Sketches by Boz - Creative Writing, Reflections, Articles & Observations

Thank you Thames Valley Police

2006-09-27T11:38:00.000-07:00

Thames Valley Police - Notice of Intended Prosecution!

for the alleged offence of EXCEED 30 MPH (MANNED) 38 mph

at 11:06 on 16/09/2006

at London Road, Oxford

contrary to Section S81(1) S84 RTRA 84 Sch 2 RTOA 88

This allegation will be supported by photographic evidence at any subsequent court hearing

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I really would like a debate on this matter. If your'e reading this blog
- I'm looking for support here.

And one more thing. Next time I'm going down the street and I see a policeman getting
beaten up I'm gonna show him/her a copy of this notice OK?

Then I'm gonna walk on by......

I think maybe Anarchy would be better than this stupid system!

And I am 41 years old!!! Not a young punk!

W***$$Ds!!!!

Boz

SUZUKI SV-650

2006-09-23T18:30:00.000-07:00

Selected shots of the bike that I ride. Not the actual bike.
But one just like it.
( Thought it time I added a little va-va-voom to this blog! )

Nuff Said.

My Little Acorns

2006-09-17T13:54:00.000-07:00

Over the last few months I have been heavily pre-occupied with laying down the roots of a new life and with laying foundations for several "projects" simultaneously. It has not been easy and I have had to rely on the trust and philanthropy of several good friends and my elderly father. The details of events that preceded this new life change belong elsewhere and not in this posting. Suffice it to say that journeys and events in the months before this life change were complex and poignant. They involved love, treachery, art and travel and culminated in what was possibly the longest and hardest journey of my life - from Auckland to London (via Brisbane, Sydney, Singapore, Dubais, Manchester, train to Central London, tube to Liverpool Street and final train out to Chelmsford, Essex to stay with an old artist friend of mine whilst I found my feet again and decided what to do.

I do not know where I found the energy to remain standing as I stood in Chelmsford station with my incredibly heavy Jaguar Rucksack and acoustic guitar flightcase. The culmination of sleep loss, emotional and financial strain, jetlag and pure shock at the recent events in my life - summed up to a really very sad, confused and exhausted Boz. That was in late May. It is now September and I am beginning to feel the ground beneath my feet again.

I have now been gainfully employed full-time for 7 weeks by a large blue chip computer company, working on some complex database technology projects. And that is all I am prepared to say about that. I began this "Sketches by Boz" website 3 months ago whilst engaged in my frenetic job-hunt. This is one of the acorns that I have planted. Each time I make a posting I feel that I am watering my blog acorn. Another acorn I have planted is linked to my technology and people skills and I have great plans for that. I actually planted that acorn in Auckland, during a life crisis. As the pain subsides I feel love for Auckland - the birthplace of my new life. I have decided to plant these two individual acorns widely apart. They will have their own space, their own field in which to grow. In total I have planted 4 acorns, along with a few random seeds. England is where my heart is and where my heart will always be. The Chinese may invade us or a new Hitler may come forth or religious fanatics my rase all our land and all our heritage and all our architectural beauty, our Gothic gargoyles and ancient stone may crumble, but I hope that my little acorns will produce Oak trees and drop new acorns for the future artists and strong beautiful people to gather - and for them to hold these subsequent acorns gently in their palms and to plant them in their own fields for the sacred future of humankind and our wonderful planet.

In the past I have adopted symbols for my life journey - once a butterfly - universal symbol of change - inspired by a novel by Henri Charierre - "Papillon" - the French word for butterfly. I once used a "cross" symbol - there was a problem here - for there are christian crosses and there are pagan crosses, gothic crosses, ... too many crosses. One cannot argue with the Acorn. Simple. Blessed by nature. Powerful and Perrenial. Responding to gentle love and nurture - that is the symbol of my choice in my middle years.

I have decided that the Oak Tree and the Acorn will be my new personal symbols - of creativity, wealth, peace and prosperity.

Under your thumb....

2006-09-06T12:38:00.000-07:00

I can't remember if it was last night or the night before that I awoke at some ungodly hour from a dream?

The words of Godley & Creme's "Under your thumb" were in my mind for some reason.

.... I felt someone get in behind me, but I never caught their eye, but I thought I heard a womans voice cry! - Don't wanna be under your thumb for ever, it's over and done, I'll never be - under your thumb, for ever........

Then I thought for a microsecond about a squeeze song about a woman standing on the corner of King George Street. For those who don't know, Squeeze was an early eighties band that included the now well renowned Jules Holland (he played piano and drums I think?).

Anyway, this morning I was picked up by taxi and delivered to Oxford Rail station where I grabbed a quick bacon sandwich n coke (the bottle not the white powder!).

There was an assortment of passengers on the platform as I waited for the train.
I suppose I was in a "people-watching" frame of mind and I suspect that my senses were strong due to the weather of this particular September day - an Indian summer kind of day.

There is something uncanny about people waiting for trains on platforms. Some of the best films of the past had trains in them .....

I got on the train and sat in a seat by the window and placed my rucksack firmly on the seat next to me. In my last experience of an English train I found myself standing next to a "nutter" who kept talking to himself and opening the toilet door as if to check to see if the room was empty.
Automatically I put on my vacant "staring into space and dreaming" look - to discourage him from striking up a conversation with me. Thankfully, my journey was only a short one.

I alighted at Didcot after watching the imposing towers of a major power station loom up and seeing the pylons carrying energy to the places of need.
Didcot - the word for some reason gives me a bitter-sweet feeling. This single words very structure conjures up deeply embedded reminiscences for me - Ken Dodd and the Diddy men - so English! And this place must also be the heart of the British trainspotters society! Surely nearly as many tracks as Clapham or Victoria! Clackety clack!
Don't look back!

I saw a sign - Didcot - home of the Great Western Society!

The computer screen told me that I had to change platform for Swindon and this I did. Through a subway, following the signs, I had 20 mintues before my connection to Swindon. Then something strange occurred. A woman (quite heavily laden with baggage and 2 young daughters under 7) reached the steps to platform 3 just ahead of me.
Somehow, this woman and her baggage and kids managed to block the whole stairway up to my platform. An aura emanated from this woman. It spoke to me and those around me on a subconscious spiritual level (yeh I mean it really!). A black station attendant hovered nearby and grinned. He saw me standing there thinking about whether to try to help or try to squeeze by. I noticed that there were no barriers between me and the street outside the station and I decided I would slip through the doors and have a smoke - give the girl a bit of space to sort herself out. I stood opposite a pub. It looked like it had had it's day. To my right the power station funnels loomed and I pondered on the manpower needed to run this kind of operation. Oh England! How your face has changed! Opposite me I saw a brothel. A time warp. Many pubs in this type of area, in their day, used to be brothels. The facade of this old pub seemed to speak to me. Whispering with the ghosts of days long past.

I noticed a national cycle route signpost and briefly wished I didn't have to go to work today, and that I had a magic bicycle in my pocket.

I threw my cigarette butt into the gutter and backtracked to the platform stairwell. The black man said something like "yo how you doin today man" and I said somethin like "yeah high real fine, doin good" as I focused strongly on the space between me and platform 3.

Of all the types of people on this platform, there was one who was on a special journey. She was fighting hard, gaunt but spirited, tried and tested and stretched to her mental and physical limits, but not broken. Strong. And her children kept her strong, and she kept them strong, and there was a spiritual game - almost like a dance on a stage being played out before the Gods of Jorneydom. And I tried not to look but I was sensitive to the vibes and I watched her story unfold.

There was a psychological stress with the young girls. The womans body language said "Dont come near me, don't touch me, don't speak to me!"

Really, that's exactly how it was.

The train pulled in. I chose a door and decided to stand in the space between carriages. The woman came in behind me with her 2 daughters. I could sense that she was very sensitive. I didn't help her with her luggage like the typical English gentleman - because I sensed that this was the last thing on Earth she wanted. How did I sense this? I don't know. She seemed in a dream. A station guard briefly helped her but she was srongly averse to help. The daughters seemed to be helping in their playful oblivious world, as children do, in unseen ways.

Doors closed, the train moved off. the woman stood opposite me and avoided eye contact. The daughters asked a guard where the cafe was and went off to find it.
They came back 4 minutes later loudly protesting to their mother about the high prices of little rolls and drinks. This woman was on the brink. I didn't have far to go.
I didn't know where to look.

A ticket-checking official with spectacles came down the carriage. He clipped my ticket without fuss. She held out a piece of paper. In the small space I could see that it was some kind of document giving this woman rights of passage in untoward circumstances. The man squinted at her quizzically and asked "What is this for?"

There was a chilly pause. She looked at him stonily and said "I am escaping violence". I felt so close to this "situation". He issued her a ticket. "Are we at Weston-Super-Mare yet?" the oldest girl enquired. "No" I said "not yet...." in a voice that tried to portray sympathy and understanding on a spiritual level.

As the ticket man moved off he tripped mildly on my size eleven feet and I darted out an arm to steady him. As I did so I had the feeling that there were a few people in this space between carriages that needed steadying.

I wondered what she was thinking now. There was a brief "episode" where the 2 girls became spiteful towards each other, but the mother seemed to have ultimate control and I admired this. Still I said nothing. I sensed many things. I somehow knew that I should remain silent. Then I noticed the bruises on her arms.
I feel sure that drugs were involved. As the train lurched into Swindon I made a careful and polite movement towards the door. I sensed that she knew what I was thinking.
As is the human condition ... always as one is leaving ... people seem to want to talk urgently - all 3 of them. I spoke calmly. I got off and walked away.

I felt a bit dizzy. I emerged onto the street. A wino crossed the road opposite the station clutching his wine bottle like a teddybear. I lit a cigarette and walked through the sidestreets to my chosen Suzuki garage.

There was my bike - 650cc's of high-torqued Suzuki waiting to transport me away on a more private and free journey back to work. A new chain and sprocket and a new rear tyre - and now de-restricted - a washer removed from the fuel system (a restriction blasphemously installed by the previous owner). I paid my dues. 5 minutes later I accellerated away from Swindon's Manchester Road in the direction of Oxford and got to know my new machine. Now smooth and responsive. And giving me feedback through the fluid vibrations that can only say one thing to me ---- "I love you for treating me good".

WHAT DO THE LYRICS MEAN? ( Steve Harley - Come up and see me, make me smile)

2006-08-26T10:35:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago my girlfriend and I visited Greenwich, London. In a little backstreet pub I was encouraged by a guitarist friend of mine to get up on stage and do a number. (Maybe he just wanted to chat up my girlfriend while I was busy)?
Just an informal open mike evening, nothing snazzy. In fact most of the audience were very drunk after watching the football since lunchtime (yep a typical English public house).

I chose a song by Steve Harley - Come up and see me, make me smile. I chose it because it is a well known song and one I can sing with conviction (especially after a few pints of London Pride). A few days before my terrifying ordeal I had realised that I didn't undertstand this songs meaning and I got worried thinking that someone in the bar would ask me what the lyrics meant. Well what do you think they mean? If you know the song you will know that it sounds like a happy and positive song. So I sent an email to the Webmaster at Steve Harleys official website - unfortunately I have lost his reply (email addresses, like mobile phones and lovers, are such transient items!) but it went something like this......

"Despite being a happy sounding tune, this is actually a song about bitterness and greed. Steve wrote the song immediately after a big argument had broken out between himself and the other band members (the Cockney Rebels). They wanted to spend their creative time churning out dross for the foot tapping zombie crowd under the direction of the profit-driven recording company. Strike while the iron is hot!! It doesn't matter if it's crap - just bang out some rubbish - they'll buy anything now you are a known name!! So the band thought "yeah - loadsa dosh, fancy cars and fast women, champagne lifestyle, live it while you're young!... Big fat paychecks for churning out rubbish! No one will know! What they don't know can't hurt em!"

But Steve knew. He knew this was wrong. He was a true artist and proud of the intangible "magic" that the band had given life to. He instinctively knew that without the values that underpinned the success of the band, their fame would be shortlived and no one would ever listen to him again. Steve told them to change their ways and get back to the sacred magical stuff or kiss his arse goodbye. He went home alone and picked up his guitar and composed this song of BITTERNESS and GREED. It was to become one of the best selling records of all time and it was re-released by Steve Harley in 2005 - who is still touring and enjoying a cult following 30 years on! Well Done Steve! Yeah ahhahahahaha! I'll give you a ticket to my next concert mate! Here are the lyrics to the song that I had to memorize and remember whilst I bashed out the chords on acoustic guitar (my interpretations in brackets) .....

You've done it all, you've broken every code ( it's all your fault, you have broken the unwritten code of honour)
And pulled the Rebel to the floor ( your greed and foolishness have destroyed the foundations upon which the success of the band is built)
You spoilt the game, no matter what you say ( It will never be the same, you cannot apologize or reverse your actions - for only money (metal) - how boring you look and sound without the magic of unadulterated pure artistic genius)
For only metal, what a bore
Blue eyes, blue eyes, how come you tell so many lies ( one of the Rebels had blue eyes and began telling lies )

Come up and see me, make me smile (It's not too late to come and see me, talk about this, change your mind and make me smile)
Or do what you want, running wild (or just run wild for a while and enjoy the money, oblivious of the true meaning and long term effect)

There's nothing left, all gone and run away ( the true good stuff has gone though they may continue to buy your records for a while and you may continue to score on the hits parade on "Top of the Pops" for a while before they dump you for the next fad)
Maybe you'll tarry for a while
It's just a test, a game for us to play ( It doesn't matter if you make it your way or the right way, not even if you win or lose - what matters is that you believe in the magic that greedy fools cannot see. You will find it hard to smile if you lie to yourself and to me, so resist this temptation in your hour of weakness or you will never be able to face yourself again)
Win or lose, it's hard to smile
Resist, resist, it's from yourself you have to hide

Come up and see me, to make me smile
Or do what you want, running wild

There ain't no more, you've taken everything ( I can't be creative and artistic any more because the band was my vehicle to performing my art - but you stole the name of the band which was everything to me - and here comes the most beautiful line in the song - )
From my belief in Mother Earth (natural talent? natural spitiual rhythyms?)
How can you ignore my faith in everything ( how can you not believe in what we had? like I can!)
Coz I know what Faith is and what it's worth ( some things are priceless and cannot be expressed in monetary terms, much to the annoyance of taxmen, bank managers and record producers, who were, on the whole, an entirely separate enity in the Seventies, unlike the bands of today - who tend to come and go with too much facile and frenetic frequency)
Away, away, and don't say maybe you'll try (get away from me... "maybe" isn't strong enough.. I need commitment in the true earthy nature of the band, regardless of EVERYTHING else)

T'come up and see me, to make me smile
Or do what you want, just running wild

Come up and see me, make me smile
Or do what you want, running wild

Come up and see me, make me smile
Or do what you want, running wild

( I get a really strong vibe from the way this song ends.... Steve seems to be saying to the other band members "come and see me, talk sense, talk about things which really matter and make me smile again like that good feeling that happens when you hit the nail on the head")
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And that is what I thought about when I played this song in a Greenwich pub.
I wonder if anyone actually knew what it meant, or even cared?

Finally, here's a link to the Steve Harley Official Website.....SteveHarley.com

THE DECLINE OF UK MUSIC

2006-07-24T11:08:00.000-07:00

Any person who has lived in the UK for the best part of the last 30 years and who has any artistic conscience or self-respecting honesty must surely agree with me that this country has witnessed a lamentable decline in music quality and creativity - both musically and lyrically. It vexes me to be told "You are just getting old". My patience is tried whenever I have to endure yet another know-it-all social philosopher explaining to me with confident waves of their hands about "generation gaps" or "repetitive cycles".

Of course there will always be an element of this "gap cycle theory" but in my view of the last 30 years this is only a small factor of the overall change. Over the years I could almost feel a tangible change in the air, month by month, year by year, a slow decline, a lingering death of the vast wealth of magical music I had once revelled in.

Imagine the following scene....

An elegant bird with colourful plumage wades majestically on a serene lake. You are sitting on the bank. A harmonious, emotive melody reverberates across the water and causes ones spirit to soar high into the rolling hills that surround the lake. All other species seem hushed as if none dare make a noise to interrupt the seemingly divine power emanating from the lake centre. The song gently enshrouds everything, yet stifles nothing.

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TRUE MEMOIRS (Birth)

2006-07-21T07:41:00.000-07:00

As far as I can remember I was a normal, healthy, bouncy baby boy. I remember that I had a powerful imagination and an unquenchable spirit to explore. This trait remains a part of me today. The older one gets, the harder it is to concentrate in so that early childhood memories can be accurately recalled. If I concentrate hard enough I fancy that I can remember being born. I vaguely recall a sensation of being bodiless yet still able to see as if with eyes. Though the things I observed were not of this world and the eyes I saw with were spiritual ones, not these two balls in my head right now – they were somehow shared with someone, or something, else. A visual omnipresence. A celestial omnipotence sending me forth to the world with great purpose. Much knowledge to learn. Much work to do. I think there were bright energetic lights during some kind of preparation stage. Then as I began my journey to the world there were many greens and blues and I recollect seeming to fall through the atmosphere at impossible speed but still in bodiless form. There is an inkling of a memory that seems to suggest that I had a choice of where to be born or someone, or something, made a choice for me. Was that reincarnation perhaps? Was there some kind of briefing before I was dispatched? Will there be a debriefing when my work here is done? Perhaps my performance in a previous life warranted the place I would be born and the type of people who would bear me and raise me? I can only speculate. Here I muse on one of life’s great mysteries, as many have mused before me and many will muse after me. We can never know what is after death because when we are dead we are gone and we cannot come back to enlighten our fellow humans. We can never know what comes before birth because our knowledge and memory do not exist before birth, do they?

It seems as though a divine magic placed my soul into the body in which I now reside. I seem to remember a confused and urgent sensation as deep reds became lighter as I emerged. Close your eyes and hold a bright light against your eyelids. This is a similar sensation but lacking in the spiritual undertones of birth. And thus my adventure began.

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Is there synchronicity between Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon and M-G-M's The Wizard of Oz?

2006-07-21T07:34:00.000-07:00

In 1973 Capital Records released Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon. This album has always been popular with rock music fans. But, in recent years, Wizard of Oz fans have taken a liking to it, also. Reason being is that if one watches MGM's classic 1939 film The Wizard of Oz along with the soundtrack to Dark Side of the Moon there are many uncanny coincidences between the film and the music. It makes one think that this was done intentionally, however, Pink Floyd repeatedly denies it. When watched and listened to in the correct synchronicity, fans have been able to find over 80 coincidences between the MGM film and Capitol Records soundtrack. The only way to decide whether this is true or not, is to 'experience' it for yourself. The soundtrack is about 45 minutes long as compared to the films 101 minutes. One of the best explanations I've seen about this 'synchronicity' can be found on the internet at: http://www.synchronicityarkive.com/dsotr.php. Also, there are video-taped copies of The Wizard of Oz available with Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon dubbed over it so it's much easier to enjoy. The eBay Auction Classifieds Website occasionally has this tape up for auction for folks who might be interested in purchasing a copy. If you are a Wizard of Oz fan and you have Java installed on your computer take a look at this great page.......The Wizard of Oz Main Characters (before and after)

Wizard of Oz Images

2006-07-19T13:53:00.000-07:00

All Wizard of Oz pictures are courtesy of Jim's "Wizard of Oz" Website Directory ( A TRIBUTE TO THE M-G-M 1939 CLASSIC FILM!!! WITH LOTS OF INFO INCLUDING: IMAGES, LYRICS, TUNES, SCRIPT, AND TRIVIA!! )

TRUE MEMOIRS (Summer Wildlife in a London Back Garden)

2006-07-19T07:07:00.001-07:00

Life was one big magical game. Around each corner lay a new and fascinating toy, animal or sound. Things were big. Mum and dad were giants. I couldn’t reach the door handles or light switches. My mother made a game out of everything. My room was blue for a boy. Charlotte’s room was pink for a girl. My room was at the front of the house above the front door. It had a disproportionately large bay window affording a large semi-circular window sill inside, covered by deep yellow cotton curtains. I remember lying in bed not long after seeing the film The Wizard of Oz for the first time. There must have been a street lamp nearby because there were shadows falling across the curtains from outside. In those shadows I could discern the unmistakable outline of the wicked witch on her broomstick sailing wildly past Dorothy’s window as the house spiralled up into the tornado. I imagined being taken for a ride around my neighbourhood on her stick. As the sun rose, she would gradually melt away. The sill was just large enough for me to hide behind. I would often lie up there with my pillows and bedding, watching the stars as I fell asleep. Once, my mother had got up to go to the bathroom during the night and popped her head around the door to check on me. My bed was empty. She searched the house and woke my father. He searched the garden and they were getting very worried when she finally discovered my window sill hiding place.
It destroyed the magic for me – it had been my secret dreaming place.

I remember that colours were more vivid, the air fresher, the sun more naturally sunny, leaves such a deep hue that they appeared much thicker than they actually were.
The lush trees that lined my avenue were the most prominent feature of that half mile stretch. They were happy trees. Roots cracking the pavements, adding depth and character to the scene, despite what the knarled and doddery old people said. During one summer (was it June?) a large infestation of red and black ladybirds emerged and they thrived upon the large thick leaves of the avenue trees. Thousands and thousands of them. The first one I ever saw was in the back garden. My sister showed it to me. It was a “sixer” – three jet black spots on each crimson wing. I was confused and irritated by its name. In my young mind I was starting to learn word association. This thing looked nothing like a lady and nothing like a bird. My mother, being Welsh, sang a song to mark the occasion as she often did – “Ladybird, Ladybird, fly away home! Your house is on fire and your children are gone!” It was some kind of spell meant to make them fly away. We had very distinctive South London accents, though not broad cockney. To be called a cockney one has to be born within the sound of the bells of bow church. Sixer sounded something like “siczah”. South London became “Sarrf Landan”.

Appy birfdie to yer Happy birthday to you
Skwosht turmartas n stoo Sqwashed tomatoes and stew
Appy birfdie to yer Happy birthday to you
Bread and bu’err in der gu’err Bread and butter in the gutter
Appy birfdie to yer Happy birthday to you

In some schools the “bumps” on your birthday were positively dangerous. You didn’t want to be dropped. You would surely crack your skull or break a bone. Some would go 8 feet in the air above concrete or rock hard sun-baked earth. I always enjoyed giving the bumps but I never enjoyed receiving them. But at least I was heavier than the average boy so they couldn’t launch me so high. The littler chaps would go pale in the playground on their birthdays when the shout went up.

I recall one or two summers when the wasps were very angry and abundant. There were twenty or thirty children playing in the summer sun in their gardens. At least half of us were being stung. A wasp dies after it stings you. So it really doesn’t want to sting you at all. But it will attack if provoked (and quite right too).
What happened back then (and still happens today) is that someone in a nearby garden would try to swat it but fail. The wasp would become very angry and fly over a fence or two to sting the next thing it saw. Even knowing this, it still takes great courage and self control to stand still as one lands on your nose while you sip iced lemonade. I remember being stung in my thigh and running around in pain. I felt sorry for the wasps because they were innocent and beautiful – they just looked and sounded dangerous. They were not attackers but defenders. Nevertheless, we had to protect ourselves from the folly of our neighbours and so we would leave an open pot of strawberry jam or marmalade on top of the coal bunker. The hot summer breeze wafted the sweet smell through the garden and any wasp within 30 feet would fly straight to the jar. After just one day the pot would be brim full with dead and dying wasps that were stuck in the sticky sugar and being slowly cooked by the hot sun through the glass.

I always had a fascination for wildlife. Everything that moved in our back garden was subject to thorough inspection. Big fearsome black stag beetles, earthworms, slowworms, wasps and bees, butterflies and moths and a large variety of birds in the trees. Wildlife back then was rich and plentiful. The hum of life and nature was almost tangible. Fields throbbed with life, quivered with the movement of a million legs and wings, and shimmered in the relentless summer haze.

And as Britons in general become more urbanized and forget their countryside roots the English gardens that I remember are today looking sad, jaded and forgotten. Some are as lifeless as a dead bird.

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THE DEATH OF GELERT THE WOLFHOUND ( Gelerts Grave )

2006-07-16T04:58:00.000-07:00

My mother was a full-blooded Welsh woman. My fathers mother was Welsh too. There is alot of Kelt in me. Hence my fondness for music, mountains, castles, medieval times, art, singing, beer and oh yes - Dragons.

As a child my mother told me an old Welsh legend called "Gelerts Grave". We were in a very atmospheric part of Wales on holiday during the early Seventies. It is a story of love, trust, loyalty and the tragic consequences of hot-headed rashness.

Read the poignant tale of Gelerts Grave

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TRUE MEMOIRS (Roots)

2006-07-11T09:38:00.000-07:00

There are more ways than one to look back at my early childhood memories. I could choose to reminisce either with my dark glasses or my light glasses and thus colour my experiences as I recount them to the reader. Accurately recalling events of years ago is never an easy task. One could reminisce with varying degrees of honesty or with dubious levels of accuracy. As I reach the age of 40 years I feel a fervent need to write about my life and the things that I see happening in the world around me as I arrive at that great milestone of middle age. To recall events with as much detail as I can and with as much honesty as I can is the best that I can do. If only to salvage as much of the truth as I can before my spectacles become misted by advancing decades. I was born at home in the parental bed on April 30th, 1965 in a leafy suburban avenue in the Greater London town of Croydon, in a county famous for its trees and shrubs – Surrey. Being that my sister Charlotte had made her entrance into the world some two years before me through the same tunnel I don’t recall there being much of a struggle. Without doubt, the first four or five years of my life were filled with a sense of love and security. My mother was a good natural mother and a London-trained State Registered Nurse (SRN), my father studious and reliable, head squarely on his shoulders – an upwardly mobile professional working the 9-5 for a firm of Oxford street accountants. In this world of war, fluctuating fortune, passing passions and fortuitous twists of fate I had somehow arrived at the starting line of my life. My father’s father had been a soldier at the battle of the Somme during the First World War. Although I never met him, he must have been of athletic build just like my father and me after him. My father told me that he once stepped into a boxing ring at an Army charity event. His challenge was to stay up as long as possible against the then world champion. Legend has it that he went five rounds. At the Somme he found himself in a machine gun emplacement with a few other soldiers as the Germans laid on a heavy attack. A grenade rolled in and he dived away to survive the blast. But before he could pick himself up a German bayonet was inserted into his stomach to finish the job that the grenade had started. His buddies around him were slain. Some minutes later, as a vital part of the essential chemistry (that would one day produce myself) lay there dying, there was a sudden counter attack by the enraged British forces. By chance, a mobile medical unit was passing at this time and my Grandfather was given immediate life-saving treatment. Apparently a stomach wound was invariably fatal, mainly due to resulting infections and blood poisoning. My father George was born eleven years later in September 1929. as is not uncommon in life and love, there was a separation and my father became estranged from his father. Whilst in early retirement many decades later, George visited London to try to discover the whereabouts of his father. He discovered that he had been working for a security firm as a night watchman – as is traditionally the wont of many ex-services personnel – he was sitting inside a striped tent at the edge of a London street when a drunken driver mounted the pavement ploughed through the tent. He sustained leg injuries but remained alive in hospital for a few weeks before finally dying of gangrene as a result of his injuries. A sad end to what sounded like a brave and active life. My father, George, came of age soon after the Second World War and on leaving school had worked briefly for a firm of accountants in Jermyn Street, London. He also joined up with the Sea Cadets and eventually applied to join the Merchant Navy. During his medical they found a shadow on his lung and diagnosed TB (Tuberculosis). My father then found himself lying on a "death ward" at a sanatorium with a group of other unfortunates. In those days the chances of survival were slim and as my father coughed, spluttered and fought for breath and watched some other patients ungracefully give up the ghost one of the pretty young nurses began to spend more time patting his sweaty forehead than anyone else. She later became my mother, Liz. George and Liz were married in a London registry office in 1958. They shared a flat together in Battersea - just south of the Thames. They saved hard for a deposit and later moved into their first house in Croydon.

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THINGS I DISLIKE

2006-07-05T06:51:00.000-07:00

Cheap cosmetics - especially cheap perfume and hairspray

Brill cream - and people who wear it

Hair curlers and those stupid yellowy basins that sex-starved old women sit under at the hairdressers

Small-talk - idle talk, excessive talk with no meaning

Pink greetings cards

Anything pink and fluffy - although I have seen the colour pink work extremely well when used in the right amount and in the right environment. I wore a pink shirt and silk tie to an interview once

Brown trousers from UK department stores such as C&A

Trousers that are too short

Popular British beaches in a heatwave crowded with people with nothing better to do

Ice cream Vans and the inane jingles they play

Unhealthy lardy people who think they are beautiful

Tacky souvenier shops

Anyone with an attitude problem or class issue against well-spoken people from the South of England. People who talk too much but seldom listen. Especially those who continuously use swear words for impact and effect rather than take time to choose their words carefully. If they don't have time and they're under pressure then I don't mind so much.
People who don't think about what they are saying cannot have any respect for what is surely one of mankind’s greatest gifts - speech. I say these people are imbeciles. I suspect their numbers are increasing dramatically due to the poor state of the British education system in recent decades

Street beggars - unless they do something nice to entertain such as play guitar or flute. Only then am I likely to give away my loose change

People who talk a lot about what they want to do or could do if only.... but never do anything constructive to make it happen

Coachloads of mumbling, bumbling old day-trippers dropping their litter and ice-cream wrappers in designated areas of outstanding natural beauty

Concrete and plastic and most other man-made materials

Fat men with high-pitched squeaky voices

Socialising with people whom I consider to be of a lower class than myself

Line Dancing

Boring, opinionated and out-of-touch old people

Boring, opinionated and out-of-touch people of any age

People that keep birds in cages or in overcrowded aviaries

Cheap imitations - be it food, wine, women, songs or literature

Car drivers who do not appear to be aware of anything around them except the bumper of the car in front

Speed cameras - and ALL other so-called traffic calming features that clutter and spoil the roads of Britain today, including speed humps and coppers hiding behind bushes with laser guns

Nanny State - and anything to do with that

Getting stuck in traffic, particularly in London during a terrorist attack

Terrorists and religious fanatics

People who desecrate sacred monuments and statues

Short-arsed bald men who are jealous of my hair and long legs

People who deliberately send you the wrong way when you stop and ask for directions in the street

Men in gyms who prefer to cheat on their technique in favour of impressing the people around them with the size of their weights. I think that en masse British men suffer from a dreadful lack of respect for proper technique in sports. They don't warm up properly, they lift too much with too few repetitions, they leave their sweat puddles on benches, and most of them end up with serious knee problems or other jarring injuries in their early thirties

Joggers who run on concrete pavements with bandages around their knees

Fat people who think that the only way to lose weight is to diet and think that most exercise like jogging is bad for you and done by fitness fanatics only

Head-on car crashes at a combined speed of over 100 miles per hour

People who say they'll come along but never do

People who come when you haven't asked them to

People who come in 2 seconds ( huh u huh )

Repressed artistic types who blame their parents for stifling their creativity

Women who slyly eye-up other men over the shoulders of their gullible and ignorant boyfriends whilst pretending to kiss them passionately. Especially when they are on holiday and the boyfriend has paid for the holiday

Typical English-overrun holiday destinations such as Costa Del Sol

People who moan about computers and technology but never try to learn anything about them

People who moan about petty things - for example the middle classes who complain in writing to their MP about the cracks in the pavement

Civil Servants (although I admit I have met a sprinkling of good ones)

Gay men who try to persuade you that you are still in the closet and that everyone is going to wait patiently for you to free yourself from those social shackles and come with them to the party

Feminists who preach that all men are bad. This must be worse than racism because they tar one half of the human race with the same bitter brush. Who are the best Artists? Musicians? Chefs? Architects? Philosophers?

The bastardisation of the English language (Oxford) by Americanisms (or should that be Americanizms???)

Hat-wearing drivers in the UK (headgear of any kind). Next time one is in front of you watch how stupidly they drive!! I have never seen a car driver in front of me with a hat that did something sensible!

20% of the Muslims in Britain. On the News tonight I heard that 20% of Muslims in Britain believe that there is some justification for the London bombings last year. Lunatics! Vermin! This is not an attack on Muslims as a whole. When I recently travelled the world I noticed that the least approachable of all types of people were the Muslims. They huddle together and occasionally dart cold stares at westerners. At Manchester airport I noticed tension between a group of Muslims and a group of white English. All Muslims in England should work hard to improve this situation before it gets worse. Many people in the UK are frightened to speak out because they are afraid to be labelled a racist. Though these people are silent, their sentiments fester quietly under the surface and in the bars and clubs. If these cells are ever united and ignited by a major National outrage against innocent people then the UK could see enormous Civil rioting and bloodshed, fuelled by years of suppressed bitterness.

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BACK TO ENGLAND

2006-07-04T09:23:00.000-07:00

Nothing seems to ever change in these parts.

Cheap chip oil and soggy, old greasy fish and chips, stressed fat people, cheap young tarts with cheap perfume out on the pull. A playing field full of "men" trying to play football, gesticulating and grunting at each other, lager, salt and lard slopping in their bellies as they each imagine they are Beckham leading England to glory. Two bickering young females in a corner shop dart each other sinister glances as the 11am sun begins to heat the air inside the shop on one of the hottest days of the year. On the shelves, the tabloids continue their relentless destruction of the England football team. On the pavements, sweet wrappers and dust blend with sun-baked gum spots and dog ends. The drab, unfashionable, style less clothes - garish pink cardigans clinging alongside a dreary grey man with bland, brown trousers too short - everywhere one can see "Darby n Joan" type couples pottering about trapped in a non-descript repetitive and aimless existence. Seemingly held together unwillingly by an invisible energy - an energy not of inner magnetism pulling together - more an oppressive energy in their surrounding bubble pushing them together like an invisible cattle fence. I am on a Council estate on the edge of an Essex town about 50 miles Eastwards of London. My last haunts were New Zealand and Sri Lanka. But best of all was the one before that – the wild Atlantic coast of North Cornwall.

I do not belong here. I know too much and have seen too much. I can still smile at them from time to time but mostly I am quietly cynical. I am restless to leave here to start a new job in a new location and to meet new friends.

Red and white flags flutter from windows of houses and cars. A display of National pride and camaraderie is combined with the frenetic squawks of baulking housewives and ill-bred, foul-mouthed children.

I find solace in a town centre web café to experiment with writing about my life.

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