From the Beginning

I was looking at some old writing of mine the other day and came across this. Why I wrote it I don't know. To be honest, I cannot remember either time or circumstance and it certainly refers to nobody in particular. Perhaps it was just a dream or an idea of mine? I know a few people had said I should write so it's possibly an encapsulation of their thoughts and my desires? Whatever it was, I'm pretty sure it was the first piece of prose I ever attempted and led me to what I do today.I've not written many short stories as previous work tended to be verse or "soundbites" but maybe I'll put a few more on here now and again. This though was the Beginning!

She had said so: “You’re a brilliant writer so go and write!” That was the effect she had on me, everything seemed possible when said by her. Much has been made of the male menopause.

That time in a man’s life when he looks at himself, his purpose, his looks, and especially his future. I had looked and had run from what I saw there. A conformist, comfortable existence on the face of it but underneath, frustration, depression and unfulfilled dreams. I suppose what made it worse was that I knew the dreams could become reality. I knew that I had the power and ability to transcend existence and replace it with Life. Here I was teetering on the edge of a jump. The virgin parachutist sitting in the aeroplane doorway, mind wanting to let go but body screaming “No”. How I longed for that feeling of freefall, knowing that not only had I conquered my fear but I had fought my way into a whole new experience.

Why her? What was it about her that inspired me to even contemplate change? Maybe it was her confidence in my abilities, maybe it was the freshness of her attitude? I hardly knew her but I felt that her own freedom was forged from hardships past, her philosophy and vision gleaned from a myriad experiences, both good and bad. She was the catalyst. She had said “You’re a brilliant writer so go and write”. But what do I write about?

Can living the life I want through my words provide a substitute for the real thing or will it just make me into a lonely, frustrated man, committed to a keyboard? I want real commitment. A commitment not to a destination, but to a journey - and a journey which has no end. I was trapped in a scenario of my own making. I wanted to show her that I was capable of interesting her, that I was worth getting to know, that I was a person who would complement her own independence. I wanted her as a friend. But she held the key that could unlock me. Hers was the voice of real sanity in my antiseptic, logical, balanced world but until I could talk to her, learn from her, grow from her, I was alone. How many people are there alone in this world? How many people can truly say that they are content?

How many people will dismiss this as the juvenile meanderings of an “almost” man? Life is lived through many small victories. Perhaps one such victory for me will be that I have shown this to her. The result may be of awful or awesome consequence but, for once, I have been brave. She said “You’re a brilliant writer so go and write”. Perhaps I have now started my new life?

© Bertie Bassett Enterprises Inc. 2007

Plastered?

I spent a happy evening in A & E last night, courtesy of my Father. He's OK I think but it was a pretty busy evening in there with all bays full and trolleys queued up along all the corridors.

I seem to have spent a lot of time in The Royal Sussex A & E Dept. over the years. Mrs B and her gall bladder, my daughter breaking her wrist, my son with strange headaches, Dad for all sorts of reasons and me, more times than I care to think of.....oh, happy days! It's a fascinating place to people watch (and plenty of time to do it) and last night was no different.......... doctors (getting younger and younger) gazing at monitors showing crystal clear x-rays of various bits: Mrs B and I had a great time trying to identify them, "That looks like a jug." "Nah, it's more like a stylised flying saucer." I'd then nonchalantly stand close to it trying to read exactly what it was and then return to state authoratitively "Hmm, thought so, it's an endogenous ossificationised perineurium."

Anyway, there were hordes of ambulancemen champing at the bit to get back to work but unable to do so as their charges had yet to be seen, nurses dashing back and forth and groups of relatives, standing around in nervous apprehension. Father needed an ECG and the only room available was the plaster room so in we toddled. This was a bittersweet moment as I have never had a limb plastered and feel I've missed out on life somewhat. As I gazed at the racks of bandage and all the paraphernalia, I was reminded of my honeymoon. Shall I explain?

25 years ago saw the resort of Cala d'Or being graced with the presence of Yours Truly and my new wife. We'd been there a couple of days and, as I wandered up to bed, I noticed a sign on the notice board announcing a football match the following evening against the local Sporting Club. Fuelled by several shots of brandy, I wandered up to Reception and asked if they needed a goalkeeper and the offer was gratefully accepted.

The next morning, I said to my wife that, on second thoughts, perhaps I wouldn't bother playing. She pointed out 2 things:-

1. It wasn't a football match for guests as I assumed, and
2. There had been an announcement that the team would be graced by the appearance of a famous English goalkeeper!Now, Sussex County League standard I might have been but famous?! There had obviously been a language problem or they were winding up the other guests but I had no choice other than to play so duly climbed on the minibus with a dozen horribly athletic and young Spaniards.

The pitch was red shale rather than grass so I astutely decided to keep on my jeans, thinking my legs would be protected. Five minutes into the match, I slid out to take the ball from the attacker's feet and suddenly my knee turned into an approximation of a badly-mauled pepperoni pizza. It stung but was really not too big a problem. I was fired up and was a goalkeeper (therefore, by definition, mad) so carried on for another 10 minutes until I leapt for a high cross among a group of heads. Falling to the ground with the ball, I was conscious of a severe pain in my right elbow region but, because I had needed treatment previously, didn't want to make a fuss so carried on. We eventually won the match 2-0 and I got back to the hotel.

My wife suggested a bath and had to help me into the water and then to bed. Apparently, that night I was delirious and so it was off to the local doctor next morning who diagnosed torn ligaments and bandaged my arm from wrist to shoulder. I had an extremely uncomfortable remaining honeymoon and we duly arrived home.

Now, at this juncture, may I say I do not bruise. To some, this will be viewed as a blessing but it means that I get absolutely zilch sympathy no matter what I do. I think I can remember 2 bruises in my whole life until I removed that bandage. I stood there, bronzed all over from my holiday, apart from this pure white arm with the biggest bruise you have ever seen! It was every colour you can imagine and went from mid-forearm to mid bicep. Me being me, I, of course, milked this for all it was worth. The arm was still very painful and I remember bemoaning the fact that I had missed out on a plaster cast yet again. A week later, and with an arm still not right, wife suggested it might be an idea to go to A & E and so I wandered up there and was duly X-rayed.

I was very dismissive to the radiologist and, as he emerged with the film, I arrogantly said to him "Bet there isn't a break, is there?" My flabber was ghasted as he calmly told me there were actually three: 2 below and 1 above the elbow!. My first thought was " Blimey 75 minutes in goal with a triple broken arm and I still didn't let a goal in" whereas my second was "Whoopee, I'll get a plaster cast".

Life is never that simple, is it? I was told that all three breaks were healing beautifully and, as it was 3 weeks on, it would be better not to disturb them and was duly dispatched with a sling and a crepe bandage.

I worked in a fairly small town at the time and there were few secrets. For some reason, my exploits had achieved a certain notoriety and I used to get not only customers, but others coming into the building society and asking either me or my staff was it true that I had broken my arm in three places on my honeymoon?

I guess it proved what little excitement they had in their lives or were hoping for details of some nuptially dangerous exploits but all seemed most disappointed that it was caused by football. "Football?" they would say aghast, "You broke it playing football?" and, shaking their heads, would wander out for a quick sortie into the wool shop before returning to their lunchtime glass of sherry.

I treasure the memory of that match and of that bruise but it still rankles that I never got my plaster cast. I'm over that desire now but if anyone wants to sign their name on my arm instead - feel free!

STEPHEN FRY - A Giant Amongst Men

They're having a Stephen Fry evening on BBC 4 tonight. Ok, not everybody's cup of tea perhaps, but to me he is the epitome of everything I envy in a man.

Let me say, before I go any further, I refer merely to personality, charisma, knowledge and intellect and am divorcing myself entirely from his sexual orientation, although I'm sure that this has had some positive influence on the incredibly sensitive, erudite person which, to me, he is. I suppose it was the series QI that really led me to the esteem in which I now hold him. I'd read a few of his books, completely missed the Fry & Laurie series, admired him in Blackadder and seen his documentary on depression and that was enough to persuade me to watch the first QI broadcast. Since then, because of the innumerable repeats on Sky, I think I can almost quote the episodes verbatim. Certainly, I can answer every question now and can bore for England should any of the myriad subjects crop up in conversation.

His frank admissions regarding his bi-polar depressive episodes struck chords within me and, although my own depressions are not as deep as his (usually anyway), I have a deep admiration for the way he was brave enough to talk about, and be filmed during, such periods. Why is it that so many great comics are depressives? I was thinking about that last night and it's a bit like Bertie and me. I can feel really quite insular and isolated but suddenly I switch into Bertie mode and change my whole persona. It's a fine coping mechanism although I wonder just how many people actually know the real me? In fact, thinking about it, which of us is the real me? It's not as if I dream of lime-green Speedos and saving the world; Christ, it's bad enough sorting out my life at times, let alone everybody else's.

Anyway, I digress. Mr Fry was the subject tonight and Mr Fry will now once more occupy my thoughts. He has this wonderful knack of disseminating facts without sounding pompous about it and, as a person who thrives on knowledge, I rate that ability highly. Somebody was foolish enough to mention Alexander the Great down the pub yesterday and I just naturally nattered on about Bucephalus, the Gordian Knot and his incursions into Persia and India. I realised that Stephen and I were worlds apart when there was a loud thump as the subject of my dissertation's head hit the table and he emitted a gentle snore. Now, had I have been El Fry, there would have been an admiring audience gathered, hanging on to every word and chuckling gently at the subtly humorous anecdotes.

It's the breadth of his knowledge that amazes me also. One moment he talks of Shostakovitch and the next, the sexual habits of Tadjikistani camel boys (I, of course, know naff all about Shostakovitch). Even his voice has a mellifluous quality that enhances his every word and, quite frankly, I am undecided as to whether to hate the jammy bastard or offer to have his babies (metaphorically speaking).

As I write, he is making the point that it was some considerable time before he realised that he suffered from depression as, to him, the feelings of lowness, loneliness and hopelessness were quite normal and ergo, experienced by everybody. Yet, not 30 minutes ago, HRH Prince Charles was extolling the virtues of his wit. Nature has this strange way of balancing attributes and deficits. He also spoke of suicide and death, not in a dramatic way but trying to explain that, whilst in that pit of despond, death is not a release but all one deserves.

Anyway, I am in danger of drifting into a world of self-examination rather than finishing this homage to an extraordinary writer, broadcaster, director and actor. I will just say thank you to Stephen Fry for helping me understand parts of my life, for entertaining me, for educating me and, most importantly, for innumerable facts of absolutely no consequence which have enriched my life.

Now, who wants a conversation about koala's fingerprints? If you ever read this, Stephen, you know just what I mean!

Plus ça change, mais c'est la meme chose

Now those of a literary bent (or possibly the Bertie Bassett Fan Club, French Chapter) will notice the the error in the above title. Yes, of course! No circumflex accent on the first "e" of meme. For once, this isn't occasioned by my own ignorance but is, in fact, an incredibly subtle play on words which I will endeavour to explain.

The other day, I came across a new internet concept by the name of "meme" (see the subtle pun now?) which tested my little brain to the limit. Memes (sounds like dreams) are defined as "a unit of cultural transmission, or a unit of imitation." In other words, a meme is a cultural derivation of a gene, in that society (and people individually) evolve culturally through memes and their subtle variations, just as the 'mutation' of genes prompts physical life as a whole to alter over a period of time. Therefore, the words we see and hear, songs and any other aural input are all memes which are passed from person to person, evolving as they go.

Obviously, the same concept applies equally to the written word in all its forms and, apparently, in blog terms, this can take the form of a series of questions and answers which provoke and spread, rather like a non-threatenng virus, prompting further answers and comparisons as well as perhaps telling others something of one's self.

There is a Dutch guy called Jos who has a site called NoDirectOn and whose blogs inspired this whole outpouring. He had a one word meme i.e. single word questions and answers and it was through his influence that I found the 3 answer meme shown below. It's not like Word Association insofar as you give first thought answers . In fact, some of them I pondered long and hard. If you want, give it a try and see what your answers would be? Mine might just shed a little light on the strange mind of B. Bassett Esq but it was certainly an interesting exercise!

• 3 things that scare me:Death, looking foolish, people with ginger eyebrows
• 3 people who make me laugh:Terry Pratchett, Monty Python, Me
• 3 things I love:Early morning sunshine, words, almond croissants
• 3 things I hate:Complacence, impoliteness, selfishness
• 3 things I don’t understand:Rugby, Life, “celebrity” culture
• 3 things on my desk:Mug of tea, knitted llama, several piles of old banknotes
• 3 things I'm doing right now:Drinking tea, fretting, humming “Tell Me Why” by Neil Young
• 3 things I want to do before I die:Go to China, learn to juggle, accept myself
• 3 things I can do:Care, scuba dive, put myself down
• 3 things I can’t do:Sit on the fence, play guitar well, enjoy success
• 3 things I think you should listen to:Your heart, everyone’s opinions, Jimi Hendrix’ “Castles Made of Sand”
• 3 things you should never listen to:Your Mother, X Factor, Country & Western
• 3 shows I watched as a kid:Do Not Adjust Your Set, Your Life in their Hands, Top Cat

Another meme which has got me thinking is "5 Things You Probably Don't Know About Me"

This one really provoked some thought as my first reaction was to be silly. However, when I got to puzzling about it, I couldn't really think of anything worth putting that complied with the essential definition of a meme. What benefit would anyone derive from knowing? The main criterion, to my mind, was why would you want to know 5 things about me?

Still, let's give it a try:

1. I had meningitis when I was 16
2. I became scared of heights driving over the Dartford Bridge 3 years ago
3. As a kid I wanted to be a doctor; As a teenager, a policeman.
4. I once had a perm (!)
5. I can say "Keep off the grass" in Urdu

Well, that's memes in a nutshell and I hope it all makes sense. Whether they will be quite as important as genes is very doubtful but I was intrigued by the concept and it does help focus a few thoughts. It also makes me realise that some bloggers actually write useful things, unlike yours truly, and to Jos and those others who have helped in my research via this wonderful medium of the internet, my grateful thanks.

The WebMeister Cometh

Sorry, my legion of avid fans (I wish!), it's been a few days since I last blogged. This has been occasioned by a combination of lack of stimulation, aged parent giving me a few worries and a new mistress by the name of DreamWeaver.

A couple of years ago, I decided to purchase a domain name and some server space with the object of making a small fortune by buying and selling paper money. The idea of creating a website appealed to me and I had visions of creating a tasteful site with hordes of customers avidly absorbing my knowledge of banknotes and shoving each other out of the way in their rush to buy my wares. I had the stock, I had the idea and all I needed was one thing: the ability to actually create the website.

DreamWeaver is the industry standard in web creation software and I accordingly obtained a copy. Tasos, a Greek geek programmer friend of mine uploaded my first page which merely showed the name of the company and the terse comment "Website under construction". He eschewed DreamWeaver and gaily prattled on about HTML, ftp protocols and other such strange expressions and I cannot refrain from using the expression "It was all Greek to me". Anyway, that has been where it's stayed until recently. Occasionally, I would open DreamWeaver and gaze mystified at the screen. I bought books about website design, researched the internet and lit candles to St BillGates but all to no avail. I couldn't even work out how to upload, let alone design a website.

These last few days, I reached the stage where I needed to sort it.Playing around with HTML in the blog had fired my appetite and I had to resolve this big frustration so therefore attacked it with a will. I got a general grasp on the principles but still, whenever I tried to establish communication between my computer and the web, a dialogue box would pop up saying words to the effect of "Ha, sucker, cocked it up yet again". All this changed last night when I found a wonderful tutorial which took me step by step through the process and, at approximately 2am, I became a fully-fledged web site!

OK, at the moment I am merely playing around with templates and the rudimentaries of web design and it's all totally primitive but I've made a start. The desire to devote the site to paper money has diluted somewhat so I want it to be a melange of interests as well as, hopefully, an eventual means of making a few bob so the current domain name of www.papermoneyworld.co.uk seems a tad misleading. Apparently, I can purchase another domain name as well and both will lead to the same site but what other name do I choose?

I've checked what is available and I can have bertiesworld.com, limellama.co.uk or even "my own name".co.uk but I want something a bit special, combining sophistication, pazazz and an indication of my own strange world. Any suggestions gratefully received. Obviously, I can set different tabs for the different sections once I have mastered some more website techniques but this is going to take a while. I have DVDs of some 14 hours of DreamWeaver CS3 training to work through first so, if you are thinking of checking the website, don't be put off by the crudity of it at the moment. In the words of a certain Icelandic gentleman: "I've started so I'll finish".

The WebMeister Cometh!