why I mention them now is because I have spent the last few days suffering with a cold.

These days, people tend to have flu or migraines rather than colds or headaches but this is a cold - simple as that. Shivers, runny eyes, snotty nose, coughing, sneezing, swollen glands, sweating are all here in abundance: none of them life threatening but, combined, a pretty unpleasant experience with which I am getting a little bored. Even the name is a bummer: the common cold is certainly not for me. An exclusive one I could live with but common? My Mother would not be happy with that!

The other thing about colds is that one doesn't get the sympathy as one does if, for example, you contracted Sumatran Swamp Goitre or something a little more exotic. I got meningitis when I was 16 and that certainly raised my stock in the comparitive illnesses league table. That was a high spot as was having my appendix out on my 10th birthday - a few brief moments of sympathy from the nurses before I braved the cockroaches in the sluice room of Southlands Hospital. Maybe that's the thing about illnesses, your brain remembers the (comparatively) good bits? Certainly, when I was in A& E the other week with Gertie the Gall-Bladder, the feeling of the morphine zooming round my body was a moment to treasure.

Of course, the epitome of illness is private health insurance which I had when I was working. Obsequious consultant surgeons ringing you to ask when you wish to come in, a proper tea service on a posh tray, wine lists and hot and cold running nurses made illness a veritable pleasure. These days however, I am doomed to a packet of Beechams, a soggy hankie and the knowledge that my body is now the equivalent of a rather battered Mark 2 Capri.

To quote as I presently sound - dat's dot fuddy.

Lazing on a Sony Afternoon

Well, a new addition to the Bassett household!

For those that didn't know, Cortez, my Acer laptop, died of a fried graphics chip after a short, but happy, life of 18 months (there's a message there to prospective Acer buyers). I've been looking at a replacement and weighing up the pros and cons for a few weeks and was totally confused. Do I buy a cheapie, as it's only a spare? It's not as if it's going to be doing much other than enabling me to do a bit of writing or browsing in foreign parts (well, the kitchen or the pub). On the other hand, as I have my super whizzy PC, I really wanted something that might aspire to something like its elder brother.

I mentally listed what I wanted and had a browse around the internet and a few shops. I even went to PC World but nothing, zilch, de nada.

I then found that I could customise at Dell and so I put together a suitable laptop. It was, naturally, far more expensive than I had first envisaged but that's the trouble with these customisation places. It's like when you buy Pick & Mix. You always buy about 4 times more than you intend and it was the same at Dell. I'll just up the processor speed a tad........ooh, I really need 2 gig of RAM.............hmm, maybe just a slightly larger hard drive. Before you know where you are, the price has doubled. I still prognosticated and therefore, still no new laptop.

Anyway, we toddled of to Eastbourne today where Curry's and Comet are conveniently right next door to each other. We were after a new HD TV and it also crossed my mind I would glance at the laptops (surprise, surprise). The visit started badly as we crossed the threshold of Curry's and the strains of Jonah Louie blasted us, exhorting us to stop the cavalry. Christmas frigging songs! Mid-November and bloody, bleeding Christmas songs! Oh, deep joy: Slade as we wandered through the washing machines, Wizzard as we meandered past the mixers, Cliff Richard as we trudged towards the TVs.

They had obviously taken on loads of extra staff as we were assaulted on all sides by enquiries about our welfare and told how their lives would be ruined if they failed to take us to the heights of ecstatic customer satisfaction. Now that's all very well but there seems to be a direct correlation between the number of staff and the aggregate knowledge. I stopped by the laptops and asked a minion if he would kindly allow me access to Vista on one particular machine so that I could check the Aero performance stats (these being a fairly reliable comparative between different machines)? 'Of course, Sir' says he, no doubt wondering why I actually wanted to look at something relevant rather than the stupid advert running on all the machines. We then had a slight technical problem - he didn't know the Curry's password to access any of the laptops. He then asked his mate who also looked suitably blank.

I had got bored by then (and didn't really like the laptop anyway) so off we went to the TVs. We had already kinda decided we wanted a Sony 32" so stood there and looked at it for a while. There wasn't much to ask about it so we thought we'd pop next door to Comet.

Good start - no music. I walked past the computer section and there it was - the perfect laptop! Not only did it tick all the boxes, but it was also a Vaio therefore street cred factor was a big plus. I asked a nice young girl to let me at the performance ratings and, wonder of wonders, she knew the password........ Comet 1 Curry's 0. She then admitted that she was new so I showed her how to do the check and she was suitably grateful and said she would use it to impress other customers with her knowledge. Everything checked out and, forgetting all previous pros and cons, I said I wanted it. Indeed, I would bite off my leg in order to acquire it.

Now, we can get 10% discount at Curry's so I asked her if she could match that? She enquired if there was anything else we wanted, and when we said a TV, she intimated that they could negotiate if we bought both. Found yet another imbecile in the Visual Dept. (obviously ex-Curry's) who couldn't really explain why there was a £200 difference between the two Sony 32" sets but eventually we settled on the more expensive one. Now this had 100 hz and apparently will turn television watching from a way of keeping up with Corrie into an unbeatable audio-visual experience so there was no contest really.

We then had to wait for the manager in order to sort out the discount and whiled away the time watching some demo HD stuff on a 50" Panasonic. Now, don't get me wrong, HD is amazing but, it was so realistic, we were both getting motion sickness just watching! Finally, the manager arrived and we eventually walked out the proud owners of a laptop, a new TV, a free Sony DVD recorder and a £100 discount.

The Vaio is known as Cher, seeing as it's a Sony (think about it) and is luvverly. Just one or two comments though, should the powers that be at Sony be reading this:-

1. Why do you have to put so many time-constrained trial programs on your products? I had to spend the first hour just ripping out crap software.
2. Why, oh why, put a trial of Norton on it? Nobody in their right minds uses Norton. Norton is as much use as a jock strap to a eunuch.
3. Why make the initial operation so difficult that I actually had to read the instructions at one point? You should know that manuals are merely a means of protecting the product in transit and serve no other useful purpose.
4. Why not provide a sticker for the laptop bag that say something like 'I have a Vaio in here. Jealous huh'?

Anyway, what with winning my first every tenner on the lottery tonight, it's been a pretty good day. All I need do now is work out the 46 different inputs on the back of the TV and I might just get it going in time to watch Betty's Christmas Broadcast!

Remembrance Day 2007

In the pouring rain, many people gathered this morning to honour the dead of the last two World Wars. They came for their own particular reasons: comrades, children, relatives - or perhaps, like me, as a tribute to those that fought and died for our freedom.

I overlook the memorials and, rather than be in the body of the crowd, was able to capture the ceremony as well as take part with my own thoughts and prayers. It was a relatively small ceremony but, to me, represented all that is important about that awful thing called War. Wars are fought about what is felt to be right, for injustice and intolerance. Any war can be justified by the perpetrator but this country sacrificed the flower of its youth to give us the life which we now have and which, perhaps, at times don't appreciate.

In the conflicts of the 20th century, Britain gave selflessly. In some ways, it wasn't our fight but we did what we felt was right, we gave for what we believed in. Millions perished because of that but I have never heard any regrets about the justifications for that sacrifice. The cynics would mutter about History only being written by the winners but, irrespective of that, I looked down upon old soldiers who had God knows what memories in their minds as they stood silently, heads bowed, in the rain - and I was grateful.

It's a strange thing. The town is like many others in that it has its fair share of disenchanted and bored adolescents. They cause trouble, they keep the local glazier employed and are generally pretty intolerant of the limits of behaviour. In the 4 years I have been here, the many wreaths and tributes around the war memorials have remained completely undisturbed and that is quite something.

Wars aren't just about large-scale conflicts; we all fight our own battles in Life and I know just how difficult that can be. Perhaps even more difficult in some ways, as these small battles make us feel alone and vulnerable. One of the things to bear in mind though is the realisation that people do care and the support that they willingly give - want to give, in fact. Compromise to avoid confrontation should always be the primary goal but we, like those before us, sometimes have to fight. Whether it be the bully, the principle, the seemingly inevitable or even our own fears, we have to stand up for what we believe in and battle our way through.

To those presently undergoing their own particular battles, be strong and take comfort from those around you.

As I looked down, I saw some older women. Perhaps bitter that they had been deprived of their husbands and sweethearts but, no doubt, proud that they had the courage to fight for what they thought was right. It was a sobering time and put into perspective the times I played at soldiers as a kid or when I watch war movies on the TV. Remembrance Day is, to me, not a glorification of war but a salutary reminder of the realities of life. A time where life is put into perspective, a time when I am thankful for those that gave, a time to hope for a more peaceful future but also a time where I feel encouraged to carry on fighting my own personal battles as well as those of the people that I love. Those long-departed ordinary men and women gave their lives for our freedom. I for one intend to justify that.

We will remember them.

Sky's the Limit!!!

It's Wednesday and it's 9.19pm. I am sitting here surrounded by technology, not least of which is a television.

We went looking for a new TV today. Something which I couldn't really get excited about even though we were looking at a grand's worth of HD, flat-screen Cinemascope, Dolby, digital technology: for which the bloody wall-mount costs more than most TVs. I think I've just realised why I couldn't get up much enthusiasm when, just now, I screamed and stormed out of the room. The reason? 20 million channels on satellite and not one decent programme to watch!!

Surely to God, at this time of an evening there ought to be something that appeals but oh no...... a complete mish-mash of repeats, programmes suitable for pubescent teenies or reality shows with as much appeal as a bucket of cold sick.

Now, television is not something that we actually sit and watch. It always tends to be a background noise with the added benefit of usually having some sort of interest. Because there was sweet F.A. on all the other channels I thought why not watch a movie? I trawled through the synopses of those that actually looked interesting (not many), made a selection and accordingly switched over. Total and utter crap! By now, of course, other movies had got into their stride and I just hate playing catch-up so it's back to the Sky Guide in the vain hope that I'd missed something earlier.

Remind me to write to that nice Mr Murdoch and remind him that my £850 per annum is not just for the privilege of being cut off by some retard in Mumbai or deepest Scotland every time I make the inevitable once a month phone call regarding yet another Sky cock-up. It would actually be nice to have the occasional watchable programme also. No doubt he also sits there of an evening desperately trying to choose between Minder and celebrity whippet racing before watching QVC and buying some totally naff product which, judging by the orgasmic screams of the (invariably) American demonstrator, will introduce domestic harmony on a scale never previously experienced.

The other night i became desperate and watched a movie called Snakes on a Plane. I guess I don't need to tell you the basis of the plot but the vision of a giant constrictor suddenly appearing and enveloping someone's head in its jaws made me really glad I invest in Sky movies. I sat there transfixed, imagining releasing a container full of snakes into Murdoch Towers until he promised faithfully to actually put on some decent programmes. The whole film stretched incredulity to the limit as I thought "How could anybody in their right mind watch this?". Then I realised..........that included me!

I was even reduced to watching Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen moving into a new home tonight. Why do we want to see this? The only satisfaction I got from it was the fact that he is lumbered with an awful family. His wife was desperately showing off in front of the cameras and making sexual innuendoes as subtle as a lead bar about the head, the young daughter was a monster from hell and made Violet Elizabeth Bott look like a top graduate from a charm school whilst Le Bowen himself, cuffs flying, did for country living what Napalm did for the Vietnamese horticulture industry.

Perhaps we are too spoiled these days? So many new programmes abound and I just don't watch them because the few outside of terrestrial TV I have seen are either American, too "hip" or just plain bollocks. Maybe I'm growing old? Is this the sort of thing my parents said when I raved about Python? My daughter loves The Mighty Boosh.........rubbish!

There was an article in The Independent yesterday listing the Top 10 comedy show DVDs. How many had I heard of? None..........not a single one. Am I missing some channels? Nope, they're all there; Sky Living, Sky Dying, Sky You Might as Well be Dead rather than Watch this Rubbish, the Welsh Channel, the Sumo Channel, hmmmm, no English Channel.

I suppose in a way I ought to be grateful as venting my wrath has occupied me for 38 minutes and I have therefore saved myself a commensurate amount of frustrated channel hopping. I can now occupy myself for another 20 minutes with the following;

If television is so bad then why in Heaven are we buying yet another TV set?

Hmmmmmmmmmm

DeSign of the Times

I've been trawling around BlogWorld today and have been pleasantly surprised by the number of interesting, amusing and erudite bloggers that there are out there. I suppose it makes sense. After all, people tend to do what they enjoy and enjoyment of something comes, predominantly, from an ability to perform that action to a certain standard.

The problem is, it's made me realise that I'm actually part of the common herd of writers. Sure, I have my moments but the reality is I am one of a great many. I could be content with that, I should be content with that but I just don't do content.

I'm a dabbler. I see someone doing something and I want to aspire to their ability. The trouble is I lack the application, inspiration and concentration to excel so enter into a circle of frustration and non-fulfilment that lasts until I latch onto another stimulation.

Take design for example: I can't draw a straight line and lack any ideas regarding design whatsoever. When I first discovered drawing programs, I was really chuffed that I could manipulate images and played constantly, learning Paint Shop Pro and even creating my own posters for the Quiz Nights I compère. I tended to adapt existing images but it was fun and the learning process was interesting, albeit frustrating.

I wanted to build my own website so registered a domain name and purchased some space. It sat there for 2 years with me occasionally thinking I ought to make a start but not really sure how. Then a combination of factors conspired to lead me down a path upon which I now precariously stand. A path which started with me creating my blog page and learning a little bit of HTML. That, in turn, inspired me to play with DreamWeaver and I now have sufficient knowledge of that to create a teensy-weensy web page. Because DreamWeaver is allied to PhotoShop, I am trying to make the transition to using that as my primary design program along with Adobe Illustrator.

To summarise, I know a small part of each of these sophisticated programs and languages but lack the means to learn further apart from within my own abilities and motivation. I have bought books, DVDs, even nice hardware like my Wacom graphics tablet but it really all boils down to skill and aptitude. The local Adult Education people run courses on really important subjects like 4th century BC Hittite Jardiniéres or Flower Arranging for Disabled Ectomorphs but do they do practical things like Web Page design? Oh no, far too sensible. Maybe it's the way I like to learn but I much prefer a human teacher rather than something that doesn't give me feedback, suggestions, criticism or stimulation.

I've got some of my Quiz Show posters in an album which can be viewed here and they've been well received. The trouble is, I know that they're pretty ordinary, indeed laughable, to anyone who has a skill or appreciation of design. Maybe that's the nub of the whole matter? My arbiter of success is recognition by those that can rather than those that can't.

Given that my efforts so far over the years have been far from adequate and that I am expecting to become a master of 3 incredibly complex programs and a programming language, I think that my best bet is to allow the gifted to do what they do best and come to terms with the level of ability which I presently have.

But then, when have I ever done the sensible thing...........?

Sea Fever

I have a confession! It concerns a long-running love affair that has lasted all of my life and will remain with me until I draw my last breath. It's an unrequited love from an unremitting mistress; a cold-hearted lover who bestows her favours on a whim and glories in her capricousness.

The object of my affections? The sea.

I guess it's in the blood as I am the first generation on my Mother's side not to go to sea since, at least, Trafalgar. I apparently had a forebear who fought on the Victory (and died!). I had Uncles in the Royal Navy and Grandfather and great Grandfather in the merchant navy, all of whom told stirring tales of their time afloat.

The first time I realised that I was a maritime junkie was when I went on a holiday to the Loire Valley. It was beautiful there and the bottles of Vouvray were most acceptable but I suddenly realised that I missed being near the sea. Not just a whimsical desire to paddle but a real longing to be close. Even as a kid, I would sit on the harbour arm, fishing. Not particularly worried about whether any passing fish wished to commit piscatorial hari-kari, just content to sit and watch the ever-changing moods of the water. I used to spend hours wandering the sea-shore, looking at the detritus thrown up on the tide and wondering just how far it had drifted, dreaming about exotic places and marvelling at such small miracles as mermaid's purses and shells.

Just the sound of the sea is something that brings me such a sense of contentment and, whenever I'm troubled, the seashore is the first place I head for. It seems to soothe me and puts my small life into perspective with its sheer, awesome power.

I've always used it as a playground; sailing, swimming, a bit of water-skiing but it really came alive when I first scuba dived. Snorkelling was always a large part of any holiday and I used to spend hours cruising across the surface, gazing down at the life below me. Some places, like Turkey, were quite devoid of much off-shore life whilst others like Corsica were a wonderful mixture of colourful fish, sponges, urchins and shellfish.

I was inspired to write this blog when someone mentioned Lanzerote earlier this evening for that was where I had my first scuba dive.. I say first....it was my first official dive as, when I was about 20, a group of us went to the beach for the day. We were all into snorkelling and had masks and tubes. However, one of our number had bought the whole scuba kit and I, like a fool, asked to try it all on. I donned the neoprene and strapped on all the bits and the inevitable happened; I heard a small child say "Ooh look, there's a frogman!".

Now, me being me, I just had to play to the audience and, although with hindsight it was a stupid thing to do, trudged down to the water in order to show off. I had every intention of staying above the surface and just sort of swim around a bit. Sadly, the beach shelved very gently and I found I was going out quite a long way with the water only reaching my waist. By now, of course, there were a few people watching and so I figured that all I could do was lay in the water and sort of crawl along the bottom to look as though I was swimming. This worked well for a while until I became aware of the flaw in the plan.

You see, the beach in question is at Shoreham which is a port. Being a port, there is a need for deep water and the dredgers had actually carved a fairly steep channel which I realised when I suddenly dropped like a stone as I found the edge! Suffice to say I managed to extricate myself and learned an interesting lesson about weight belts in the process. I tried to wander nonchalantly back to my friends but I can still vividly recall the jelly-like feeling in my legs as I walked back up the beach.

Anyway, back to Lanzarote. We were given a 30 minute lecture on safety and equipment and off we went. As I took those first few breaths below the surface I was immediately conscious of the sheer privilege of entering this undersea world. Suddenly I was in an evironment of which most only dream and I knew I was hooked. It wasn't all easy going as the need to monitor one's buoyancy is paramount and this is controlled via a valve on one's BCD (Bouyancy Control Device), a sort of life-jacket which can be inflated or deflated at will via the air tank.

Unfortunately, it takes a while to get used to the amount of air needed as there is a short delay in reaction so, one moment, I was lying on the bottom and the next, shooting up to the surface only to sink like a stone once more as I vented the BCD in panic!

I did a few more trial dives on various holidays and then, after I retired, I took the plunge (gettit?) and enrolled on the PADI Open Water Diving course. It was a proud moment when I received my dive card (that's it, over there <) as it meant I could dive anywhere across the globe to a depth of 18 metres. Sitting on the seabed 60 feet down, hand feeding giant rays is an experience never to be forgotten and it's not only abroad where the waters teem with life. Within half a mile of me now is the English Channel which has an abundance of fish and shellfish to boggle the imagination.

Seeing an 8 foot conger face to face can be a bit daunting but it's very much a case of live and let live below the waves from a human point of view. As long as one remembers that we are merely guests then the only real danger comes from a diver's own stupidity.

I haven't dived for a while now. One day I will realise my ambition to swim with sharks - a much-maligned creature whose evolutionary perfection I truly admire. In the meantime, I shall continue to love, fear, admire and respect the ocean.

John Masefield summed it up a lot better than I ever could with his poem 'Sea Fever':

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

Multiple exclamation marks are a sure sign of a diseased mind !!!

Hello and welcome to the new blog layout! The spherical objects at the top of the page can be construed as:

1) Thought bubbles, representing the workings of the Bertie mind

2) An aesthetically pleasing combination of shapes, specifically
chosen to compliment the subtle nuances of colour and design
encapsulated not only within the page but also within each
carefully-crafted blog entry

3) A load of balls

Today, I am writing another homage. I quite like paying tributes because they give me a chance to say thank you to people (and sometimes objects) that give me pleasure. Pleasure can take many forms whether it be enjoyment, stimulation, appreciation or just plain "feel good" factor and this guy presses the right button on a great many. The person in question is Mr Terry Pratchett and yesterday I started his latest book, "Making Money".

I ordered the book some time ago but, what with the postal strike and other events more local, the reading of it was postponed until I was ready to savour the moment. The illustrator of all his outpourings, Paul Kidby, runs a webshop where I am able to order signed copies so it was this that I took to bed and finally opened. There is something about a new book. The leaves all pristine, the knowledge that only my eyes have taken in those pages, the excitement of what lies within all conspire to produce a frisson of true pleasure.

This particular book is also about finance, economics and paper money so I was intrigued about how it would fit in with my own interests within that particular area. I won't tell you about the plot, that can be found in critiques all over the internet. Suffice to say that it is a wonderfully funny, perceptive and, above all, clever piece of writing. Pratchett has a knack of encapsulating philosophies, tenets and other thought-provoking ideas into single sentences of seeming silliness. Many's the time I'm reading one of his books when "Whoaaaaaaa". Something sneaks up on me from a few sentences ago and I marvel once more at the genius that is Pratchett.

A couple of examples from his latest:

Marketing in a nutshell: "Don't sell the sausage - sell the sizzle.

Management in a nutshell: (This is from Lord Vetenari, ruler of Ankh-Morpork, whilst trying to persuade our hero to take over the city's banking institution)

"....but the bank needs someone who understands banks. (says our Hero)

" People who understand banks got it into the position it is in now.", said Veternari. "And I did not become the ruler of Ankh-Morpork by understanding the city. Like banking, the city is depressingly easy to understand. I have remained ruler by getting the city to understand me."

There is a website devoted to his quotes and is well worth a delve now and again. You can find it here.

Now don't get me wrong, the guy is not just a latter-day Plato. He has a humour of which I can only dream, a fertility of imagination that consumes me with envy and a capacity to write, write and write again.

His characters are very real (which is saying something, especially about an orang-utan who is the Librarian of the Unseen University!) and evoke an empathy of spirit which ranges from the optimistically futile Rincewind the wizard to the futilely optimistic ethos of a certain C.M.O.T. Dibbler, purveyor of anything saleable (or not, come to think of it).

I know that my love of the DiscWorld is shared by many and I welcome your favourite quotes, characters or thoughts on what to me is, at times, a far saner world than that in which I live. If you've never read Pratchett, I do commend him to you.

Sometimes, reading his work, I think to myself "Why do I bother? How can I possibly compete with an writer such as he?" I know people speak kindly of my efforts but well, what can I say? I've rationalised it by using a football analogy insofar as maybe a Division 2 footballer can look at a Premier League player and lose heart. However, they fail to appreciate that there are many only competent enough to play Sunday league.

So here I am, writing as an Accrington Stanley stalwart, an appreciation about the Steven Gerrard of the world of humorous literature. If there is ever a literary equivalent of the FA Cup, I can only hope that, one day, I might be drawn against him and he can wonder about this other bloke that wears a long coat and big black hat, gibbering gently in his majestic presence.

Bless you, Mr Pratchett, you bring insanity into a world of ...........well, insanity.

Ghouls Just Wanna Have Fun

Well, it's Halloween tomorrow night! Samhain, All Hallows Eve......call it what you want but, as far as I'm concerned, it's predominantly another way of large stores selling shoddy merchandise to line their pockets and for mini-terrorists to extort goodies by Trick or Treating.

I've never had any experience of Trick or Treaters and am rather intrigued by what constitutes a "Trick"? The only one I've heard of is setting a paper bag full of dog poo alight and then ringing the door bell. Grown-up opens door, espies conflagration and does the obvious thing; stamps on it to put it out! I have to say, this appeals to my baser sense of humour as long as I'm not the aforesaid grown-up.

Halloween has become a bit of a horror fest for me already. Not from the ghosts and ghoulies aspect, but from an entertainment point of view. You see, following a fairly (OK, amazingly) successful last DJ session at my Local, I was asked to host a Halloween Party night. This would basically involve a Quiz, silly games and lots of dancing and general revelry. I use DJ software, my laptop and a gynormous amp and speakers for the whole set-up and, after the last gig, was really looking forward to it. I prepared a playlist of as many horror-related songs as I could find, loaded them into Cortez (my laptop) and was feeling quietly confident that all was in readiness for a great evening. Incidentally, I discovered a plethora of Halloween songs including "Ghouls Just Wanna Have Fun" and "Drac the Knife"!

The fun started last night when Cortez died. Totally. Utterly. Dead as the proverbial dodo. Me being the cool,calm, collected person that I am took this in my stride. The fact that Mrs B, watching me lying on the floor kicking and screaming, enquired if epilepsy was a pre-requisite of modern DJ-ing brought me to my senses.

Right, contingency plans: early visit to the laptop doctor today but mirror everything I'd done on my new sooper-dooper PC, just in case, seemed to be the order of the day so that I could always take that if necessary. I "acquired" another copy of the programme via the internet and loaded it into the PC only to find that it had a penchant for crashing in mid-tune.

OK, fingers crossed re. today's visit then. I travelled to my tame repair man bright and early and he did a very good imitation of someone who knows fuck-all about laptops. "Hmm" he said, "it could be the charger. There again, it might be the battery." I politely enquired if he wanted the full set and wished to add the actual laptop to his diagnoses? "Oh, definitely, yes. That may well be the cause and that'll cost you", he replied cheerfully.

Muttering about that was the last time I would support the small businessman, I drove home and made a last-resort decision......... a decision made only by an insane or desperate man.

So, when we arrived at PC World, the nice man was very helpful and suggested we take it to a laptop repairer down the road. He even gave us their card! Bearing in mind he was standing under a huge price list which included the cost of repairing laptops, I found this a bit strange but took his advice and toddled off there accordingly. I really had little choice apart from seriously considering buying a new laptop but, given the problems with the software, I felt that this wasn't a logical move.

The recommended laptop shop people were awfully nice. I explained my predicament and told them I needed it working by tomorrow (Wednesday) night. He looked me straight in the eye and faithfully promised he would ring me Thursday morning with a diagnosis! Bowing to the inevitable, I accepted it was the PC or nothing and retired gracefully.

Then it was off into Brighton for the fancy dress stuff. I had already decided I would wear my QuizMeister gold sequinned shirt along with vampire makeup so the purchases should be simple. Imagine if you will, a normal-sized shop filled with the population of Lithuania, all fighting over witches hats, stick-on warts, fangs etc whilst the air was filled with shrieks of "Nah, I wanna be the buxom victim, you can be an old crone". We eventually purchased white, red and grey face paint, spray-on black hair dye, sponges, hair gel, blood and all the other accoutrements that would transform me from Superhero-about-town Bertie to QuizMeister G, scourge of virgins and sucker of necks and headed back to the relative tranquility of home.

Tonight, touch wood, the software is behaving, the make-up has been tried and I am reasonably calm once more. Hopefully, this time tomorrow night, I will be in a mildly alcoholic haze, celebrating a successful evening with a throng of happy revellers staggering home to put the willies up each other, so to speak.

No doubt, a full report of the Party will be forthcoming so watch this space!

If you've got it, flaunt it!

Last night, we went round to a friend of ours to transact some business. Sadly, due to illness he was liquidating a few assets, among which were a very large box of fountain pens and other writing implements.

Now, for those that don't know, Mrs B is a pen freak. She has about 150 pens at the moment, as well as a similar number of different inks and a plethora of (penal? penile?) paraphernalia like old adverts, displays etc. She prefers old pens and will sit for hours grinding nibs, polishing barrels and generally tinkering with them as they are all used by her as she writes for several hours each night just for the joy of improving her "hand". The two specialist pen shops in Brighton are frequently visited and many hours spent in them discussing all aspects of "pen porn" with the, similarly smitten, owners and staff.

The chap whom we visited last night, used to work at the local Parker factory before his illness and he, Mrs B and another friend who was there (also a Parker employee) spent a happy couple of hours discussing Duofolds, Sonnets, prototypes that were never produced and other such things. I sat there as the discussion regarding the Acme 23-1A prototype milling machine which was used to ream the 1986 Laque barrel thread reached new heights of intensity and pondered on the enthusiasm engendered by such matters. Mrs B informed them that she had a Parker Victory (the first pen ever produced at the local factory) and there was an almost orgasmic excitement. We heard stories of boardroom wrangles, prototype pens produced and manufactured in their 1000s and then buried (quite literally) in a large field as the pen market changed, fond recollections of emplyees long gone and Mrs B was in her seventh heaven. Incidentally, I suggested that they pass on my brilliant "Homage to Thunderbirds" marketing idea - the Parker "Yus, Milady" but it was met by a spontaneous burst of indifference.

Now, this is the really sad bit........ I had been gently teasing about their enthusiasm all evening (although, between you, me and the gatepost, it was actually all quite fascinating) and the time came to pay them some readies for these pens. As I piled the notes onto the table, I noticed that one of the £20 had an AA serial number and made a comment about maybe they ought to hang on to it as there is a demand for such notes in a reasonable condition. Someone made the fatal mistake of asking me about banknotes and I was off! It was, I think, at the point where I was telling them the names of the last 10 Chief Cashiers of the Bank of England (together with their dates) that I noticed the glazed looks and the automatic nodding of heads as they drifted quietly into their own little worlds that I realised I was just as guilty as them about enthusiasm.

In fairness, I can generally relate notaphilic facts in an interesting way but it made me realise that what floats my boat is not necessarily anything other than the Titanic to others. Mrs B is lucky insofar as she has access to local people with whom she can discuss her passions. There are few who share mine, although I am fortunate that I am often passed the odd foreign note by friends and acquaintances who are aware of my peculiar needs.

Perhaps there are closet note collectors locally who, like freemasons, have secret signs of identification. Once they make themselves known to each other, they can revel in the joys of intaglio printing, lust at the Kilkenny Bank $4 note of 1820 and have heated discussions about the Trans-Caucasus 20 kopek forgery scandal.

For the moment however, I spend my time on the internet: Electronic discourse and image swapping. It's not the same doing it on your own, as many a schoolboy will testify, but it's better than nothing.

At least it stops me from being too much of a banknote bore, which reminds me, there was only one note ever produced that featured a boar; this was the 1927 20 kapeek note produced in .................................... Oops, sorreeeeee!

I suppose, in summary, I enjoy listening to people enthusing about their interests (apart from cars!). As an avid collector of information and facts, there is always something that I can glean and, really, you can't knock enthusiasm. The world would be a poorer place without it.

A forum to which I subscribe has a number of people talented in so many different ways. As time goes by and those talents emerge or are admitted, I am filled with admiration for their skills. To hell with modesty, be proud in what you can do and share that pride with others - their world will be the better for it.

Take Mrs B once more: she enjoys painting but doesn't really figure that she has a great talent in that direction. As someone who can't draw a comparison, let alone a picture, I totally admire what she does and, as I sit chatting on my forum, she's sitting alongside me either painting, drawing or writing. Much to her chagrin, I've scanned in one of her pictures, most of which are inspired by the Rackham and Tenniel illustrations from Alice in Wonderland, a book of which she has many, many different editions. As with all the uploaded images, just click on the image to see it full size.


She can knock out a couple of these a night and, although the scan doesn't do it justice, it's an example of the many talents hidden from the world by people that should celebrate and share their abilities. Incidentally, I've put a few in an album, together with some of her handwriting - if you're interested, here's the link.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

Christmas, that time beloved by all small children, shopkeepers, credit card companies and admirers of Carry On films will soon be upon us. This small offering seeks to provide some insight into that overblown, lumbering and unstoppable machine that is the festive season.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas. I love the interesting gifts that prove desperation can turn sensible people into panic-stricken buying machines (and special thanks there to Auntie Jean for those 12 different small pots of “Jams of the World” - a present I shall always treasure).I love the naïve hope that this year I will eat my Christmas lunch with its 7 varieties of overcooked vegetables, starter, pudding, various alcoholic beverages and STILL have room for cold meats, pickles etc as I watch the joyously festive murder/tragedy/catastrophe served up by the scriptwriters of EastEnders. I love the assortment of gaily coloured greetings cards from people met once on holiday many years ago with the brief note telling me that someone I have never met has had a baby and how festive Worksop looks this time of year. Most of all though, I love the build-up to Christmas.

Like the first cuckoo heralding Spring, the Advent Calendars melting gently in the September heat provide the first glimpse of that well-oiled machine, designed to rid us of our money, our sanity and any goodwill. You know then that the Christmas timetable is upon us and shortly, nothing in the supermarket is where it should be as all the everyday items have been pushed into small, dark corners to make way for far more important purchases like Mint Thins, cocktail cherries and cheesy footballs. Gift Catalogues as large as telephone directories crash through the letterbox reminding us to panic that there are only 2 months left to bankrupt ourselves, children start to compile the first few volumes of their Present List and we all utter those immortal words…. “This year, I am going to be really organised and get everything out of the way to save the last-minute panic”

Of course, it never happens. By early November, shopping centres see vast multitudes of people, secure in their smugness, wandering from shop to shop looking for that special present. By the end of the day, you see those same people, defeat and tiredness etched across their faces, clutching several rolls of wrapping paper, 2 calendars and a novelty kitchen implement trudging dejectedly back home.

And so it goes on. Week after week, we gradually whittle down the list with the main expenditure being the cost of NCP tickets and headache tablets. The joy of hearing When a Child is Born in every shop we fight our way around is only slightly increased by the sadistic pleasure derived from thinking of the poor sods that work there and have to listen to it all day. All this is guaranteed to send us into a fit of homicidal rage and even a turkey seems to have a better outlook on life. As the Day looms ever closer, we get to dread the sound of the front door bell and the 4 children standing there singing the first line of We Wish You a Merry Christmas before the youngest is pushed forward for their just reward.

By now, we have developed a siege mentality and are planning the final food shop. Cupboards are bulging with sweets, savouries, cakes, biscuits, chocolate and every conceivable relish, chutney and pickle so it’s only the fresh food left to get. Now this is where the strange quantum physics of food requirements kicks in. It goes something like this:

Allow 4 times the normal amount of food consumed per person and add sprouts. Multiply this by the inversely proportioned ratio of bodily sounds and functions as we sleep through the afternoon of Christmas day and subtract the amount of sherry consumed by any pensioners present. Failing this, just grab a shopping trolley and fill it with whatever you can find left on the shelves.

At last, you get to that wonderful moment on Christmas Eve when there is no more that can be done. This is that special time when one can sit down and relax, casting an appreciative eye over the decorations dropping from the walls where the Blu-Tack failed yet again and thanking all Gods that Noel Edmonds is no more a traditional part of Christmas Morning. Christmas Eve is also a good time to go and slip a card into an acquaintance’s letterbox if they haven’t sent you one already – guaranteed to send them into a panic of indecision.

Christmas morning! That special time when all the New Year sales are first aired on the box and the summer holidays adverts are tempting us to spend even more money that we haven’t got. ………………………….. OK, I give in, it’s a fair cop. I LOVE the thought of Christmas really. Every year I still look forward to it although I do hate the build-up and the commercialisation. I still think of open fires and children’s laughter, strangers wishing each other a cheerful greeting and happiness and peace. Being with friends and loved ones, remembering the sheer joy that Christmas brings to children and that special air of excitement.

Perhaps that is what Christmas is all about: what is in one’s mind and in one’s heart. You can’t buy Christmas – you can only live it.

Now, where did I put those Easter Eggs…………………..?

Tip Tip Hooray

Today was an interesting day. It was the penultimate (hopefully) visit to Dad's flat and involved several trips to the local tip. I was wondering how I'd feel about clearing the place; what memories there would be and what emotions it would arouse?

As it turned out, it was all perfectly OK and I found that there was very little that gave me a touch of whimsy. Strangely enough, it was little things that brought back memories, like his hair brush that he seems to have had forever and a kitchen knife that had a blade about 2 inches long where he had sharpened it constantly over the years and awoke memories of family meals long gone.

The tip trips were also interesting and made me feel vaguely guilty about the consumerism of the Western world. There was a constant stream of cars disgorging perfectly serviceable goods and, seeing the mountain of detritus ready to be consigned to landfills, made me aware of just how well we seem to be screwing up this planet of ours. The YMCA have, very shrewdly, managed to get a site at the tip and I was pleased to pass them (what I thought was) a load of useful items. I was told that they didn't require the likes of glass decanters, brandy glasses and other glassware, neither did they require crockery or TV stands as they were awash with them. I pictured how this would seem to an awful lot of the World's population and quickly switched thought channels.

Tonight I was wondering what, of mine, the young Bassetts might look at fondly when I pass on to that great SuperHero heaven? As an inveterate collector, they'll have plenty to choose from. I'd love to see the look on their faces when they see I have kept every card and drawing they ever gave me. Perhaps they'll be surprised at what I have written over the years? Whatever it is, I hope that they will be able to understand the man as well as the Father. Most of all though, I hope that they will understand the deep joy and pride I have in them.

I learned something about my Dad today - he was a sock freak and had hundreds of the damn' things. Thinking about it, they were a stock answer whenever he was asked what he wanted for Christmas or Birthdays. I never bought them of course but it seems he had a secret sock pimp who, presumably, dropped off vast amounts in plain brown envelopes.

Sadly, there seem to be few avenues for sock recycling. Personally, I think they would be good for recuperating hyperthermic bats or perhaps the Shari Lewis Appreciation Society but my approaches in both avenues have been blocked.

The barefoot "Kinnellliscold" Inuit tribe have sadly died out otherwise I would be hailed as their saviour as indeed have the followers of St Robin the Unshod. It was he that expounded the theory of walking barefoot over 40 foot wide chasms as an act of faith (or perhaps a leap of faith?). In fact, his main claim to fame is as the antithesis of mass conversion. As he plummeted a third of a mile, his 20,000 followers immediately lost their religion and, with happy shouts of "Bleeding loony", reverted to their pagan but essentially life-preserving ways and ransacked the local Primark footwear department.

Anyway, as I say, it's been an interesting day............but then, aren't they all.

Banging on About Musicians

Tonight, the Cadbury advert with the drum-playing gorilla came on and Mrs B asked me my opinion of Phil Collins as a drummer? This got us discussing what constitutes a true musician and, as I seem to have had blog-block recently, this seemed a good subject to muse about and get back into the swing of writing.

As a drummer, my answer to her question was that he was a capable drummer within his own genre but I wondered how he would actually be classed as a musician (hence the discussion)? To my mind, there are several different types of drummer: the Keith Moons, who add a whole new dimension to sitting behind the "real" band members, the Charlie Watts', who provide a perfect rhythm, with no frills and the Ginger Bakers or Ray Coopers who are true percussionists and seek to explore their craft, its origins and its total diversity and relationship to art and culture.

A lot of bands have travelled a short road from their roots. Is that because they are happy with what they play? Are they satisfying their fans' desire to hear the oldies? They have the choice to introduce new material but who wants to hear something they don't know? I would suggest not many. What if they tried to revamp well-loved songs? Again, I think few would want to hear variations. In other words, are musicians hampered by a fan-base who have to be satisfied at the expense of progression within their chosen area of expertise?

This therefore takes us back to musicianship. Charlie Watts is well-known as a devotee of jazz drumming and, for the non-drummer, this is technically as hard as it gets. He has the fortunate choice of extending his musicianship but does that make him a true musician? There are many competent guitarists out there but does capability mean everything? Mark Knopfler has been referred to as a "journeyman" guitarist; technically, extremely competent but lacking the undefinable "something" that drives and motivates. The jazz musicians seem to be the real music disciples, always searching for another riff and their devotion to their art almost oozing from their pores.

There have been many great bands over the last 40 years. What has happened to their members? I'm sure some have travelled that similar journey of musical exploration as the likes of Sting, Baker etc. but, without the need to satisfy their fans any longer, can indulge this without the Great British Public demanding their musical pound of flesh. How wonderful must it be to get up, create within one's own studio and not have to worry about pleasing anyone else.

I realise that I have used an awful lot of question marks and you can perhaps therefore deduce that I don't really know the answer?

Certainly, from a drumming point of view, percussion is really the only way to move on in one's craft. It's really the only rock instrument that does not allow much in the way of variation insofar as, say, a bass line can be as simple or complicated as you wish, similar to a drum rhythm, but, with a bass, one can go off in a far greater number of tangents given the scope of notes available (John Entwhistle, Jack Bruce and Jaco Pastorius being my choice of the greatest exponents of this). A drummer however is restricted by certain rules that cannot be broken. A true musician drummer however has a multitude of other instruments at his disposal and therefore his restrictions as a drummer are more than compensated by his singular advantage over guitarists and "conventional keyboard" players.

I digress; perhaps I should have made this a discussion, not about what constitutes a musician, but what happens to them? If they make their pile and then stop playing, are they true musicians? See, back to the original question again. Gosh, I'm confused. Are the semi-greats of my youth now postmen or social workers? Will I be mortified to find that Yardbirds are still knocking out "For Your Love" at Butlins, Pwllheli?

You can see that I am out of practice in this blogging thingy. What a pile of unrelated, unstructured poo! Still, at least I've started again.

I know some of my loyal band of readers must have thoughts on this and I' love to hear them. How about it?

Hiya SUC-ers!

One day, when I write my best-selling book and am besieged by paparazzi, agents and TV talk show hosts, I will be able to refer to this blogsite as the natal home of my literary creativity. No doubt, there will be offers for the serialisation rights from the likes of The People's Friend and Hello! but I shall probably hold out for the TV deal so that I can be networked on satellite TV, sandwiched between Discovery Home & Health and the Welsh Male Voice Sheep channel at 3 in the morning.

In the meantime, I can work on a few brief details like the title, content and dedications.

As, to be honest, the book will probably never materialise, I figured I might make a few dedications in the blog instead and, in particular, to a group of people that I've got to know, admire and whose company I enjoy. I have to say, also, that they've helped me through a few wobbly moments lately and have done more than they'll ever know to encourage my writing.

They all frequent a thread on the Digital Forum site which originated in a bid to marshal the forces of good against a certain housemate of the 2007 Big Brother programme. This person basically annoyed the shit out of me and, seeing that there was a thread which appeared to be of a similar inclination, I ventured in and was immediately made welcome. She is long forgotten but the thread has now become a meeting place for a group of disparate people who all seem to get on and offer an amazing humour, warmth and friendliness.

Taking them in no particular order:

Mikey - The Sarge. He drove the thread and made everybody feel welcome, dishing out badges and organising the troops in the fight against "she who cannot be named". As time went by, I discovered Mike was more than just a nice guy. He's a very talented guitarist and I totally recommend having a listen to some of his compositions. You can reach them here. A guy who has a wonderfully understated sense of humour and an overstated desire to participate in PE lessons.

Baldrick - Lover of turnips and Newcastle United (but he has his good points as well). A closet intellectual, Balders has the most amazing ability to find a pun in anything. He has now, through his passion for Sudoku, learned to count up to 9. Winner of Big Brother 2008.

chockie - Stalwart supporter of both the thread and the wine industry, chockie's favourite hobby is anything pink. A newly-fledged blogger (site sponsored by RayBans), she loves everybody (especially after a few glasses)!

Scots rool - A trifle-loving (but not much else) Celt, Sr manages to get through several keyboards a week posting on Digital Spy. An easy-going, tolerant individual who is always willing to settle any argument with violence (but with a heart of gold).

Gwenhyffar Milgi - Ace photographer, supercook and DNA specialist, Milgi hails from the land of clogs. Her experiments with dragon breeding have now ceased and her energies transferred to snails. The mind boggles! Has a thing about Vicars!

Kitty Wrinkle - Another blogger and fabled flapjack maker, Kitty has a brilliant sense of humour.Her ambition is to be George Clooney's shower mitt and her smalls are often mentioned but seldom seen. Quietly understated but a powerhouse of knowlege and tenacity.

Janet - Avid Blackburn supporter and fascinated by men with strangely shaped balls, Janet finds uniforms also strangely attractive. Last seen climbing into the Sarge's personnel carrier! Yet another genuinely lovely person.

Poblet - The Nork Maiden and aspiring leader of the Pink Pants Party. A predominantly nocturnal creature who lives on a diet of vodka, she has given plenty of bounce to the thread (especially in her SuperPob cossie).

Miniluv - A sadly misled talent who can often be seen gazing through the grey ladies underwear section of the Daily Mail. Ace teamaker and model prisoner, Miniluv's brevity of posting is only exceeded by his radical views on just about everything which can be analysed statistically.

Norma_Snockers - What can one say? A talent which brought nipple measuring to the fore. It was she who informed us that the distance between men's nipples is always 9" (go on, just try it!). Coincidentally, 9 is also the distance (in millimetres) between Carole (of Big Brother notoriety)'s and her navel. Norma is the Queen of the last word in her posts and is totally and deliciously loopy.

Well, there are plenty of others who deserve mentions and I hope that they know who they are. To each and every one of you; my gratitude, my friendship and my eternal admiration.

Final Farewells

Well, at last Dad is free to be at peace. The Coroner's office 'phoned this morning and gave the go-ahead so now it's organisation time.

As I mentioned in my last blog, we'd visited the funeral director already to start all the arrangements so the worst was over in that respect. That evening, I was standing there making another cup of delicious caffeine and suddenly was overcome with total panic. It was a strange experience as I realised that, rather than be a bystander at such an event, I was the instigator and, for the first time in my life, head of the Clan. Fortunately it didn't last but I was faced with the responsibilty of creating a service that Dad would have wanted and enjoyed as well as something that would give us all a suitable remembrance and comfort.

Dad had wanted something simple and there aren't going to be many attending so I had to work on providing something that fitted both these criteria. There was certainly going to be no singing as a small group of people mumbling hymns that they don't really know is hardly the most uplifting experience. Having said that, Dad believed in a hereafter and I wanted to respect that.

One hymn that he wanted was the 23rd Psalm, "The Lord's My Shepherd" which he and Mum took great delight in listening to me sing as a pre-pubescent choirboy. Bearing in mind, my comments above, I was relieved that CD facilities were available so that solved that problem! What to do about other music? Well, strange person that I am, I sublimate a lot of emotion and tend to only be able to emote through music. I guess it's some sort of protection and therefore it was a pretty difficult time thinking it all through as the feelings and songs combined.

I wanted something suitably stirring for when we arrived and settled on "Jerusalem" by Emerson, Lake & Palmer. If you don't know it, I've put it on my MP3 player here on the blog. Its power and majesty never fail to move me. As to that horribly final moment when Dad makes his last journey; I wanted to celebrate his life rather than for it to be a moment of sadness so felt it was only fitting that something loved by Dad was played. He was a great lover of Sinatra and Perry Como and I thought along those lines but finally settled on Bill Haley's" See You Later, Alligator". This was an expression used by both Mum and Dad and were the last words Mum said to me as she died so it seemed eminently suitable. I hope the Vicar will understand.

Talking of vicars, he telephoned me today and we chatted about the service. I have to say, he seemed really genuinely interested in doing his best for Dad (and us) and started to ask me about what form I would like the service to take? I explained that, even with the best of intentions, talking about somebody he had never met didn't sit comfortably and tentatively suggested he read out something written by me after consultation with the family. He welcomed this with open arms and totally agreed with my idea so I've spent a while doing that tonight and it's all ready for when I go and see him tomorrow. I was really impressed with his very genuine desire to be involved and am so relieved that the worry of an unctuous "holier than thou" character has not materialised. I've met quite a few clerics over the years and they seem to be like wine - either very good or not worth the effort.

So, Thursday of next week is the big hurdle. In the meantime, Dad is now quite literally over the road from us. I was in two minds as to whether this particular funeral director's was a good choice, given its proximity, but finally decided that I wanted him near me so I could, figuratively speaking, look after him and keep him safe. Sadly, he was never able to see our home so at least he's nearby now.

Just one final word: I have been deeply touched by the love and care that people have shown here on the internet, as well as in the outside world. Thank you, all of you, I am proud to call you friends.