Random Musings

UNSATISFIED

2009-03-23T05:10:00.001-07:00

One day a couple of years ago, I was at the supermarket, once again engaging in the fine art of supermarket strolling, and a shiny red and yellow packet of crisps caught my eye.

[Note to marketers: if you want to sell something to me, use red and then yellow, in that order].

The famous crisp company had come up with an interesting variation on 'cheese and onion' to catch my attention. It was something like 'Supercalifragilistic Peruvian Magic Dragon's Cheese and Onion of Truth'. The combination of the colour and the name made these crisps stand out from the crowd and I seemingly had no choice but to place them in the basket with my usual cocktail-barman style juggling flourish.

Later, as I was relaxing at home after a very pleasant run around the park at sunset, I took the packet of crisps down from the cupboard, ready to give myself a well-earned treat. As I was opening them, I noticed that printed on the back of the packet was the instruction: 'If you are not entirely satisfied, please write to the following address....'

I proceeded to open and taste the crisps and they turned out to be remarkable in every way. The texture and taste surpassed any other overly salty snack I had ever had the pleasure of popping in my mouth.

However, my hamster had just died, a horse I had laid quite a large bet on that afternoon came in fourth, and my girlfriend had, only the day before, subtly hinted she didn't like my haircut (managing very skilfully to not actually say so, so that she could completely deny it if necessary later).

I would have been deceiving myself and anyone else who cared to ask if I had considered myself 'entirely satisfied', so I got out a pen and paper and prepared to write a letter to the crisp helpline informing them of my various woes. I have to say that I was rather disappointed with the response which finally arrived three full weeks later. Although it was very gracious in thanking me for my interest in their brand of nibbles, it made no attempt whatsoever to rid me of the daily dissatisfaction which had been dogging me for so many years.

I was left wondering why on Earth they had got my hopes up by advising me to write to them in the first place, and from that day forth, I vowed only to buy extravagantly named blood-pressure elevators from their arch-rival brand.

UNHAPPY

2009-03-13T03:34:00.001-07:00

I was feeling rather fed up the other day so I thought I would try a bit of that Comfort eating they bang on about on the telly.

Well, I have to say that I was very disappointed. It tasted all nasty like soap and didn't cheer me up at all. I added some salt and pepper, but it didn't help.

Next time I'm going to try Lenor.

UNREPENTANT

2009-03-13T03:23:00.000-07:00

I was listening to the news on local radio the other day. They reported on a story about a man who had gone on the rampage in Meadowhall Shopping Centre. The man apparently ran amock with a rusty old cheese grater, stopping random terrorised shoppers and rubbing the grater over their faces.

It was over half an hour before the man was apprehended by security staff and handed over to the police.

Appearing at Sheffield Magistrates' Court yesterday, the man (who had pleaded guilty) was asked by the chief magistrate if he felt any remorse for the fear and injury he had caused.

"No! Why should I?" The grater fiend replied. "It's no skin off my nose."

TAP ROOM

2009-01-23T08:07:00.000-08:00

When I was sixteen years old, I took a trip to Leeds where my brother John was attending university and where I was to follow him a couple of years later. That year my brother was sharing a house with (amongst others) our inspirational friend Rob Aslett. Close to their house in Woodhouse was a pub called The Chemic on Johnson Street. This was an exciting time for me. I was away from my parents for perhaps the first time, and was expecting to have myself some mighty fun.

On a Saturday lunchtime, John, Rob and I took a stroll down to The Chemic to partake in some not at all well-earned liquid refreshment. I am not sure whether The Chemic is still like this, but at the time there were two sections to the pub: the lounge and the tap room. Before they all got turned into trendy open-plan bars with carpets, duke boxes which cost £1 for 2 songs and shiny metal rails at the bottom of the bar (what are they for?), quite a lot of pubs had this two-room arrangement. The lounge was normally the more plushly furnished of the two rooms. The tap room was usually a pretty basic affair with a stone or wooden floor, benches around the walls with adjacent tables, a few wooden stools in front of these tables, and two or three high wooden stools next to the bar. The high stools were for those who didn't like to venture too far away from the bar in case they wasted some very valuable supping time.

On this occasion we decided to go into the tap room and as there were three high bar-stools there, we settled ourselves next to the bar and ordered ourselves a pint each. This turned out to be a remarkable experience I would never forget. Sat in the tap room already were three elderly Yorkshiremen. With what seemed like a built-in ability to do geometrical calculation, they had sat themselves as far away from each other as they could possibly get. Each man sat in silence, staring into his pint. It was almost like walking into a cathedral. It felt like we ought to keep our voices to a whisper as a mark of respect.

Then every few minutes one of the men would call over to another.

"How's your Irene?" One would say, not taking his eyes off his pint for a moment.

"She's not so bad, Frank. Not so bad." The other would reply. Then both would nod their heads knowingly and return to the silence again for many minutes.

Some time after we arrived, another old man arrived. While he was at the bar, the other three men automatically shifted their positions in the room so as to make it possible for the newcomer to fit into a new perfect geometrical pattern, so that with four of them now present, each was still as far away from the other three as it was possible to get.

"Hey up," said the newcomer as he turned from the bar and went to take his seat.

"George," the others said in unison and then the silence resumed as George took his seat and commenced his ale meditation.

As I look back on this experience I feel a sense of sorrow that most pubs have been refurbished in recent years. One seldom comes across a genuine tap room any more. It really was as if this was a sacred ritual for these men. The one place they could come to find a bit of peace and solitude, to be alone with their thoughts, free from the cares of the world for a couple of hours. None of them seemed hell-bent on getting plastered as seems to be the case with my generation and those that have followed it. You might say there was a deep serenity to what they were doing.

It seems a shame that the spending power of the younger generations means that if they want to find peace and solitude, these men might now have to resort to going to a church, where everyone knows you can't get a decent pint of Tetley's.

THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS?

2009-01-21T13:42:00.000-08:00

Yesterday's inauguration of Barrack Obama was an historic occasion. His speech was very moving and I am sure it will go down in history alongside those made by other great leaders such as JFK and Martin Luther King.

However, one phrase which he used jumped out at me and made me a little disappointed about what was otherwise a great piece of oration.

"The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness."

Here was a reference to a very well-known part of the United States Declaration of Independence created in 1776.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

What am I disappointed about? I think that the phrase 'the pursuit of happiness' shows a fundamental misunderstanding or, if you have a little less trust in the essential goodness of people than I do, you might consider it deliberately misleading.

Why should people only have the right to the pursuit of happiness? Surely it would be much better if they had the right to the attainment of happiness. What use is the right to the pursuit of it?

"I'd like some happiness, please."

"Ha! Sorry, mate, we can't give you happiness. We do have a bit of it out the back though. We can let you chase after it for a while if you like, but you can't actually have it. Where would be the fun in that?"

I have read some opinions which argue that this was very deliberate wording, that governments don't want people to actually attain happiness. If all the people actually attained happiness, there would be no need for government.

I like to live in a world where such sinister machinations do not take place, and therefore I choose to take the view that this is just a misunderstanding about the nature of happiness.

Happiness cannot be pursued. It isn't round the corner, or in the distance. It can't be caught up with by making more money, buying more things, gaining more status, fitting in or finding that 'perfect' partner any more than it can be caught up with by taking alcohol or drugs. Happiness is a choice. It is a decision and anyone in any position or circumstance can make that decision right where they are without 'pursuing' anything at all. Indeed, the act of pursuing is very likely to prevent them from doing what they need to do to attain happiness, which is look inside and change their thoughts and beliefs about life.

It puts me in mind of someone trying to pick up water by grasping at it. The water continually eludes them until they relax, cup their hand receptively and simply allow the water to fill it.

Happiness is a choice you can make right now. Choose to love peepl (sic). Choose to be magnificent. Choose daily acts of kindness towards your fellow human beings.

No pursuit is necessary. Just stay right where you are, relax and open your heart.

TABLES TURNED

2009-01-19T06:10:00.000-08:00

This is a tribute to my brother Mike who has been struggling to like himself recently. I hope he gets to read it soon.

I remember it so very clearly. I will have been about 11 years old. I was trying to do my maths homework. We were learning some simple algebra and being asked to plot some graphs from simple equations. That night I was struggling to understand it, not something my little ego was used to and I got more and more upset the harder I tried. My mother tried to explain it to me, but I was too frustrated about not getting it to take in her explanations and eventually she gave up, exasperated. She left me in my room where I continued to cry with frustration.

A few minutes later my brother Mike came into my room and sat quietly in the chair which was across the room from the bed on which I had assumed the foetal position to comfort myself. Mike is several years older than me, so to me he was a young adult at that time. He did not say anything at all for a few minutes. He just sat. I could feel his love for me without him having to do anything. I knew that I wasn't being judged at all. He just sat and waited. Soon the calm presence he brought into the room soothed my troubled mind and peace and clarity began to return.

"All right?" he asked in a simple tone, putting me even more at ease. I began to explain what was upsetting me. Michael sat quietly and listened, occasionally looking into my eyes and smiling. He picked up my maths homework book and looked at the problems I had been set.

"I used to find this hard too," he said. "I remember crying just like you."

Mike then spent half an hour very patiently explaining to me how to do my homework. At the end of that time, not only did I understand my homework, but he had taught me how to do simultaneous equations, a full two years before it was on the curriculum at school. My teacher was astonished by my understanding at the next class.

Many times similar situations arose, and many times the total unconditional love, generosity and complete non-judgement that Mike embodied helped me through. A true quiet hero, never asking for anything in return, even when we were much older and I too was a young adult.

The troubles of the world often weigh heavy on those with strong compassion. They want to help everyone and of course they can't. They want to make a difference and don't realise what a difference they have already made just by being who they are. For once I now find myself in the position of the listener and those words ring out in my head loud and clear:

"I used to find this hard too," he said. "I remember crying just like you."

Today I look and see a man who has temporarily forgotten what it is that makes him a hero in the eyes of me and I am sure many others. The fantastic humility and patience, the ceaseless generosity and unconditional love. Never asking for anything in return, never seeking praise for his actions, just quietly lifting us up whenever we needed it, then going about his business as if nothing happened. What made it so easy for me to talk to Mike was that I knew I was never being judged. Not once, not ever.

Sometimes it is hard to block out the endless false messages which we are bombarded with day after day in the form of television, newspapers, advertising, religion and political propaganda. Those are all about judgement. Sickening judgement which destroys people's self-esteem, shamelessly luring them away from the way to true happiness. You are worthless unless you think this, do this, buy this, look like this, earn this much or believe this. You can't be happy until you achieve this, can afford this, have a house this big or have a relationship this perfect.

The hero that is my brother knew at a very young age that this was all bollocks. He knew where true self-worth came from and he knew how to effortlessly bring it out in other people too. As we all do from time to time, Mike has temporarily lost his way. Some judgement has crept into his thinking. Most significantly of all, much of that judgement is directed at himself.

I want so much to be able to tell Mike what a great impact it had when he sat silently across the room from me that night. The peace it brought, the understanding that I was loved no matter what I said, did or felt. I want so much for him to sit silently across the room from himself and give to himself the complete acceptance and the space to grow that he gave to me so many times as a kid and young adult.

TIM BUTLER'S BARBER

2009-01-15T14:31:00.000-08:00

Many moons ago I was at my remarkable friend Tim Barber's house with my brother John.

Those were the heady days of youth, when my brother was lead singer in a band and I was chief roadie and daft dancer. We had been out on a bit of a long night on the ale, so long that our hangovers had not really kicked in yet and there was still much merriment in the morning air.

Tim made us a round of bacon sandwiches and I think a cigarette with interesting ingredients was being passed around the room also. I told you, rock and roll!

Suddenly, the phone rang and my brother John picked it up with a mischievous glint in his eye.

In his best Sir John Gielgud voice he said: "Good morning, Tim Butler's barber."

On the other end of the line, a very confused Tim's rather conservative father-in-law asked if he could speak to Tim's wife Liz (I don't remember whether they were actually married at that time). John quickly handed the phone to Tim with a look of horror on his face.

"Oh hi Bert, yeh, just some mates larking around," Tim excused John's faux-pas.

When Tim put down the phone, we all fell about laughing for about half an hour.

STEPHANIE

2009-01-11T03:00:00.000-08:00

Many moons ago, just before I went to university, I decided to do a bit of traveling. I had read a few books and seen some TV programs which all seemed to indicate that this would be a good idea so that I could 'find out who I really was".

After a number of months visiting several countries on a shoestring, I finally made the rather surprising discovery that I am really Princess Stephanie of Monaco. I have no idea who that cheeky bint is who has been spending my money and wearing my dresses and tiaras all these years, but it's hard not to feel a certain amount of resentment.

RESOLUTION

2009-01-04T04:41:00.000-08:00

On Christmas day I went to see my daughters who were spending the day with their mum. I spent about an hour with them that day, before collecting them on Boxing Day for the rest of the holidays. While I was with them on Christmas day, I noticed that my almost 5-year-old daughter Lottie had written something on her leg with a felt pen.

It said: "LOVE PEEPL"

When I asked her what it said, Lottie confirmed what message I suspected her not yet perfect spelling was meant to convey.

"Did someone tell you to write that?" I asked her.

"No, I thought of it myself," Lottie assured me.

"Why do you think we should love people?" I enquired further.

"Because it feels nice," Lottie replied with a tone which indicated she thought that ought to be quite obvious to everyone.

I am very grateful that I have the opportunity to benefit from Lottie's pure innocent wisdom and in that moment, my new year's resolution for 2009 was sorted out! :-)

QUINCY

2008-12-07T12:02:00.000-08:00

For the past two weeks I have been engaged in jury service. Although the law strongly encourages me not to reveal any details of the case which is not yet complete, I feel a strong urge to write about the experience as a whole, which has felt more than a little surreal, like being part of a television programme for a fortnight.

The thing which has struck me most of all is the nature of the various characters who have appeared in court throughout the course of the fortnight. If I had been writing the whole thing as a piece of fiction, I could not have created characters who so closely fit the stereotypes which one might have expected when told their professions or positions. The accused looked and acted remarkably like Bill Sykes. The lead defence barrister appeared to have modelled his entire appearance and performance on Rumpole of the Bailey. Even more amusing, he had a female junior barrister sat behind him who looked like a younger version of himself, minus the moustache and with slightly longer hair (I speculated that by the time she reached senior barrister status, she may well have grown a suitable moustache). Most remarkable of all, a pathologist who gave evidence on the witness stand looked and acted precisely as one might expect of an individual who was far more at home dealing with the dead than with the living. She had a markedly drawn, skeletal, deadly serious face, a strange, nervous speaking style and peered suspiciously round the court room from behind spectacles which probably weighed only a few ounces less than she did.

Those were the most notable examples, but everyone who appeared in court seemed to fit remarkably with my pre-conceived notion of how they would be. The judge, the other barristers, doctors, nurses, police detectives. Every one of them seemed to confirm my mental stereotype. It reminded me of a webcast I had listened to a few weeks previously in which the way in which we tend to fulfil given roles had been discussed. In the webcast, the interviewee had discussed how he had met a person at a party and within a few seconds was able to guess that she was a teacher (which he subsequently confirmed by asking her). He went on to speculate that many if not most of us have a tendency to lose the individuality and unique identity that we have when we are younger by conforming to expected behaviour patterns associated with roles that we take on. Instead of being ourselves, we become more or less completely identified with our occupation, or some other role such as a parent, 'one of the lads', a trade unionist, a fat person, a runner, or a victim. How many of us are conforming to roles which we did not choose for ourselves but which we drifted into, or which we took on to please others, such as our families or which are based on something which someone said to us a long long time in the past, such as 'he's the shy one' or 'she's no good with children'.

Such identification with one, or a small number of roles, so strongly informs the choices that we make every day that to the outside world we appear to have become the personification of those roles. We forget that every minute of every day, we have the choice to be whoever we want to be, to act however we want to act, to wear whatever we want to wear, to say whatever we want to say and to do whatever we want to do. We forget that we do not have to do what is expected of us. We forget that our choices should not be based on how others want or expect us to be, but on how we want to be, on what makes us feel happy and truly alive.

As I think back to the pathologist mentioned above, I am reminded of one hero of the pathology world who managed to buck the trend and very certainly did not conform to any such stereotypes. I am talking of course of the legend that is Quincy M.E. Quincy did not confine himself to long hours in the pathology lab followed by the filling in of long and deadly serious reports. This maverick hero's talents could not be so confined and so we would often see him taking on the role of detective, barrister (attorney), counselor or public health champion. He more or less single-handedly solved every case in which he was involved and having done so, still found time to be an unstoppable love machine and to have a bit if cheeky banter and a game of cards with his mates in the pub afterwards.

We can all learn a lot from Quincy. Quincy teaches us not to accept limits and to refuse to be labelled by anyone. Quincy shows us how to be the best we can be in every moment of every day by remembering that in each one of those moments, we have a new choice about who we want to be.

Quincy M.E. , I salute you.

PASSIONATE ABOUT COMPASSION

2008-11-13T04:35:00.001-08:00

Back in March I wrote about the acceptance speech of Karen Armstrong after she received her TED Prize. TED Prize winners are encouraged to make a 'prize wish', in which they detail their vision of how we can make our world a better place. Karen's prize wish was to see the creation of a Charter for Compassion in which leading members of all the world's major religions come together to recognise the common threads which underlie all their faiths.

Today I am very pleased to say that the creation of the Charter for Compassion is now well under way. Follow the link to visit the Charter for Compassion website.

If you know me well, you will be aware that I do not subscribe to any religion, yet Karen's message rings true for me too. In a world where fundamentalism, difference and conflict are on the rise, it is crucial that those of us who wish to promote acceptance and love of difference in the world take action to promote this. It is no good just sitting about tutting when the fearers and the haters are raising armies of destruction.

To some the idea of compassion may seem a little dull or boring, something they cannot relate to in our fast-paced, exciting and very self-centred Western culture. The word raises images of Mother Theresa toiling tirelessly to help people in desperate need. Many people cannot relate to the apparently massive level of altruism that she displayed.

But to me, this is something that raises a burningng passion inside me, not unlike that displayed by Bob Geldof during Live Aid. It is not at all unselfish and to show why, I will repeat some of what I said in my article in March.

My single overriding motivation is the protection of my daughters. I want them to grow up in a world where love is in the ascendancy. This is by no means certain in a volatile world in which resources are running out. We face a stark choice, between cooperation with our fellow humans to find new ways to sustain the species or bitter violent struggle over the dwindling resources we use now. There cannot be the cooperation without an understanding that we are all one. People need to stop thinking about stupid petty divisions such as nationality or religion, otherwise there will soon be no nationalities or religions because everyone will be dead.

Every one of us has to stand up and be counted. Stand up and say 'I choose love.' Then to do something. Whatever feels natural. To foster love and friendship with other members of our species. To show small minded people that there is another way, a better way. The only way in which we can survive.

Of course, not everyone can live a life of service like Mother Theresa. Not everyone has the influence of Bob Geldof or Bono. But we can all do something every day to help make it a better world. We can all choose to smile, to accept, to show kindness to the people we meet in everyday life. When we do this, there is a knock on effect. Those people who we touch are more likely to act in a positive, loving manner to the people that they meet. In that way, one smile or one compliment can create a wave of happiness that spreads across a nation. Likewise, a frown or an unkind word can do the same. Are you taking responsibility for the way you are treating the people you meet every day?

"Each time we stand up for an ideal, or act to improve the lot of others, or strike out against injustice, we send forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centres of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance." - Robert Kennedy (7 June, 1966)

Improving the lot of others does not have to mean giving away all your money or giving up your job to work in Africa. If we all committed to simple gestures of loving kindness on a daily basis, the world would be transformed and the fear which might otherwise lead us towards self-destruction can be relieved for good.

OLD BAG

2008-11-05T14:44:00.000-08:00

I went to Sainsbury's the other day. For those of you in The New World, it's one of UK's major supermarket chains.

When I went through the checkout, the cashier gave me a free fridge magnet which had on it the instruction "TAKE AN OLD BAG SHOPPING"

Now, I think it is commendable to encourage our citizens to think about others, and shopping can be very heavy, especially if you are enjoyng your golden years and live a long way from the store.

But surely they could have have used a more polite turn of phrase.

NUTS

2008-11-05T14:37:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I went for a picnic with the ever beautiful and serene Leigh to the Botanical Gardens here in Sheffield. For those of you who don't live here, it is a park in which trees and plants from all around the world have been brought. The myriad of shapes, colours and smells is very inspiring. This was a sunny day and unusually warm for the time of year. I was feeling very calm and almost in a meditative state. We walked around the gardens a little while before deciding on a place to have our lunch.

While Leigh was looking at some unusual trees, reading the labels which told what kind they were, I sat down on a bench and kept very still, drinking in the beauty that was before me. Suddenly a squirrel appeared and approached the bench where I was sitting. To my astonishment, the squirrel climbed up onto my thigh and sat there for few moments, looking me directly in the eye, before scurrying off. If that wasn't surprising enough, then another squirrel appeared and came up right in front of me. My hands were resting between my knees, my fingertips touching together. The squirrel reached up with his little paw and gently tapped my hands. He looked me in the eyes and then did it again. Then when he got no reaction from me, he too scurried off.

This was a remarkable experience. I am currently training hard to get better at running and my diet includes rather a lot of nuts. I wonder if the squirrels could sense that I was a kindred spirit in that respect, or maybe I just smelled of nuts. During the brief moments I was looking into the squirrels eyes, I felt a sudden sense of empathy for them, as if I got an inkling of what it was like to be a squirrel.

Sammy Squirrel: What are we going to do today, Sydney?

Sydney Squirrel: I thought I might charge round looking for nuts. What do you reckon?

Sammy Squirrel: Great idea! I love charging around looking for nuts. I think I will join you. Botanical Gardens?

Sydney Squirrel: Where else? Race you there.

Sammy Squirrel: You're on. Hey, hang on! That's not fair. False start!

Sydney Squirrel: Ha ha! Come on, slow coach!

A little later ...

Sammy Squirrel: So, how are you getting on, Sydney?

Sydney Squirrel: Not bad, not bad! This place is brilliant for nuts. But you can never really have enough can you?

Sammy Squirrel: You're right, Sammy. Here! Look at that!

Sydney Squirrel: Where?

Sammy Squirrel: Over there. Look. What is that?

Sydney Squirrel: Not sure. Doesn't look like any tree I've ever seen. Looks like one of those men if anything. But it isn't moving so it can't be.

Sammy Squirrel: Shall we check it out?

Sydney Squirrel: You go first.

Sammy Squirrel: OK. Cover me.

A few moments later ...

Sydney Squirrel: Well?

Sammy Squirrel: I'm not sure. I'm sure there are nuts there somewhere. I can sense nuts! If I didn't know better, I would swear it looked at me.

Sydney Squirrel: Hold on, I'll check it out.

Shortly afterwards ...

Sydney Squirrel: Weird! You're right, there's definitely something strange about that tree.

Sammy Squirrel: Sydney, Sydney! Look at the bushy tail on that!

Sydney Squirrel: [mesmerised] Ay ay ay!!!

Sammy Squirrel: Watch out, Sydney. Dog!!

MURDEROUS PLOTS?

2008-11-04T14:19:00.001-08:00

November 5th is celebrated in Britain as Bonfire Night, or to give it its more correct name, Guy Fawkes Night. Firework displays and big bonfires will be seen throughout the land. This is a celebration of the foiling of the notorious Gunpowder Plot, in which a band of Catholic villains, including the very unfortunate Guy Fawkes, are alleged to have tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament with gunpowder and to kill King James I, his family and a large number of other aristocrats.

Some historians have speculated that the whole thing may have actually been staged by, or at least secretly allowed to progress by certain government agents, in particular Robert Cecil, the Earl of Salisbury. Conspiracy theorists suggest that Cecil may have fabricated the plot as an excuse for the persecution of Catholics in a land which was officially Protestant under King James (hence the production of the English King James Bible). These conspiracy theories strongly parallel those which are around today regarding recent terrorist attacks such as 9/11 and the London bombings. The Web is awash with those who would have us believe that these were staged by our respective governments as an excuse for a withdrawal of civil liberties. It also mirrors the Burning of the Reichstag in 1933 Germany which was blamed on Communists and precipitated Hitler's rise to dictatorial power.

Whether you believe the conspiracy theorists or not, you cannot deny the fact that nobody does a celebration of religious intolerance and hatred like us Brits. For over 400 years now we have been encouraging small children to make an effigy of the filthy Catholic scum and then chuck it on a massive fire. Then a crowd of smiling, sparkler waving onlookers smile and cheer at the reminder that those people who don't believe quite the same things as us will be dealt with by appropriate hideously cruel punishment.

Can any other country top 400 years? Or is it just that we can't muster virulent hatred quite as well as we did in the old days so that now such celebrations tend to peter out after 150 years or so?

In order to bring back some proper fervent hatred, I think it is about time the secret services of our nations upped their game a bit and used a scape-goat we can all get behind detesting. Amusing as some of their beliefs and antics are, I can't really bring myself to hate entire religious or political groups, even if a handful of them have been very naughty indeed. What I suggest is that perhaps MI5 could, under the guise of a sinister Spectre-style organisation, secretly recruit a number of easily seduced wasps and encourage them to formulate a dastardly plot against Princes William and Harry. Not the Queen, nobody really likes her. But there is still plenty of affection for Di's pretty kids. Then MI5 could expose the plot at the last minute and then the Daily Mail and Sun newspapers could spend a month or so banging on about the evils of wasps, prompting a national crackdown which could rid us of these pesky menaces for good. Obviously they would have to do all this when they were not busy advising the makers of Spooks. Once we have dealt with wasps, they could wait ten years or so and then frame The Tweenies.

Then maybe, just maybe, I would consider my taxes well spent.

LET GO

2008-11-02T11:01:00.001-08:00

When he finally regained his composure after the shock of Saoirse's sudden departure, Walter picked himself up and looked out over the countryside. The view from the ledge was breathtaking, yet this was the first time he had noticed it. While Saoirse had been there, all his senses had been focused on her. Now they were open to receiving magnificence and beauty. The myriad of colours and shapes presented by the rolling landscape touched him like they had never done before. Many times had someone said to Walter, 'What a beautiful view!' At such times he would mutter agreement but had never been able to muster the enthusiasm that the tone of his companions' voices revealed. This time he really got it and he stood for a few moments silently drinking in the splendour. He caught himself humming 'Top of the World' by the Carpenters, a song that only a year ago he would have cynically mocked as soppy nonsense.

After a few moments Walter breathed in sharply, breaking the trance that he had entered without knowing and he turned and headed back down the spiral staircase to the Leprechauns' cavern. The going was much easier on the way down and he soon reached the cavern, following the wall until he once again found himself at Magic Dara's. He was struck by the fact that he could not hear any of the revelry which he knew to be going on inside until he opened the door and stepped over the threshold. When he did so, it was like being suddenly hit by a wall of music and laughter.

Through the throng he picked out Seamus who was sitting at a large table with a small crowd of people gathered round him listening intently. Walter was quite familiar with this sight. Many times he had witnessed Seamus spin one of his enchanting yarns. He knew not to interrupt his flow and so he pushed his way through to the bar where Dara greeted him with a friendly and knowing smile.

"You feeling better now, Walter?" Dara asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes I am. Thank you. I really mean that. Thank you." Walter replied.

"You're welcome, my friend. That is what I am here for. Well, amongst other things." Dara graciously accepted. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Umm. Yeh. I'll have a Guinness," Walter answered. Before he could blink, Dara had placed a Guinness in front of him and when Walter offered to pay, he waved his hand in dismissal. "This one's on the house," said Dara. "Just so long as you promise to give us a song."

"Ah, I don't know, it's been quite a while since I've been in front of a crowd. I'm not sure whether I am ready for it," Walter said. As he spoke the words, he became suddenly aware how they seemed to puncture the bubble of freedom, peace and elation that had surrounded him since he last spoke with Dara. Dara looked Walter straight in the eye, managing to repeat his question simply by raising his left eyebrow a couple of millimeters. Out of Dara's sight, Walter made a fist with his right hand and then said, "What am I saying? Of course I will give you a song. I am Walter the Sofa Elf. I was born to entertain." Dara's questioning look turned back to a warm smile. He nodded to his assistant who went over to where the band were playing and whispered in the ear of the bodhran player. As he did so, a chorus of laughter rose from the group who were gathered around Seamus' table, indicating that he had reached the end of another ripping yarn. Walter took the opportunity to go over and talk to his cousin before he started another one.

"Ah, Walt! Oi wondered where you'd got to," Seamus said as he saw Walter approaching.

"Have you seen Saoirse anywhere?" Walter immediately asked.

"Oh, dat's where you've been is it?" Seamus said with a hint of laughter in his voice. Walter suddenly remembered the kiss that Saoirse had given Seamus when they first arrived at the pub.

"Oh, listen, sorry mate, I didn't think. If I've overstepped the mark .... " Walter said apologetically.

"Aaah, don't you worry 'bout dat, Walter. Saoirse belongs to no man. Jaysus. The chance'd be a foine ting. Saoirse does what Saoirse wants to do. Sure, Oi've been lucky enough to share her company from toime to toime. But if today she's chosen you, Walt, den good luck to you cuz. Don't get me wrong, moind. Dat doesn't mean she is easy. Far from it. De feller who manages to tame dat one will be a lucky feller indeed."

As he finished speaking, Dara's voice came over the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is now my pleasure to introduce a special guest from over the water. The cousin of our fine friend Seamus, and a big hit in his home town of Sheffield, England, please welcome to the mic Walter the Sofa Elf." Polite but uncertain applause was suddenly interrupted by a drunken heckle from the back of the room.

"Asking an elf from England to sing! Moight as well ask a mouse to keep an oye on yer cheese," the heckler said.

"Yeh, or ask your barber to give us a hair cut. Shut up, Sean O'Gill," Dara put the heckler in his place and raised a laugh from the rest of the crowd, then he stepped aside and beckoned Walter up onto the stage. Walter sprang out of his seat and bounded up to the microphone. He took his position and quietly said something to the members of the band. He was so clearly in his element now, vibrant and confident in his movement and expression. His presence commanded the room to fall silent. He started the first few bars of Happy Cow. The band quickly picked up the melody and began to accompany him with brilliant ease. The end of the song was greeted with a loud cheer from the crowd and many calls for more. Walter turned to the band and they began to play the song again, only this time they raised the tempo. Walter began his reprise and the floor began to fill with dancers. The pub door opened and in came Saoirse. From his new vantage point, Walter was suddenly aware of the number of heads that turned as she glided across the room to once again mesmerise Walter with her dancing. With every turn of her body she looked deep into Walter's eyes and gave him a captivating smile.

When he finished the Happy Cow remix, the band invited Walter to stay with them as they continued their set of Irish classics. Walter knew the words to many of these after many nights out with Seamus over the years and he revelled in providing very popular backing vocals. But at the same time he was longing for the band to take a break so that he could go and talk to Saoirse once more. Eventually they took a well earned rest, giving a warm thank you to Walter which was echoed by the onlookers. With his eyes fixed on Saoirse, Walter stepped away from the stage. He was high with the adrenaline of performing and bounded over to where she was patiently waiting for him.

"Look at you!" Saoirse enthused as Walter got close enough to hear her over the clamour. "Dat was brilliant, Walt, and you look so aloive. Beautiful!"

"Oh, cheers," Walter said, beaming. "It's been quite some time. I LOVE that. I'd forgotten just how good it feels."

"Oi can see dat, Walt. Does the feeling remoind you of anyting?"

"How do you mean?" asked Walter, unsure of what she was getting at.

"The enthusiasm in your voice remoinds me of when you were talking to me just a few hours ago - when you were talking to me about Tallina." Walter stopped and silently contemplated what she had said. "You told me you love her and just now you told me you love the singing. I wonder what it is dat makes you feel dat way. What is it dat's different about you at dose toimes?" Walter still wasn't ready to give any kind of answer. "Shall I tell you what I tink?" asked Saoirse.

"OK," Walter agreed.

"When Oi watched you on the stage just now, for the first toime Oi saw a Walter who was completely relaxed and at ease. Oi don't tink it's a coincidence that you speak of love when you recall experiencing dat. Now think about your toimes with Tallina. What was different about dat? Oi hear you were pretty popular with de ladies before you met her? So what was different? Why was it love with her?" Saoirse then remained silent for a few moments allowing Walter to contemplate what she had said. Eventually Walter spoke.

"Because with her there was no pretense. With her I could just be myself. Sure I have had plenty of girls in my time but I was always putting on a show. They usually liked me because of the singing and I played up to that image, putting on the bravado even when I didn't feel like it both for them and to maintain my image. With Tallina it was different. With her I could just relax. I could just let go. It was wonderfully effortless. I loved her and I just didn't care who knew about it. In fact, I probably annoyed he hell out of folks by going round telling them."

"Ha ha!" Saoirse laughed at Walter's last little confession. "Maybe you can see now Walter that it was the change in you that brought you love. I have no doubt that Tallina is a lovely girl, but you love her for the same reason that you love singing. You love her because for once you let go and allowed yourself to love without fear. In all aspects of life, Walt, that moment you let go will be the moment you find love."

If Walter had heard this from someone else, he may well have questioned what they were saying. But Saoirse embodied what she was saying with her every breath, movement and action and because of this her words carried great weight. Tears of realisation and relief ran down Walter's cheeks as once again he chose to let go.

Join The Magical World of Walter and Gary Facebook Group

KISS

2008-10-21T13:11:00.000-07:00

Gary spent most of Thursday in a kind of mental haze. He could not concentrate on anything. His mind would not rest on anything other than that for which he was waiting - his date with Rosie that evening. He must have looked at the clock more than 50 times before it finally told him it was time to start getting ready. He never usually spent more than 4 seconds deciding what he was going to wear, but tonight was different. He opened his little wardrobe and for the first time in his life became aware of the fact that he didn't really like any of his clothes. Prior to this moment, he had been completely indifferent about it. He never bought clothes for himself. They were all given to him as presents or hand-me-downs by well-meaning relatives. Gary just accepted them and wore them, not even considering for one moment whether they were clothes that he would have chosen himself. Prior to this moment, he just thought of clothes as a means of keeping warm and covering the wobbly bits he didn't want people to see. Now Gary wished he had been a bit more proactive in his clothing acquisitions.

There was only one thing for it. Realising that doing so may well make him late for a very important date, Gary headed straight round to my flat where he knew that he would find the magnificent wardrobe of his good friend Walter. I was in the middle of juggling and handstand practice when I heard a little knock on the door. I opened it to find Gary crouching with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath.

"Gary! What are you doing here? Isn't tonight the big night? You've only got half an hour, mate. You'd best get cracking," I reminded him.

"Yeh," agreed Gary still getting back his breath. "I know. I know. But I've nothing to wear. Can I come and have a look in Walter's wardrobe. I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

"All right then, my little friend. In you come." I knew that Gary didn't have time to debate the issue.

Gary rushed through my door and headed straight for the sofa which contained Walter's apartment. A few minutes later he emerged resplendent in one of Walter's more traditional elfin outfits. Patent leather red shoes, tight green trousers with red pin stripes, a red silk shirt beneath a waist coat made of the same material of the trousers, and a magnificent green and red pointy hat. All fit Gary remarkably well considering that they were not his.

"What do you think?" Gary asked me as he emerged from the sofa. I said nothing, but gave him a smile and a Fonz-like thumbs up which made him laugh. Then Gary looked at the time. "Hell fire!" He exclaimed. "I'm going to be so late! She'll probably be gone by the time I get there."

There was no way I could let Gary miss out on the night of his life. I pointed to my rucksack. "Jump in, pal," I said. "There's no way I am going to let you miss this one."

Gary looked at me with surprise but didn't have time to argue and climbed into my rucksack. "Hold on tight," I told him as I swung it around onto my back and headed out the door. Like the wind I ran, my little friend's happiness depending on me. Like the scene from Trainspotting, I dodged in and out of more tawdry pedestrians and leaped over cars that got in my way until we eventually reached the entrance to Bolton Woods where the tree stump which housed Dave the Magic Barman's famous hostelry stood. I took off my rucksack, lay it on the floor and undid the zip. Gary climbed out wide eyed, his hat still hanging on precariously to his head.

"Here we are, little feller," I told him.

"Thanks Pete," said Gary. "I won't forget this." He straightened his hat, then off he dashed into the woods. As he approached the pub, he could hear a choir of raucous female voices. It was a little early in the evening to have reached the singing 'I Will Survive' stage, but as Gary got closer he quickly recognised the unmistakable lyrics. He opened the door and stepped inside. Around two tables which had been pushed together was a large group of she-elves who were clearly a little worse for wear. He guessed from their strange attire that it must be some kind of hen night. Sitting on a stool with her back to the rest of the room was the one who Gary assumed must be the bride to be. Polite individuals would have described her as 'a little on the large side' or 'cuddly'. The less polite would have described her as 'a great big fatty'. The ladies paid no attention to Gary's entrance but continued their very loud rendition of the classic Gloria Gaynor track.

As he made his way past the group, aiming for the bar, the cuddly she-elf suddenly stood up an threw back her arms in an exuberant gesture to go with the song. Her right hand hit Gary full in the face, knocking him out cold and he slumped to the ground behind her. The singing suddenly stopped and gasps came from the mouths of the other revelers.

When Gary came round he found himself surrounded by concerned female faces. He felt a sharp pain around his left eye and reached up to touch it gingerly.

"Are you OK? I'm ever so sorry. I never saw you coming. I was really getting into that song. So sorry. Can I get you a drink?"

"Give him some room, girls," Dave the Magic Barman came over holding a bundled up beer towel full of ice. "Here, Gary. Put this on your face and come and have a sit down." He helped Gary up and led him by the arm to a chair near to where the group of girls had been sitting. Feeling very groggy and disoriented, Gary took the ice pack from Dave and put it on his rapidly blackening eye as instructed. Dave went back to the bar and returned with a small glass of purple liquid. "Here, get this down you," he said to Gary. Gary did as instructed. The liquid had a very unusual sweet taste that he could not place, but once he had finished it, he found himself feeling immediately much more alert. The hen night elves began to adjust their seating positions so that they gradually drew Gary within their group and began showering him with drunken sympathy.

Then through the pub door came a vision of beauty that reminded Gary just what he was there for.

"Gary! I never knew you had such a way with the ladies," joked Rosie as she saw the company that he had gained. "You are a dark horse, aren't you? Have you been fighting?"

"No, it's .... well ...... you see ...... I was ......"

"Tell me all about it in a minute, Casanova. Sorry ladies, but this one's mine tonight." She took Gary by the hand, instantly causing a wave of joy to travel up his spine. With a little tug she encouraged him to stand up and then led him over to one of the more secluded tables at the other side of the pub. A few moments later, Magic Dave came over with two drinks which Gary was sure neither of them had ordered.

For the next three hours, Gary talked to Rosie like he had never talked to anyone before in his entire life. Just like on the phone, Rosie's calm and gentle manner made Gary immediately relaxed. His nerves were gone and for the first time ever he felt like he could truly be himself. It was like the bursting of a dam. Recollections, ideas and stories came pouring out of him. They had been held inside for so long. He had always thought his male friends would think him stupid or soft if he told the things he was thinking, so he kept quiet. He had never really spoken to a woman before. Of course he had spoken to them, but not really spoken to them. Now here was Rosie, listening. She seemed genuinely interested and encouraged Gary to carry on, urging him to elaborate when she thought he was going to stop. It felt wonderful, to finally be heard. For the first time in his life, he felt worthy. He felt interesting. Rosie allowed him to feel that he could be himself with no pretences, with no fear and with no barriers. He felt like he, Gary the Sideboard Elf, was truly worthy. For the first time in his life, Gary felt like a man.

When Rosie spoke back, Gary was captivated, watching her: the way her lips moved, the way she played with her golden curls, the way her breasts gently rose and fell with her breathing, the dazzling light of life and love in her big blue eyes and the unmistakable passion in her voice. At times he was so mesmerised that he began to lose track of what she was saying and had to catch himself in case he got into trouble for it. From time to time, when their glasses were almost empty, Magic Dave strode over again with fresh drinks. Whenever Gary offered to pay him, Magic Dave waved his attempt away and returned quickly to the busy bar.

Time passed so quickly. When Magic Dave rang his bell for last orders, Gary could not believe that it was time to leave already. He did not want to leave. He wanted this to last forever. Suddenly there was a loud commotion from the hen night elves. Stood amongst them was Magic Dave's bar assistant and understudy Not Yet Magic George. On top of the bride to be's head he had placed a big Bob Marley style multi-coloured woollen hat. She was remonstrating with him with the rowdy help of her entourage.

"George, what are you doing?" Magic Dave shouted from the bar.

George walked back over to the bar and said to Dave in a low voice, "I'm just doing what you told me, boss. You said: 'Go and put it on the mental she-elf over there so that whoever left it behind will be able to see it if they happen to come back in.' "

"Mantle shelf, George, you great Sillett. Mantle shelf!" Magic Dave said shaking his head.

The pub slowly cleared until Gary and Rosie were the only customers left.

"I think you'd better walk me home, Honey," Rosie said to Gary. Hearing the word 'honey' made a wave of pleasure shoot up his spine. Gary did not want to leave. He knew that Magic Dave would let them stay as long as they wanted, but he reluctantly agreed. They both gave their thanks to Magic Dave and George and headed out into the cool night air. All the way back to Rosie's home, Walter felt like he had returned to his childhood. Everything seemed full of fun. He danced along, leaping over obstacles, balancing on fallen sticks, diving into piles of leaves and 'swimming' through, emerging on the other side beaming. Rosie's laughter encouraged and emboldened him with every antic.

Eventually he reached Rosie's home, She turned to face him, standing close, smiling and looking deep into his eyes. "Thank you Gary," she said in a voice that continued to hypnotise him. "I had a lovely time tonight. I'd really like to see you again."

Gary said nothing. Rosie's body was inches from him. As he gazed into her sparkling blue eyes, he felt a surge of raw masculinity. Feeling strong and powerful, he put one hand on the side of her waist and pulled her towards him. He felt her wonderful firm breasts pressing against him as he raised his other hand to the back of her neck and slowly brought his lips towards hers. Rosie closed her eyes and waited. A fraction of a second seemed to take a minute. Then at last their lips touched. The intimacy and connection took them both to a place of exquisite ecstasy. It was as if during that moment, they were one.

Next Story - Let Go >>

Join The Magical World of Walter and Gary Facebook Group

JUMPING FOR JOY

2008-10-15T14:45:00.000-07:00

It was about an hour before Gary came down from Cloud 9. When he eventually did so, a sudden realisation hit him. He was going to have to actually make the phone call. On St Patrick's night he had managed to relax with Rosie. The beer, the music and Walter's antics had taken his mind off the very worrying fact that he had no idea how to interact with women. Now in the cold light of day he was going to have to pick up the phone and start a conversation. Fear cut through him like an icy cold wind, making him shake. What should he say? How should he say it? How the hell was he going to get the phone down from where it was attached to the wall way beyond his reach?

Eventually, Gary managed to stop himself from spiralling down to complete inaction and decided to pay me a visit. About an hour later, I heard a faint knock on the door of my flat. Hoping it might be a nice juicy Jehovah's Witness, I went to investigate. I opened the door to find nobody there. I was about to close it again in a grumpy manner when Gary called from below.

"Hey!" He shouted. I looked down and noticed the little feller by my feet.

"Gary! All right? You know Walter's gone off to Ireland with Seamus early this morning, right? He might not be back for some time."

"Yeh. I know. I know. Actually, I was wondering if you could do me a favour."

"Do you a favour? Of course my little friend. You are almost a member of my thumb sized family after all. What is it?"

"I need to use your phone."

"Why? What is it? Nobody been hurt I hope."

"Aaah, no. Nothing like that. I just wanted to call a girl." Gary mumbled the last sentence so quietly that he was inaudible.

"What did you say?" I questioned him.

"I said I want to call a girl," Gary repeated himself, this time a little louder.

"A girl!! Gary, you dark horse! Why didn't you say so sooner? When did this happen? Do you love her?"

"Yes, I think I ..... What? No, it's nothing like that. We only just met last night. She gave me her number and told me to call."

"Heeeeey! Nice one Gazza! What are you waiting for?" I took the phone from my desk and placed it down on the floor next to Gary and lifted the receiver off for him. "I'll go in the kitchen. Give you a bit of privacy. OK?"

"Cheers, Pete," said Gary. I made my way into the kitchen and closed the door just enough so that Gary could feel a sense of privacy and yet I could still hear absolutely everything that he was saying. His heart was beating like a bongo and his mouth was dry. Once again he was shaking with trepidation. He crouched down and put his face in his hands. He remained like that for a couple of minutes then suddenly sprang up.

"Come on!" He said to himself. "Do NOT let this slip by you!" He pulled the paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it then began to press the keys with his hand. After a few seconds, the sound of the ringing tone brought the fear back to him once more. "Oh my God. OH MY GOD!" He thought inside his head as it rang 5, 6, then 7 times. Gary was about to resign himself to nobody answering when the ringing stopped and he heard a sweet voice that soothed his turmoil.

"Hello?" Rosie said.

"Umm ... er ... Hey babe, how you doin'?" Gary replied, making a total hash of the line he had been planning on the way over to my flat.

"Gary!" Rosie said with obvious delight in her voice. "Why are you talking like that?"

"What? Oh, erm ..... ha ha .... don't know really. I suppose I was just trying to be like Walter. He's always been a big hit with the ladies."

"Gary!" Rosie said again, this time with a little chastisement in her tone. "If I had wanted to go out with Walter or Joey from Friends, then I would have given my number to them, wouldn't I?"

"I guess so ...." Rosie's calm and beautifully feminine voice was making Gary feel more relaxed with every syllable.

"I'm so glad you called me, Gary. Is there anything you'd like to ask me?"

"Um... how are you?"

"I think you already asked me that Joey, oops, I mean Gary. I am fine thank you for asking. I was thinking maybe you might want to ask me something else. I am really busy tomorrow, but I am free on Thursday night."

"Oh!" Gary suddenly realised where Rosie was leading him in her wonderfully gentle manner. "Err.... would you like to go out with me on Thursday night?"

"I'd love to! Where would you like to meet me?"

"Errm ... how about 8 o'clock at Magic Dave's place?" It was the only place that Gary could think of. If he was being honest, it was the only place he ever went.

"I love Magic Dave's. See you then, honey." With that, Rosie was gone.

Gary stood still and silent for a moment. He was in shock. He had thought of a thousand things that could go wrong with the phone call. Yet it had gone so right. "She called me 'Honey'," he thought to himself with a sense of wonder. I came quickly back into the room.

"Any luck?" I said, knowing very well what had happened. Gary said nothing but simply raised his hands in the air in triumph and started to jump for joy around my feet. It was infectious and I soon joined him. We jumped and danced without any music except that which was playing in our heads until eventually we collapsed on the floor, the laughter of elation pouring out of us both.

Next Story - Kiss >>

Join The Magical World of Walter and Gary Facebook Group

IGLOO

2008-10-10T05:15:00.000-07:00

In the good old days before Global Warming, when large political parties had principles, organic was a branch of chemistry and there were far fewer types of yoghurt, it sometimes snowed a lot in England. It doesn't any more, unless you are up a mountain (or maybe I should say big hill as England is rather lacking in mountains). Sometimes it even snowed so much that school was cancelled. At the time I could not understand why a load of snow outside meant that school had to be cancelled, but I wasn't complaining as it meant an entire day of completely unexpected bonus fun.

On one such occasion, my brother John and I decided that we would make the biggest snowball in the world. Not just East Anglia or Europe and Western Asia, you understand. That would have been rubbish. The biggest in the world. Our house was about half a mile walk away from the school which we both attended. The snow was the perfect type for balling. With snowball battles raging around us, John made a suitable sized ball his hands and we began rolling it towards our house, gathering more and more snow with every roll. After only a short distance the ball had already become so large and heavy that we had to start taking it in turns to push, with the non-pusher taking a chance to rest and recover. Other kids passed us, able only to watch in admiration at our splendid endeavour and to wish that they had the imagination and determination to bring such a project to fruition.

By the time we reached the end of our street, the snowball was almost as tall as me and we were unable to push it any further, despite both of us putting our shoulders into it at the same time. The field next to our house, where we had planned to park our world-beating creation, was only a tantalising few hundred yards away and the ball was only a few yards away from a slightly downhill section of road, where pushing would be considerably easier. Yet between the two of us, we could not budge the frosty globe. So we had to start calling on the help of other kids who were making their way slowly home to streets near ours. In return for their hard labour, they would be allowed to play with the coolest kids in the village for a while. With such an incentive on offer, we quickly managed to gather a small army and once again the icy giant began to move. Before long, it was standing proud in the field next to our house. We briefly considered calling the Guinness Book of Records, but soon decided that we didn't need to bother ourselves with such technicalities. It was quite obviously the biggest snowball in the world and we didn't need a man with a tape measure and a clipboard to reassure us. We weren't in it for the fame and fortune, but for the sense of personal achievement.

Inevitably, after standing and looking at the monument to our efforts and sighing deeply with satisfaction for a while, we needed a new challenge. What should we do with this thing? We can't just let it sit there and slowly melt. The obvious thing to do was to roll a somewhat smaller giant ball and lift it on top to make the biggest snowman in the world. But this was just a bit too obvious and besides, we didn't have a crane.

Eventually a plan hatched and we began to hollow out the massive ball from the top. We got a milk crate and packed more snow into this to make a lid or hatch. Eventually, we had made ourselves a quite unconventional igloo. I was able to get into the hollowed out ball and then pull the snow-packed crate into the gap that was left in the roof, creating a completely enclosed little room. As the youngest brother, I was the only one small enough to get in and fully close the lid. Such a great privilege meant that I forgot about trivial issues such as having enough air to breath and over the next few days I spent a considerable amount of time in the chilly cocoon. We delighted in inviting less brilliant village kids round to view the now famous giant snowball and I would suddenly jump out of it as they were gazing in awe at the spectacle, adding surprise and shock to the already heady experience.

Long after the snows had melted, the biggest snowball in the world stood defiant. Every day we hoped for another snowfall so that we could reinforce the giant. But alas it was not to be and eventually, after what seemed like weeks, it finally passed into legend and folklore.

HATS AND HEROES

2008-10-10T05:03:00.000-07:00

If you have ever looked at my photographs or videos on Facebook, you will note that I have quite a collection of unusual hats. You can see most of them in the video 'Funny Hats, Funny Faces'.

In case you don't know me very well, let me assure you that this fabulous collection does not stay confined to my flat. For quite some time now I have made a point of wearing a piece of marvellous head gear wherever I go. Occasionally I am in a rush and I forget, on which occasions I am able to wander the streets of Sheffield unrecognised. I am always on the lookout for new hats. Not just any old hats, mind you. There has to be something unique about them. If I come across another person with the exact same hat, I am likely to be keenly disappointed. If anyone has any tips about where I can get me another unique hat, then please let me know.

Sometimes people wonder why I do this. Perhaps you are wondering now. If so, good! Here are some of the possible reasons which friends, acquaintances, arch enemies and bus drivers have suggested in the past:-

I am a great big self-obsessed poser.
I am trying to compensate for an underlying lack of self-confidence.
I am trying to draw attention to myself when out in public.

None of these are in fact correct. What's that you say? Yes, I am quite sure. I will now explain the real reason. I wear unusual hats because they are a tangible physical reminder to me that I do not have to be 'normal'. I do not have to fit in with what everyone else considers fashionable. I do not have to give a monkey's what other people think of me. I am an individual. Let me make it clear that it is not the hats themselves that make me an individual. That I simply am, as we all are. But the hats remind me of that fact, so that I go through life making my own decisions and do not succumb to the suffocating pressure to be 'normal' and to fit in that comes at us from all angles.

That leads me on to mentioning a video I recently watched from TED. You can watch the video here.

In it, Philip Zimbardo discusses what it is that leads previously quite 'ordinary' people to commit extraordinary atrocities. I recommend that you stick with the video through to the end where he also reveals what he thinks it is that makes others become 'ordinary heroes' in the same situations.

In summary, the studies which Zimbardo has been involved in indicate that the potential for good and the potential for evil is in every one of us. Certain extreme circumstances and environments will tend to push us either one way or another. The things which make people much more likely to commit evil deeds are conformity, anonymity and lack of accountability. These are the very things that organisations such as the armed forces actively promote. Dressing everyone in uniform, teaching them to follow the orders of superior officers without question, deliberately encouraging them to think that they are not individuals and are not accountable for their actions. People are deliberately dehumanised and once this happens, it is very likely that they can easily commit acts which we would describe as 'inhuman'. On the other side of the coin, the things which make people act heroically are a strong sense of individuality and unshakable personal principles that cannot be affected by peer group or authority pressure. These people are completely personally accountable for their actions and make decisions accordingly.

It appears to me that, unfortunately, our society as a whole is geared mainly towards encouraging conformity and stamping out individuality. Schools dress children in uniform from an early age. The exam system tests their ability to repeat what someone else thinks rather than to think for themselves. In offices up and down the land employees are encouraged to stick to a dress code and follow rigid corporate rules. Politicians have to follow the party whip rather than vote freely for what they think is right. Fashion magazines encourage us to follow trends rather than to buck them. Television and the press encourage us to forget our own unique lives and our own potential and to instead live our lives through celebrities, reality TV contestants or even fictional soap characters.

Well bollocks to that! To quote a Style Council song, 'We don't have to take this crap. We don't have to sit back and relax. We can actually try changing it.'

My hats are a physical reminder to me to do that every day. I am not a follower. I am an individual. I am not a sheep. I am a wolf. I am Pete Hughes and I will decide for myself how my life unfolds. Forward I will stride, shoulder to shoulder with my friends and help create a better world. Who is with me?

GARY'S AWAKENING

2008-10-07T14:50:00.000-07:00

As the early morning sunlight filtered through the cracks in his sideboard home, Gary woke with a sense of urgency and excitement. He was not normally a morning person, but this morning he was immediately wide awake. Then a sudden sense of fear overcame him. What if it was all a dream? Of course it was all a dream. Things like this never happened to Gary.

He turned his attention to his body beneath the patchwork blanket that was keeping out the cold. He noted that he was still fully dressed. This was not all that unusual after a night out with Walter. He was wearing a pair of trousers with the standard four pockets.

"If I don't look right away then my dream won't be shattered so quickly. I can hang onto it a bit longer," Gary thought to himself. He rolled out of bed and made his way to the door of the sideboard. Once there he eased the door carefully open and lowered a length of string down to the ground. The string was fixed to a nail just inside the door, allowing Gary to climb down to the floor and make his way to the bathroom of the house in which his sideboard abode stood. All the way there he was in turmoil. Part of his mind was screaming at him to check his pockets now. But another part expected and feared a terrible let down. For the moment, fear was winning the battle. He held his hands slightly away from his body just in case optimism was to suddenly get the better of him.

Then the words of a song began to enter Gary's mind. Loud and clear they came, but not in his voice.

Whenever you are feeling down, forlorn or a little blue,
Come see Magic Dave, he will tell you what to do.
He serves the greatest beer in town. There's darts and pool as well.
The duke box still costs 20 pence and plays Bat Out Of Hell
When it comes to closing time, Dave rings his little bell.
Everyone ignores it and Dave says 'ah, what the hell?

The speaker inside his head had a beautiful and delicate feminine voice and seemed to end with a little giggle.

"Rosie!" Gary whispered to himself. With that he quickly thrust both hands into his front trouser pockets. His heart sank a little as he felt no sign of a piece of paper. Undeterred, he then tried the back pockets, but once again his hands emerged empty. A pain shot through him like a glass shard to the heart.

"F**********ck!!" Gary shouted in his mind. But outwardly he was silent. He fell to his knees and began to berate himself inside his head. What was he thinking. As if it could have been anything other than a dream. As if things like that happened to someone like him. For a long time he knelt there, his face in his hands. When he eventually looked up, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bottom of the metallic shower unit. There it was staring him right in the face. How had he not noticed until now? From the pocket of the red shirt that he had slept in protruded the corner of a piece of folded paper. Gary felt his heart race suddenly. He could almost hear it beating directly behind the piece of paper that was the cause of the sudden rush.

"Please, please, please. Oh, please!!" Gary said to he knew not whom. Slowly, slowly he raised his hand and reached for the piece of paper. As he pulled it out and unfolded it, he closed his eyes. When the paper was fully opened in front of him, he gradually opened one eye. The text was just a blur at first. Eyelashes and lack of focus making it impossible to make out the words.

Then it seemed like a trumpet fanfare of celebration played in Gary's head. There is was in black and white: 'CALL ME'. Gary closed his eye again and opened the other. Then he opened both. Still the words were there. It was real!

Gary leaped from his crouching position high into the air with one smooth movement, punching his fist up above his head in triumph. Waves of pure joy swept down his spine again and again. He landed back on the ball of his right foot and then began spinning gracefully round the room like a seasoned veteran of the Royal Ballet. He was dancing in silence but the most exalting music continued to play in his head, lifting his spirits higher with every leap. With every twist he looked again at the paper he held in his hand. This dream wasn't going away.

This was exquisitely real and he felt like it could be the first day of the rest of his life.

Next Story - Jumping For Joy >>

Join The Magical World of Walter and Gary Facebook Group

I'm evaluating a multi-media course on blogging from the folks at Simpleology. For a while, they're letting you snag it for free if you post about it on your blog.

It covers:

The best blogging techniques.
How to get traffic to your blog.
How to turn your blog into money.

I'll let you know what I think once I've had a chance to check it out. Meanwhile, go grab yours while it's still free.

FAT MIKES

2008-10-04T06:05:00.000-07:00

Many moons ago I worked as a fitness trainer in a health club which was attached to a hotel. It was a fairly small place, with about 350 members at most. I ran it together with my fine colleague Neil. At certain times of the day, particularly about 2 o'clock in the afternoon, the gym usually got very quiet and we often found ourselves thinking up imaginative ways to amuse ourselves.

As the club had so few members, we got to know them all quite well and Neil and I had nicknames for many of the most regular attendees. Among them were Little Eric, The Dullards, Well Hard Lee and Fat Mike. One day we were discussing the fatness of fat Mike when we realised that we both knew a remarkable amount of Mikes, all of whom were rather portly. Not only that, but a number of celebrities prominent at the time also sprang to mind: Mike Gatting, Mike McShane, Mike Reid and Mike Harding to name but a few. It seemed to us that an unusual proportion of people called Mike were fat.

So, as we had nothing better to do, we decided to do a little research amongst the other club members to find out whether our hypothesis was correct. It turned out that an astonishing 80% of the members of the club who were called Mike were fat, compared with around about 30% for all other names. When we threw in all the Mikes we knew in our personal lives outside work, the figures remained the same.

Now, I am aware that a sample of about 400 is not likely to be accepted as conclusive proof that calling your child Michael will dramatically increase his chances of attaining porkiness. So I would like to extend the survey by inviting readers to do their own little bit of research into the Mikes that they know. All you have to do is write down all the Mikes you can think of in your life and then recall whether they are of generous proportions or not. Then add up all the jumbo Mikes and work out the percentage of the total who could do with losing a few pounds.

You can let us know your results in comments below.

ERIN AND LOTTIE

2008-10-04T05:50:00.000-07:00

As many of you may already be aware, this year I went through just over three months of difficult struggle when my daughters and I were being denied the right to see each other by their mother. It was not the first time this has happened. It is a pattern that has repeated a number of times since I split up from their mother. I disagree with her about something. She says something along the lines of 'do what I say or you can't see your children', at which point I have no choice but to walk away from the situation until she withdraws that threat. That may seem like a harsh decision and it is indeed a very hard one, but I strongly believe it is the right thing to do. I cannot allow my daughters to be used in that manner and to do so would be a betrayal. Also, if I gave even an inch in concession, it would just happen more in the future. So I have to walk away and then stand firm. You cannot negotiate with terrorists.

My girls' mother usually fabricates one or more reasons to justify to herself why she is withdrawing access. These don't usually emerge until some time after her original decision. This time was no different. Almost three weeks after I had last seen my daughters, I received a letter stating the reasons why I was being denied access. I immediately replied to the letter, but my reply was ignored for a further 10 weeks.

You can see a copy of it here.

There was no reply to this letter. I wrote a simple letter every week and an e-mail every few days for the whole of the period requesting that my daughters' mother suggest new contact arrangements if she was not happy with the previous ones. She ignored every one of these communications. Eventually, having exhausted all attempts at reasonable communication, I was preparing to go to court when their mother had a remarkable turn-around.

During the three months, my main fear was that my daughters would be thinking that I did not want to see them. I had no doubt that their mother would be telling them this. There was no other way that she could justify to them what she was doing. I sent them cards and letters every week, but did not know whether they were being given to them. I even tried sending them to their school, who I subsequently discovered also refused to give them to my girls. Some of my good friends also sent cards to Erin and Lottie, as we thought that they might have more chance of being allowed to open something that was not in my handwriting. I will never forget their kind efforts.

Luckily, I had prepared for this. I knew that something like this might happen and so every time I had seen my daughters before this time I had made a point of letting them know that I would always want to see them whenever possible and would never deliberately not see them. In one beautiful five minutes, my fears were allayed. I decided to just turn up at their house one Saturday morning having written a letter a few days earlier saying I would be doing so. The letter stated that if I received no reply then I would assume it was OK. When I arrived, my children's mother was just taking them out. I managed to get a few minutes with them. In those few minutes I knew for certain that they knew exactly what was going on and did not doubt me at all. Their bravery and strength brings tears to my eyes now as I write. It was just what I needed to give me the resolve to carry on doing what was right.

This was a very difficult time for me and I want to take this opportunity to thank all my friends who showed me support during this time. Every one of you made a difference. You helped me always remember who I am: a good father and a good man. I never doubted for one moment that what I was doing was right and your support helped me keep that vital strength. At times of doubt, I kept one thought in mind: "I am love and I cannot be defeated. However long it takes."

If you are on the list below, it is because I deeply appreciate the time you took to support me during this struggle. My apologies if this comes rather late. I have only just reached a point where I feel able to write about this.

Leigh Fiorentino, Hannah and Ruby Jenkyns, Kelly Jayne, Bec Rhodes, Susanne McCabe, Sherri Leger, Lisa King, Beverly Oakland, Kerry Parkin, Sara Horvath, Lee Turner, Steve Moseley, Mike Robinson, Suzy Gould, Therese Mary Savage, Caroline Foy, Mark Bagnall, Tomasz Ondrusz, Marie Piekarski, Jill Hennig, Kate Hughes, Megan Bennet, Matthew Campbell, Michelle Cooney and last but certainly not least my own parents, grandmother, brothers and sister.

It was during this time that I came across Steve Moseley's video on YouTube and decided to help him. Every day my situation brought up a strong need to fight in me. I just needed to do something, anything. But some days, many days in fact, there was nothing I could do. So I had all this fight inside me and nowhere to channel it. I am pleased to say that I found my positive channel by helping Steve spread his video. Steve remains a great inspiration to many many fathers out there.

They say when you help dig someone out of their troubles, you make a hole to bury your own. How very true.

The video below was recorded the day I got my daughters back after more than three months:-

DO UNTO OTHERS

2008-10-03T05:28:00.000-07:00

The Golden Rule or the Ethic of Reciprocity is a moral standard that pervades human societies the world over. It is reported by the Gospel writers to have been taught by Jesus.

Matthew 7:12
"So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets."

The moral standard can also be found in most other religions as well as the writings of secular philosophers. There are many examples here.

However, I think this moral standard is fundamentally flawed, or at least incomplete. It assumes that 'others' want the same things as you do. What if they don't?

I will give an example to illustrate this. When I am upset about something, I generally want to be left alone. I do not want to talk to anyone about it. I just want to seek the strength that is inside me and deal with whatever problem is upsetting me myself. After a short while left alone, I will generally emerge no longer upset. Many are the times I have made the mistake of assuming that this is what other people want too. I really should know better by now, but I still make this school-boy error. Imagine that my lover is upset or in a bad mood and begins to express that to me. Here's what I would want them to do if I were in their position. I would want them to go out and leave me alone for a while. So here is what happens:-

Lover of Pete: I am really upset today about this really upsetting thing.

Pete: OK, I'm off to the gym. See ya.

Lover of Pete: Bastard!

So, to my mind, the Golden Rule just doesn't work properly. Indeed, it actually often directly leads to 'others' getting heartily pissed off at you. I wonder if we can improve on this?

How about:

"Do unto others as you imagine they want you to do unto them, bearing in mind they may not want the same things as you at all, in fact it is pretty much guess work, but give it your best shot anyway, you'll find out soon enough if you got it wrong as you will very likely find yourself invited on a trip to guilt. If so, next time try something different. Either that, or just ask them what they want and do that. In fact, that last one is probably where you should start now I've had a think about it."

Pretty catchy, hey?

Feel free to give me any other suggestions you may have.

CONKERS

2008-10-03T05:22:00.000-07:00

It is about this time of year when the seeds of the horse chestnut tree are ripening and starting to fall. Children all over the country will be gathering them so that they can engage in the wonderful sport of conkers. Those of you who live in other countries may not be familiar with this game. Basically, the 'conker' (horse chestnut) is skewered or drilled through the middle so that it can be attached to a string. The two players then take it in turns to hit their opponent's conker with their own, trying to break it so it falls off the string. The player with an intact conker remaining at the end is the winner. If a conker manages to make it through several matches, it starts to take on legendary status and is named after the number of matches it has won. 'This one's a sixer' or 'I've got a twelver at home but I've retired it and put it on a shelf in my room.'

With that in mind, children try to find and collect the best horse chestnuts. Hardness and size are two prized attributes. One so that your conker will not break and the other so that your conker's weight will impact with greater force on the opponent's. Some have also been known to engage in underhand tactics such as baking or soaking in vineger to make their conkers tougher. This is called cheating.

All that leads me onto the thing that I was originally going to write about, which was a day in my childhood which was and still remains one of the greatest days of my life. In the village in which I grew up, there were a limited number of horse chestnut trees and therefore the competition was fierce to get the best conkers which fell from these. Chilren were also known to throw sticks at, shake or climb the trees in order to encourage down the conkers which were still hanging from the branches. It wasn't unheard of for a fight to break out when a particularly fine-looking specimen fell to the ground half way between two eager lads.

One day a legend was born. There was tell of a roadside copse in a nearby hamlet in which could be found so many conkers that one would have enough to extend the season well into the next year. The rumour spread around our school like the tale of El Dorado, but few believed it. We had heard such tales before, only to be cruelly disappointed. But one fine weekend, my brother John and I decided to find out for ourselves and we set off on our bikes on what at the time seemed like an epic journey (although the hamlet of Westwick was actually only two miles away!) When we got there it was like a conker Alladin's cave. The floor of the copse was almost carpeted with conkers. There were conkers the size of which we had never even imagined.

Luckily, our faith had encouraged us to bring some carrier bags with us. We each filled two of these, with the biggest and the best and with some regret that we were still leaving many behind, we set off back to our home village, the weight of the bags making us wobble on our bikes as we held them on either end of our handle bars.

I will never forget the feeling I had that day. It was one of wonder and elation. I guess that must be how people feel when they win the Lottery. It also reminds me of the beautiful innocence, adventure and simplicity of childhood.

BROWN

2008-10-03T05:15:00.000-07:00

I have sometimes been known to contemplate growing old. I would have said old and grey, but as my hair has been (at least partly) grey since I was 13, that doesn't make sense in my case.

It appears to me that when one gets past a certain age, one is taken over by an overwhelming urge to wear brown all the time. As I write this, at the age of 37, I have not yet felt even the slightest tug in that direction. I do not own any brown items of clothing, except perhaps a pair of shoes. But there is no escaping the inevitable. At some point in the future I will be donning a full length brown outfit (including hat) along with the best of them.

I wonder if this will arrive suddenly or gradually. Will I wake up one morning and just be totally disgusted with the colourful array of items in my wardrobe, or will there be a gradual slide towards drabness which happens so gradually as to be unnoticeable.

I recently read a little tale called Frog Soup. It went something like this. If you try putting a frog into very hot water to make frog soup, the frog will be shocked by the sudden change in temperature and will immediately jump out before it gets boiled. If, on the other hand, you put a frog into warm water and then gradually turn up the heat bit by bit, the frog will not notice until it is too late and will swim around blissfully unaware of its impending doom.

I think that is probably what happens with brown. If someone brought a whole wardrobe full of brown clothing round to my house right now, even if they were giving it all away for free, there's no way that I would accept it. However, a brown gift here and the odd item which you are not quite sure whether it is brown or a brownish shade of green and before you know what's happening, you open your wardrobe to discover that over 50% of the things in it are brown.

Be warned. That is all I am saying.

ALWAYS RIGHT

2008-10-03T01:48:00.001-07:00

As an individual with strongly held opinions, I occasionally find myself faced with the accusation: 'You think you are always right.'

If that was stated in a slightly different way, then I would wholeheartedly agree. Change the words round a little and you get: 'You always think you are right.'

There is a subtle difference. Yes, I do always think I am right. Doesn't everyone? If not, then why the hell are they saying what they are saying and not saying something else which they do think is right? Maybe I am wrong right now. But I think I am right. I find it hard to believe that there are a whole load of people who go around thinking that what they are about to say is wrong, but then they go ahead and say it anyway.

But saying that "I always think I am right' is not the same as saying 'I think I am always right'. I do not. A brief glance into the past tells me that there have been a number of times when I was not right. So if one assumes that trend is likely to continue, I will continue to be not right some of the time. I therefore do not think I am always right. If I did, I would take up gambling with great gusto.

ABSOLUTELY

2008-10-03T01:47:00.000-07:00

If, like me, you sometimes find yourself engaged in a conversation with someone and your mind is elsewhere for one reason or another, one word is remarkably useful for preventing yourself from being a accused of the heinous crime of 'not listening'. The magic word is 'absolutely'. You can say 'absolutely' in response to pretty much anything that the other party is saying, and it will still make sense in the conversation. Give it a try next time you are in a really dull meeting with a work colleague, listening to one of your friends whine on about how their girlfriend just doesn't understand them, or have become a Member of Parliament and are trying to look like you care when being visited by members of the public at your constituency office. It pays to put somewhat different tone and emphasis on your 'absolutely' from time to time, but once you've cracked that, you should be good to go.

Grumpy Geoff: I'm just not happy. Something isn't right. She just doesn't understand me. You know?

Pete: Absolutely.

Grumpy Geoff: I mean, how hard can it be just to understand simple sentences? It's not like I'm hiding anything.

Pete: Absolutely

Grumpy Geoff: God knows I try, but some days it feels like I'm banging my head against a brick wall.

Pete: Absolutely

Grumpy Geoff: Want another pint?

Pete: Absolutely!!

ZOOM

2008-10-02T14:45:00.000-07:00

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Walter felt truly present in the moment. The different instruments of the band competed for his attention. He listened first to the fiddle, then the flute, then the bhodran. Never before had he listened so intently. Though he had no musical training, Walter felt at that moment that he somehow understood on a deep level what it was that was making the music sound so beautiful. He could feel in his soul how the harmony and rhythm were so right, so perfect. The light in Saoirse's eyes shone bright as she looked deeply into Walter's. She moved with a wonderful freedom that her Irish name did not do justice. Extraordinary and unique, her dancing seemed to be telling a passionate story without words. Until now Walter had been unable to look at another beautiful woman without immediately being reminded of Tallina and feeling an instant stabbing pain in the pit of his stomach. As the band came to the end of the song, Saoirse gripped Walter's hand and pulled him towards the exit.

"Where are we going?" asked Walter.

"You'll see," answered Saoirse with playful excitement in her voice.

They left the pub and were back in the vast cavern. As she led Walter around the cavern wall, Walter's attention turned to the soft and delicate warmth of Saoirse's hand against his. Then he noticed the cavern lights reflecting off her beautiful long dark hair and how it bounced and swayed in time with her flowing dress as she walked. Walter felt an exhilarating sense of freedom For the first time in months, his mind was not constantly bombarding him with thoughts of true love lost. Only yesterday Walter had been unable to conceive of being happy again without Tallina. Yet here he was and nothing seemed wrong. Finally he had escaped the past and was back in the present. He felt a massive sense of relief and peace.

Saoirse opened a door in the cavern wall and led Walter through. Beyond the door was a stone spiral staircase hewn out of solid rock. She began climbing at a brisk pace, urging Walter to follow with the subtlest movement of her eyes. Up and up they climbed. It seemed effortless to Saoirse, but after several turns of the spiral, Walter began to gasp for breath. Finally they reached the top where Saoirse opened another door and daylight suddenly came shining through. Walter shielded his eyes which had become accustomed to the dim cavern lights. Saoirse led him out onto a wide rocky ledge where Walter fell to the ground and lay on his back gasping for breath. Saoirse giggled at his lack of stamina and then lay down beside him, her hand clasping his as Walter's heavy breathing gradually subsided. They felt the warm sunshine on their faces and lay soaking it up without speaking. Now and again Saoirse grasped Walter's hand a little tighter to remind him that she was holding it. Walter needed no reminding. To him it felt like a powerful electrical charge was flowing from Saoirse's hand into his.

After several minutes' silence, Saoirse finally spoke.

"What was she loike?" she asked.

"What?" asked Walter, surprised by the sudden end to the silence.

"Your lady. What was she loike?"

Walter hesitated for a moment. He had finally found some relief from his pain and did not want it to return. But as he thought about Tallina, he was surprised to find that the pain was not there.

"She was wonderful. Truly wonderful. I felt pure effortless joy simply being in her presence. She didn't have to do anything. She just had to be there. Her presence cast a spell on me, the greatest of spells, dissolving all worry and hurt. Her voice was like the sweetest music and her wonderful feminine beauty made me shake my head in disbelief. She is wonderful."

"How d' ye feel now, Walter?"

Walter stopped for a moment, trying to make sense of how he was feeling. There was no hurt any more. No pain. There was an overwhelming sense of freedom, peace and love. Now he understood what Dara had been saying.

"I love her," said Walter. As he thought of Tallina he felt pure love coarsing through him. Yet he knew then that he no longer needed her. The love that he felt for her was with him now, whether she was by his side or not. It was intense and powerful and no-one could take it away. Walter felt as though he had somehow grown several inches taller.

"Oi can see that, Walt," said Saoirse. She leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. Walter felt sleep overcoming him as he relaxed like he had not relaxed for far too long. Slowly he drifted off and Saoirse felt his grip on her hand relax.

Some time later, Walter awoke with a vivid dream fresh in his mind. He opened his eyes to find Saoirse sitting cross-legged in front of him, as if she had been patiently waiting for him to awake. She raised her eyebrows inquisitively and smiled warmly at him, causing him to let out an altogether unplanned giggle.

"Tell me yer dream, Walt," said Saoirse.

"Hey? How do you know I had a dream?" Walter asked with surprise.

"Aaah, dat would be telling!" said Saoirse mysteriously.

"All right then," said Walter after pretending to give her a scolding look. "I was watching a lottery or bingo machine. The kind with the air blowing ping pong type balls around so that they fly about randomly, sometimes banging into one another. There two sets of 26 balls. Some pink and some blue. Each had one of the letters of the alphabet on it. A-Z pink and A-Z blue.

"When balls with letters that were quite close to each other in the alphabet came together, there seemed to be a kind of magnetic attraction, they stayed together for a while and flew around the air chamber together, moving near the top of the chamber as they seemed to gain extra energy as a pair. But they eventually lost that energy and sank back down to the bottom of the chamber where they moved around listlessly for a while before breaking apart. It seemed that the closer the letters were to each other in the alphabet, the longer they were likely to stay together.

"Then occasionally the exact same two letters came together, they stuck together strongly and ZOOM! They flew off out of the tube at the top, never to return to the air chamber."

Saoirse smiled a big smile as Walter finished his story.

"Oi think Oi'm going to enjoy you," she said. "Got to go now Walter. See ya soon." With that Saoirse rose quickly to her feet and went back through the door to the staircase. Before Walter had time to protest, she was gone.

Next Story - Gary's Awakening >>

Join The Magical World of Walter and Gary Facebook Group

YOGHURT

2008-10-02T04:32:00.000-07:00

The other day I was performing another magnificent stroll through my local supermarket and found myself down the aisle which had a bank of refrigerated displays on either side. One side was completely stocked with various different types of yoghurt or similar deserts. The other side was completely stocked with various different types of butter or margarine. In that moment I was transported back to a much simpler time when I used to go shopping with my mother as a young lad every Friday evening. I was one of four children and we all really enjoyed our food, so this expedition was always greatly anticipated, as we had usually eaten the cupboards and fridge almost bare by about Tuesday.

I am pretty sure that in those simpler times, you could only get one kind of youghurt. It was called yoghurt. There were three flavours available: strawberry, peach melba and black cherry. There were two brands available: Ski or Prize. Ski was the best. Then there was the supermarket's own brand (which was just like Ski, only really horrible). On the other side of the aisle there was a much smaller choice too. There was butter or there was margarine.

This memory raises a few questions in my mind.

First of all, in the time when there were so fewer choices, how did they fill the shop? I am pretty sure the Sainsbury's supermarket where I lived near Cambridge was the same size then as it is now. And it isn't just yoghurt and margarine either. Bread, shampoo, pasta, snacks, biscuits. In fact, this trend has taken place on pretty much every aisle. So just what was the supermarket filled with in those halcyon days?

Secondly, is all the extra choice actually beneficial to us? The many and various new yoghurts and spreads are often sold to us with the promise that they will bring health benefits. Low fat, low in saturates, low in calories, probiotic, cholesterol lowering, organic etc etc. Yet a quick glance at the national health statistics reveals that back in the good old 1970s we were facing far fewer health problems as a nation as we do now.

Could it be that it is just an ever increasing spiral of brand hypnotism, presenting us with so much colour and choice that we lose the power of rational discernment? Could it be that most of the claims made by these brands are in actual fact a load of old bollocks?

XENOS

2008-09-25T03:54:00.001-07:00

Two nations once lived on an isle, side by side,

Each one emboldened by national pride,

Each viewing the other with fear and mistrust,

And believing their side was the one that was just.

The first of the nations was named Baradun.

On their flag was emblazoned a fiery sun.

They had long golden hair and they liked to wear red

Except during Spring when they wore green instead.

They worshipped a god who was awfully kind

And had everybody's best interests in mind,

But now and again he'd get in a bad mood

And send plagues of insects to eat all their food.

Ayamadup was the name of this god.

In his right hand he carried a magical rod

Which he used to wreak havoc and terrible pain.

It was also quite handy for making it rain.

The second great country was called Faradoon.

Their flag bore an emblem which looked like the moon.

Their hair was dark brown and their eyebrows were thick.

They ate things that made Baradunians feel sick.

The god that they worshipped was also quite pleasant

As long as you regularly gave him a present

Of sacrificed sheep or a bowl of bull's blood

Both of these made him feel ever so good.

Aymanotreel was this deity's name

But to say it out loud was a cause of great shame.

He wore a spectacular flowing white gown

And a dazzling jewel sat atop his great crown.

As they eyed one another with familiar unease,

Both nations were struck by a deadly disease.

Bird song was drowned out by the screaming and crying

As hospitals filled with the dead and the dying.

More contagious than measles, more deadly than cancer.

The doctors could not give their patients an answer.

So they turned to the priests who recalled ancient lore

And stirred up their hearts to prepare them for war.

They told how the old scripts predicted their woes

And how only one thing could relieve them of those.

"When the rod and the jewel are once more made one,

The terrible blight will be finally gone."

So the war drums did beat and with nationalist pride

They marched in the street with their friends by their side.

Both ready to face their abominable foe,

Off to the battle the two tribes did go.

The fighting was fierce and the blood it ran red.

Back at home many families mourned many dead.

Hatred grew stronger with every son lost

And they fought on, ignoring the terrible cost.

On the war raged with no sign of a winner.

The generals had trouble digesting their dinner.

With their god on their side, they'd been sure they would win

And be back home before the cruel winter set in.

Death from the war and death from the disease.

Each nation began to be brought to its knees.

As farms went untended and factories unmanned,

The spectre of famine now threatened both lands.

Then appeared an outsider from over the sea.

He spoke to both nations with authority.

"United you'll stand, but divided you'll fall.

You must give up this enmity once and for all."

With reluctant acceptance they heeded his words

Men returned to their barracks and laid down their swords.

Then they followed the stranger to high on a hill

Where an old ruined temple stood quiet and still.

As they entered the temple, their eyes were amazed

By the beautiful art that time had not erased

On the wall straight ahead was a fabulous sight

With dazzling colours so vibrant and bright.

Two princes looked down standing shoulder to shoulder,

A symbol of strength from an age so much older.

A powerful symbol of brotherly love,

They stared at the gathering from high above.

One's hair was golden, the other's was dark.

The realisation was sudden and stark.

Both parties turned slowly and looked at the others.

Their peoples were cousins, descended from brothers.

Mistrust that had lingered for hundreds of years

Began to dissolve as they fought back the tears,

As they realised just how much potential had gone

When two nations forgot that two nations were one.

After many embraces and shaking of hands,

With regret in their hearts they returned to their lands.

The rod and the jewel were at last brought together

And the two nations ended their folly forever.

WILL POWER

2008-09-19T11:40:00.002-07:00

The words we habitually use when we talk to others or talk to ourselves in our heads have a very powerful effect on our psychology. Understanding that and watching out for habitual patterns can transform our personal effectiveness.

Consider the following passage which I have adapted from a famous speech:-

"The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together in their cause and in their need, ought to defend to the death their native soil, perhaps aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength. Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we might not flag or fail. We really should go on to the end, we should fight in France, we should fight on the seas and oceans, we should fight with growing confidence and maybe even growing strength in the air, we should defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we should fight on the beaches, we should fight on the landing grounds, we should fight in the fields and in the streets, we should fight in the hills; we might never surrender."

Contrast that with Winston Churchill's original:-

"The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together in their cause and in their need, will defend to the death their native soil, aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength. Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender."

Do you think that the first one would have inspired the nation and gone down as one of the greatest motivational speeches in history? Maybe what I have done seems a little silly, but the first passage is how many of us habitually speak, both to ourselves and to the people around us.

"I ought to do some exercise."

"I might spend more quality time with my kids."

"I am unhappy in my marriage, I should do something to change it."

When we use words like 'ought' and 'should' we are allowing ourselves a psychological escape. These phrases are often followed by 'but ....' and end up being excuses why you are actually not going to do the things. We are torturing ourselves by continually holding up the things which bring dissatisfaction in our lives, but not committing to do something about them.

Things never get done until you apply will power. By that I do not mean some untenable feeling of strong determination, but simply habitually using the word 'will' (or in Churchill's case 'shall') when we talk to ourselves and others.

"I WILL do some exercise."

"I WILL spend more quality time with my kids."

"I am unhappy in my marriage, I WILL do something to change it."

When we use the word 'will', it is far more strong and certain and there is no room for excuses. It is even better if we get more specific about it.

"I WILL do 30 minutes exercise 5 days a week starting tomorrow."

"I WILL set aside an extra hour every day to concentrate solely on playing with my kids and I WILL exclude everything else during that hour."

"I am unhappy in my marriage, I WILL speak with my wife about it this evening at 7 pm."

Many people do not realise that will power is just simply a matter of changing our habitual language patterns. People often say things such as 'that man has very strong will-power but that other fellow is weak-willed'. The point is that we all have very strong will power if we choose to use it. All we have to do is make the effort to root out indecisive language and replace it with the power that habitual use the word 'will' instantly brings.

WEATHER

2008-09-19T11:40:00.001-07:00

I was standing at the bar in my local pub the other day when the chap who was getting served next to me said, "I was thinking of taking my wife and kids out for a picnic at the weekend. Do you know what the weather forecast is?"

"Yes," I replied. "It's that really short programme with the big map that's on just after the News."

VULCAN

2008-09-19T11:40:00.000-07:00

If you ever get bored one day and are in need of some philosophical stimulation, take a look down the left hand side of this blog until you come to the links where you will find the Spock Quote Generator. Once there, if you refresh the page, you will get a random quote from the legendary Science Officer each time.

Here are a few of my favourites:-

SPOCK: "I have never understood the female capacity to avoid a direct answer to any question."

You don't have to travel to Vulcan to hear variations of this one, which I hazard a guess are spoken in pubs, male changing rooms and on golf courses up and down the land every minute of the day. Spock's role in Star Trek was to play the ultra-logical and straight-forward foil to Captain Kirk's more complex, emotional and 'human' character. It is a dynamic very closely reflected in intimate male-female relationships. Avoiding the question is also a favourite technique of politicians of course. In living room Newsnight studios up and down the land, Paxman-like husbands desperately struggle to extract straight answers from their wily counterparts, but to no avail. If you want to hold onto a bar of wet soap, don't grip tighter. I think the message that the writer Roddenberry was trying to convey with his characters is that there is no one right or wrong way of approaching life, that our differences should be accepted and celebrated as they are the very things that make life so interesting. Having said that, Spock is clearly the best! ;-)

For some more wonderful celebration of the differences between men and women in relationships, visit Mil and Margaret. You have to scroll down a bit for the really good ones.

SPOCK: "Every living thing wants to survive."

I have often been known to have friendly debates with members of some of the world's larger religions and one of the questions they come up with is something along the lines of: 'If there is no God or if the Bible / Koran / L Ron Hubbard do not speak absolute truth, then how do we know the difference between good and bad?" The above quote provides the essence of the answer to this, although it is stated a little naively. Dawkins would argue that it is genes and not actual organisms that 'want to' survive. That is how it is possible for one person to give up their lives for their children, their community or their country. Because by doing so they are doing what is necessary to make it most likely that most of their genes will survive into the future.

All moral questions can be boiled down to that. What course of action is most likely to ensure that me, my family, my country, my species survive and thrive. That is why some moral questions are fairly easy and fixed. Such as: "Is it wrong to kill people for fun?" It is easy to see that any community that held the view that it is OK to kill people for fun would quickly face some survival problems. But other questions are much harder to answer using this criterion. Such as: "Is it wrong to be gay?" Although I do not agree with them, is possible for people to come up with reasons why homosexuality might be bad for a community. It is also possible for others to strongly counter these views, and so this is a moral question which divides opinion and also one for which the majority consensus changes over time, so that laws which once made homosexuality illegal are repealed.

The fact that some questions are easier to answer than others, and the fact that the majority consensus on moral issues shifts over time, reinforces the idea that the notions of good, bad, right and wrong are born out of one simple biological instinct: survive!

SPOCK: "I remind you that humans are only a tiny minority in this galaxy."

This is a very poignant message for our time, attacking the arrogance of human beings who assume that we are in some way superior to all the other species with which we share our planet and can therefore do whatever we want with them. It would be interesting to know how we would treat other creatures should we ever discover life elsewhere in the universe. Would it be OK to ruthlessly exploit these creatures if we were able? Would we kill and eat them as we do our fellow Earthlings? How would we decide?

"Hang on a minute!" You may be thinking. "You just said it simply comes down to a matter of survival, so bollocks to the other species". Well, exactly, and by ignoring the long-game, by thinking that it is OK just to exploit the planet's resources so that generations close to us can prosper, we unwittingly may condemn our species to extinction down the line. Ecologists would point to the fact that every species plays an essential role in a complex network of interaction of which we are only a tiny part. Yet we wantonly destroy parts of the wondrous system that has sustained our species for millennia so that we can get short-term gratification in the form of material wealth. That means that ultimately our species may not survive, and that is why it is foolish and arrogant of us to consider ourselves superior to any other species. The crocodiles are probably laughing at us behind our backs. They've been around the block and seen it all before.

There are plenty more in the Spock Quote Generator, but that's all from me today folks. Until the next time, live long and prosper!

UNCONDITIONAL

2008-09-16T22:48:00.000-07:00

The pain was all too familiar now. It greeted Walter every day as he awoke from troubled dreams. A sickness for which he knew no remedy. A burning pain in the pit of his stomach. Each morning as he came round there was a tiny glimmer of hope. The hope that the pain belonged only to the dreams and that his reality continued as beautifully as it once had. It was as if the knife was being twisted anew each morning as the sunlight brought the real world harshly into full colour.

The pain was familiar but his surroundings were not. Slowly Walter began to remember that he had left the comfort of his sofa home and was now across the sea in Ireland, the guest of his cousin Seamus the leprechaun. His recollection of his arrival in Ireland the previous evening was decidedly shaky. Like many inhabitants of his beautiful homeland, Seamus took the notion of celebrating life very literally and had persuaded Walter to join with him in celebrating the passing of every half hour of the journey with another Guinness. Walter vaguely recalled that once they arrived in the Emerald isle, there also seemed to be a general air of celebration at their arrival, which had included live music and dancing on tables.

As the memories slowly returned to Walter, he realised that maybe at least some of the pain he was feeling was the price of the night before. His attention shifted from his stomach to his mouth, which felt like he had been eating loft insulation. He opened his eyes and the light caused the throbbing pain in his head to sharply worsen. Like a stranded Foreign Legionnaire, all Walter could think of was water. Then a welcome smell interrupted the torture. The smell of frying bacon so powerful that it caused his barren mouth to start watering once more.

Seamus entered in an unnaturally buoyant mood, carrying a tray in one hand and a tin whistle in the other.

"Aaah, you've foinally come round! Oi thart you were gonna make us late fer de pub. Here, get dis down ye and then we'll get going," said Seamus.

"What? The pub? What time is it?" Walter's stomach churned slightly at the thought of more drinking as he took the tray from Seamus.

"It's 10 o'clock," answered Seamus.

"10 o'clock? We are going to the pub at ten o'clock in the morning?" Walter asked in astonishment.

"Well, you were still asleep earlier. But don't ye be worrying none. Oi don't tink we'll have missed much. Oi want ye to meet Dara down there. He's our equivalent of your Magic Dave. He's a magic barman legend round these parts. If anyone can sort out your head for ye, Dara's yer man."

"Ah, I don't know Seamus. I'm not sure more drinking's going to solve my problems. I'm not sure I want to talk about Tallina any more. I came here to get away, to forget." As he mentioned her name, the anguish was noticable in Walter's face and body, like he was flinching to avoid a fierce blow.

"Ha ha! Drinking's not gonna solve yer problems? Jaysus, you English are a strange lot. Oi sappose ye tink dat foighting is 'just not cricket' too! Listen Walter, you're in Oireland now. We'll show you what it means to be aloive. When oi've finished with ye, you won't even remember her name." Seamus placed his tin whistle to his lips and started playing a tune which Walter didn't recognise, but which nonetheless seemed to stir something inside him. The heady music from the previous night flooded back into his mind and for a moment he was entranced. Then Seamus knew he had his man. Tin whistle magic never failed.

As they left Seamus' place, Walter was able to take in all that he had missed the night before. They were in a vast underground network of caverns, one small part of which was Seamus' abode. They followed a tunnel for a short while before emerging into a vast chamber which was criss-crossed with paths carved into the cavern floor by thousands of passing feet. The paths led to many further openings in the cavern walls on all sides. Although there seemed to be no signs to guide the way, Seamus strode confidently on, beckoning Walter. Eventually they reached a door which was roughly opposite Seamus' quarters. A small picture of a tankard hung above the door with the words 'Dara Duff - Ales, Wines, Spirits and Sensational Advice' below it.

Walter looked at his watch, which read 10.45 am. He expected that they would be the first people to arrive at the pub. But when Seamus opened the door, he was hit by a wall of noise. Walter could not believe his eyes. The place was packed. In one corner a trio played fiddle, flute and bodhran. In front of them a flame-haired beauty sang with a voice which sent shivers down Walter's spine. All around were animated faces. They were dancing, singing along or trying to hold conversations above the music. A great cheer went up as Seamus entered. From seemingly out of nowhere, another wonderfully natural looking raven-haired beauty rushed up to Seamus, grabbing his waist and kissing him on the lips, before turning and walking away, pausing momentarily to look over her shoulder at him once more with a dazzling glint in her eye.

Seamus pushed his way through the thong towards the bar with Walter following closely behind, drawing interested looks from those close by. When they reached the bar, Seamus nodded at a young looking fellow behind the bar who immediately whispered something to his colleague and then strode over to opposite where Seamus and Walter stood.

"Is this him?" The barman asked Seamus. Walter noted that his accent was very mild. This he welcomed as he often had to listen hard to understand Seamus, particularly when he was speaking with his fellow country folk.

"Dis is him," Seamus confirmed. "Walter, meet Dara Duff - de greatest magic barman in all Oireland."

"Hi Dara," said Walter. He was somewhat surprised. He had been expecting someone much older. Dara looked like he was barely old enough to serve alcohol. "If you don't mind me asking, how old are you?"

"I'm 35 Walter," answered Dara, causing Walter's eyebrows to rise sharply.

"Don't let dat baby face fool ye," Seamus chipped in. "He's been around as long as de rest of us. Only it seems he knows someting we don't."

"Ha ha!" Dara laughed. "I just got lucky with my parents! Anyway, Walter, Seamus tells me you might need my help. Something about a woman is it?" As he spoke these words, Dara looked deep into Walter's eyes. It seemed to Walter as if someone had suddenly turned the volume down in the rest of the room. The sights around him blurred, leaving only Dara in sharp focus. "Tell me your story, Walter, and we'll see what I can do for you. Here, get this down you." He handed Walter a glass of something that looked a lot like whiskey. But when Walter drank it, the taste was surprisingly sweet. What remained of his hangover instantly disappeared and a feeling of calm came over Walter as he began to relate his tale. He told Dara of his transformation after meeting Tallina, his shock and devastation when she left him, and finally the heartbreak of seeing her with another man on St Patrick's Day. Throughout the tale, Dara kept his eyes fixed on Walter, saying nothing, only occasionally nodding. When Walter had finished, Dara rubbed his chin and nodded some more. Eventually he spoke.

"Though you say that you do, you do not truly love this woman right now," Dara said.

"What?" Walter's anger rose swiftly at the suggestion. "How the hell do you know? Who are you to tell me what I am or am not feeling? I do f**king love her. I cannot stop thinking of her. I cannot function properly. What the hell would you know about it?"

"I tell you again that you do not!" Dara remained expressionless as he calmly repeated his assertion.

"Real love is unconditional." Dara continued. "The fact that you are feeling so much pain indicates that you had some conditions. I suspect that one of your conditions was to be loved back. That is a selfish condition. You wanted that for you. You feel you somehow deserve it in return for the 'love' that you gave to her. Real love is never selfish or needy. You want her with you and you want something from her. If you understood what love really is, you would not be feeling this pain. When you truly love, then loving is its own reward. You do not love with the expectation of being loved back. You love because to love lifts you to a higher level of being, regardless of whether you get something back or not.

"If you truly loved right now, then you would be feeling only feelings of love and compassion when you thought of Tallina. You would be wishing her happiness whatever choices she makes. The pain comes from a sense of disappointment and loss. You feel that you are missing out on something which you deserve. You particularly think you deserve it more than this biker feller. You also feel that you have lost something that you were once being given. But real love is given freely and asks for nothing in return. Therefore there can be no feelings of disappointment or loss. It is in the giving that you are fulfilled."

"But I experienced such a deep level of happiness when I was with her. A happiness that I had never even contemplated before." Tears began to well up in Walter's eyes as he spoke these words. "If that was not love, then what the hell was it?"

"It is likely that during moments with her you caught a glimpse of what real love is. When you forgot about the myriad of thoughts that normally compete to occupy your mind and became truly present in the blissful moments you spent with her. When you temporarily brought out the beauty of your true self in the presence of someone doing the same. Your mistake is thinking that it was she who brought you that feeling, when the truth is that it is something that you both brought out of yourselves in those moments when you remembered your true selves. When that happened, you were able to give freely to each other. If you had both been able to sustain that, you would not need my help now."

"You can learn to do this all the time, whether you are with someone or not. Love is given freely from a position of strength by people who already have it in abundance, because they have realised that the beauty and value of their true selves can be accessed at will. Deeply fulfilling relationships can be created when two such people decide to spend time together. If you want true love, first you need to learn this for yourself, then you will be ready to seek another who has also learned it. Until then, speak not of love, for you are deceiving yourself." As he finished the last sentence, Dara broke eye contact with Walter and looked over his shoulder. Suddenly Walter could hear the intoxicating music once more and the room around him came back into focus. He felt a soft hand grabbing his and gently pulling. It was the same dark haired vision of beauty that had kissed Seamus on the way in. She beckoned Walter out onto the dance floor. His head was swimming with thoughts stirred up by Dara's words. The rhythm of the music and the many voices around him were hypnotising Walter as he allowed himself to be led. Eyes sparkling with joy looked deeply into his as his body started to move in time with the band.

"Hoiya Walter," said his unexpected partner as she pressed her soft cheek against his to get close to his ear. Her delicate feminine voice soothed Walter's mental turmoil. The accent which Walter thought sounded rough when spoken by Seamus had suddenly become melodic and exotic. "Oi'm Saoirse. Dat's Freedom in English. Seamus told me a lot about ye. But oi want to foind out some more."

Next Story - Zoom >>

Join The Magical World of Walter and Gary Facebook Group

THINK AGAIN!

2008-09-11T04:32:00.000-07:00

I recently watched an interesting video in which education and media expert Jonathan Drori challenges us to answer some apparently simple questions and then presents answers which may be surprising to many.

I will reproduce the two questions which are in my opinion were the most interesting. If you want to see the others, watch the video!

1. An acorn grows over time into an enormous oak tree. Where does most of the material which makes up the oak tree come from? That is, where does the tons of 'stuff' which gets turned into wood, bark, leaves etc. mostly come from?

2. Why is it hotter in the summer than it is in the winter?

I won't tell you the answers here, you can find them out by watching the video (it is only 12 1/2 minutes long). If you think that the answers are obvious, chances are you are wrong!

This video is a great jolt for getting us to start thinking things through for ourselves and to stop assuming that the things we were taught as children are correct. It is also something of an indictment of our education system as it stands.

TURKISH

2008-09-11T04:26:00.000-07:00

If you scan my Facebook photo album called 'Tanks and Tats UK' you will notice that I received some comments on some of the pictures from my friend Serpil Altinova in Turkey.

Now Turkish really isn't my strong point, so I found myself an online translator for the job.

Here are some results I got:-

sapka hastasi - The hat patient

harbi uçuksun - The ramrod offers an oral herpes

Shortly afterwards I was talking on MSN to a friend of mine, who apparently has hidden talents and can speak Turkish.

Her translations were:-

sapka hastasi - Crazy hat guy

harbi uçuksun - You're utterly out there

Either the people who wrote the online translator have a good sense of humour, or there are some cracking double-entendres available in Turkish!

SALES E-MAIL

2008-09-11T04:23:00.000-07:00

I was recently browsing the Web with the view to possibly purchasing some CDs (audio books) from a company in San Diego, USA. I began a purchase process, but decided to pull out when I saw the shipping costs.

The next day I got an e-mail from a salesperson at the company. This struck me as a little intrusive and I would normally have ignored them or told them to eff off. But I was in a good mood, so I decided to have some fun.

The following reproduced e-mails are the fun I had!

Hi Peter,

I noticed that you might have been having difficulty ordering on the web and wanted to make it easier for you. If you would still like to purchase product, I can work out cheaper shipping for you.
Also, there's something that you may not be aware of. Your order contains 4 items from the Personal Coaching Collection. There are a total of 6 available. If you got all 6, the cost is $89.
When you get a chance give me a call at 001-858-535-6274 or just reply to this email. If you would like me to call you, I will be happy to.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Have a great day.

Thanks,

Kay Knuteson
Product Specialist

----------

Wotcha Kay

How's life in San Diego? You lot really are on the ball, hey? I might still like to purchase some products, but I already have 2 of the series now. The first one and the one about Energy for Life. I got them from a shady looking Latvian feller in a remarkably tall hat, who said he didn't need them any more because his every dream had now been fulfilled.

You are also correct in guessing that I was altogether rather shocked by the shipping costs, so much so that I fell off my chair. But don't worry, while I was on the floor I found a cuff-link that I had been looking for for ages, so it turned out to be a rewarding experience after all. I also noticed that my carpet could really do with a vacuum, but I have so far managed to think of much better things to be doing with myself, and so the carpet remains in a state that my mother would not be at all proud of.

Anyway, Kay, enough about my adventures. What tempting deal can you offer me from across the miles?

You have a great day too, Flower.

Cheers, beers and Britney Spears,

Pete

----------

Hi Pete,

Thanks for getting back to me.
That was great. You can seriously be a writer. You can write for a great sitcom or something.
Life is doing good here in San Diego. Thanks for asking.
Well, I can ship the four to you for $25.
How's that?
If you would like to move forward with the order, would you like me to ship to the following?:
[My work address here]

If you would like to do the order with me via email, you can email me your credit-card details and telephone number and I'll process your order right away. If you would like me to call you just let me know. You can call me at 001-858-535-6274 if you like.
Cheers, Beer, and Britney Spears to you too, my friend.

----------

Hello again Kay

It's nearly midnight here in Blighty and my wise old grandmother warned me never to bargain with people in very sunny places with Spanish names after 10 pm. So if is all right with you, I will sleep on the matter and will probably be visited in my dreams by someone who looks a bit like Socrates and who will no doubt point me in the right direction by Hour of Power time.

In the meantime, happy selling Kay and have a good evening.

Cheers, beers and elephants' ears,

Pete

----------

Sounds good, Peter. Have a good night.
Sent: Tuesday, September 09, 2008 3:40 PM

----------

Morning Kay

Well, as predicted, I had a dream in which a man who looked remarkably like Socrates came and sat next to me on a park bench. In Britain that is fairly unusual as we are so reserved we will normally walk anything up to five miles to find a park bench with no one sitting on it rather than sit next to a stranger. Here is what happened next:-

Socrates Guy: Ahem.

Pete: [Sideways glance]

Socrates Guy: AHEM!

Pete: Can I help you?

Socrates Guy: What do you think of my beard?

Pete: You really want to know?

Socrates Guy: Yes, I really want to know.

Pete: Well, if you must know, I think it is a bit scruffy and makes you look old. Maybe give it a good trim. Have you considered designer stubble? I gather that's quite popular with the ladies.

Socrates Guy: I'm a philosopher, not a bleedin' underwear model. You don't see Dan Dennett going around with designer stubble do you?

Pete: You asked my opinion, you got it. Don't go getting all shirty because you don't like my opinion. If you don't want to know, don't ask.

Socrates Guy: [Grumpy voice] Very philosophical. Designer flippin' stubble. Tsch.

Pete: Anything else I can help you with?

Socrates Guy: Actually I was sent to help you.

Pete: Sent? By whom?

Socrates Guy: By the director. Uri Nersyki. When he tells you to do something, you do it.

Pete: I see. So what are you meant to be helping me with?

Socrates Guy: This Tony Robbins purchase thing.

Pete: Oh, yeh! I'd forgotten about that. I think it was that girl on the roller blades that did it.

Socrates Guy: What girl? Where?

Pete: She's gone now. But she sure stayed in my head!

Socrates Guy: Damn it! I always turn up at the wrong time!

Pete: If you think like that mate, then that's what'll happen.

Socrates Guy: Will you shut up! I'm the philosopher, OK?

Pete: Righto, Grumpy.

Socrates Guy: So what are your feelings on the purchase right now?

Pete: Well, Grumps, Kay has offered me a significant discount on the shipping. However, I need to consider whether I can't still get hold of the items in this country, maybe through Amazon or eBay, and save myself a few quid. It may take a while, but I can use the CDs I already have until I find the others. There's also the matter of whether I will be charged by H.M. Customs when the Sayings of Tony arrive in The Land of Hope and Glory.

Socrates Guy: I get it. So, it basically all comes down to a comparison of figures to you?

Pete: Pretty much, yes. I need Kay to tell me the total cost as well as whether these items are likely to be liable for import tax. If they are, how much. Then I can work out the cost per item and consider whether I can find them cheaper here. Simple really.

Socrates Guy: You really are remarkably dull sometimes, do you know that? Where's your sense of urgency and excitement? You are approaching it all wrong. Your whole outlook is based on the assumption that you will always have a lack of money. The point is, Toothy Tony is going to help you move to a place where there is abundance and you will laugh at yourself quibbling over a few quid like that.

Pete: Are you sure you aren't working for him?

Socrates Guy: Is that her?

Pete: What?

Socrates Guy: The roller-blades girl. Is that her? [Socrates Guy points]

Pete: Yeh, that's her! [Pete sighs]

Socrates Guy: Hubba hubba!

Pete: Did you just say 'Hubba hubba' ? I thought you were a philosopher, not an extra from Porkies.

Socrates Guy: Oh, shut up!

[Pete and Socrates guy spend 10 minutes watching Rollerblades Girl moving gracefully round the park]

Pete: [Sigh]

Socrates Guy: [Deeper sigh]

[Rollerblades girl skates right in front of the bench. She looks Pete right in the eye and smiles and winks before heading off into the distance]

Pete: You know what Socrates Guy?

Socrates Guy: What's that, Pete?

Pete: I think I am going to buy these things from Kay!

Socrates Guy: Did you see her smile at me?

Pete: Smile at you!? Why would she smile at you? She was smiling at me!

Socrates Guy: Dream on, Big Ears! Everyone knows chicks can't resist a brainy guy in a toga.

Pete: Yeh, right! [Sarcasm]

THE END

So Kay, tell me the full cost and I think maybe we will have a deal today.

Have a good day.

Cheers, beers and bicycle gears,

Pete

SCOTTISH PETE

2008-09-11T03:34:00.000-07:00

A few years ago I worked as a Postman in Leeds while I was studying for a degree with The Open University. Before going out on delivery, we had to spend a couple of hours indoors sorting the mail into the right order. It was a lively and boisterous atmosphere most mornings.

Amongst my fine colleagues were two other Pete's. There was Big Pete (that's me), Little Pete and Scottish Pete. This little tale is about Scottish Pete, who despite having lived in England for many years, retained a thick Scottish accent to go with his razor-sharp wit.

One morning Scottish Pete had a rather nasty cold and whilst we were sorting mail he was unable to prevent himself letting out an enormous sneeze.

From the other side of the room, one of our colleagues shouted, "Oh, that's a week off!" He was suggesting that Scottish Pete might want to consider taking some sick leave.

"No it isn't," countered Scottish Pete in a totally dead-pan voice. "It's a big sneeze."

SINISTER

2008-09-11T03:30:00.000-07:00

While writing the musing below this one, the word 'sinister' cropped up and sparked another thought in my mind. If you have a little bit of knowledge of Latin (or of Asterix books), you will know that 'sinister' is the Latin word for left. The word for right is dexter, the root of English words like dexterous and dexterity.

The fact that a word which originally meant left is used in this manner in English betrays a deep rooted tendency in our culture to confront difference with fear and mistrust. About 87% of the adult population is right-handed. It was only a few hundred years ago when left-handedness was used as evidence of possible witchcraft and led to persecution, torture and sometimes gruesome death.

That might sound ridiculous, but this still goes on today. It has just shifted to other differences. Race, nationality, sexual preference, disability etc. The irrational fear leads to mistrust, discrimination and in extreme circumstances to war and death. On a personal level, the fear of being different psychologically enslaves people as they try to fit in with the crowd by suppressing their true personality and talents.

The powers that be have a vested interest in maintaining these irrational fears. I recently went to watch Prince Caspian with my children. I was struck by the fact that all the bad guys looked like Iranians. Subtle Hollywood!

Embracing difference is the path to psychological freedom. The path away from fear and into a loving and fulfilling life. The path to a better future for the human race. In my opinion, the only way we can ultimately survive some tough times which will face us very soon as the population outgrows the planet.

SATISFACTION

2008-09-11T03:23:00.000-07:00

In 1965 Mick Jagger wrote the lyrics of the song (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction. Wikipedia reports that the song was a statement about the rampant commercialism that the Rolling Stones had seen while touring in America.

I wonder how he feels about the rampant commercialism that spans the globe today and must eclipse that which he saw in 1965.

We are bombarded with advertising in the media all day long, it is very hard to escape, even if, like me, you take steps to do so. Jagger's simple yet profound words get straight to the root of the sinister strategy which advertisers use to control their audience.

Satisfaction is the key. Advertisers subtly sow dissatisfaction in consumers by presenting idealised lifestyles and then fool these consumers into the false belief that if they just buy their product, they will be satisfied at last. It is a despicable industry, sowing fear in people and making them feel that they are inadequate, then making false promises about their product's ability to make them a better person, to make them happy. It leads to massive psychological problems as people lose sight of the fact that what is valuable about them is what they do and who they are, not what they can buy, how slim they are or whether their hair has enough volume.

The bottom line is, if you try to do it by buying things, you 'can't get no satisfaction'. I would venture further and suggest that human beings are not meant to be satisfied. Dissatisfaction is what drives us to grow and to achieve more. The problem comes when we try to assuage this dissatisfaction not by creating, but by consuming.

There is also a misunderstanding between satisfaction and happiness. I would say that I am never satisfied but I am very definitely happy. The dissatisfaction drives me forward, makes me want to get up in the morning so that I can do more of the things that I have learned make me very happy. Those things primarily involve giving. The exact opposite of consumerism which is all about getting, getting things which ultimately are worthless.

SUMMER SALE

2008-09-11T03:22:00.001-07:00

One day I was driving past this carpet shop in my car. It had a big sign in the window which read: GREAT SUMMER SALE - LAST WEEK.

I ask you. What is the point of telling us there was a sale last week? Not much we can do about it now is there?

SELFRIDGES

2008-09-11T03:21:00.001-07:00

One day a couple of weeks ago I went into Selfridges and tried to get them to sell me a fridge. I pretended to be really stupid and uppity so that they had to call about 4 levels of supervisor to explain to me that they don't sell fridges.

Some days I make myself laugh out loud.

RUGBY

2008-09-11T03:16:00.000-07:00

When I was younger, so much younger than today, I used to play Rugby Union every weekend. If you are not too familiar with Rugby, there are two codes, Rugby Union and Rugby League. The rules are somewhat different for each game. If I wanted to stick my neck out (which of course I don't), I would say that Rugby League is crap and boring. It is for thick working class Northerners whose tiny minds cannot appreciate the nuances of the game as it is supposed to be played. Of course, I would never dream of saying anything so shocking and clearly untrue on a public blog. I've often wondered if it would be more fun if there were two codes for other games. Perhaps Swimming Union and Swimming League. Bowls Union and Bowls League. I think some bitter rivalry and frequent mutual derision would liven things up a bit.

One day I was playing E-mail Picture Insult with my brother John who lives in Ireland. This is a fantastic game and I recommend it to anyone who cares to have a go. The idea is to find or make pictures on which you then write the word 'You' and an arrow pointing to something in the picture. I will give a couple of examples to make it more clear.

The first picture I received from my brother as his opening gambit was that of a small bird with the word 'You' and an arrow pointing to the bird. I didn't have to visit an ornithology site to guess that the bird was a great tit. I responded with a picture of a gentleman taking part in The Highland Games caber tossing competition, once again I added the word 'You' and an arrow pointing to the kilted fellow. We carried on in this fashion for a number of rounds until my brother sent a picture which to my mind broke the rules. He sent a picture of a spanner with the words 'You big' and an arrow pointing to it. I have been playing Picture Insult for many years and throughout that time it has always been forbidden to write anything other than the word 'You' on the picture. It is still possible to achieve the effect that my brother was aiming for. All you have to do is make a copy of the spanner and shrink it, then put the two spanners in a picture together and write the word 'You' pointing to the larger one. It seems that in Ireland the rules of the game have slackened somewhat and I don't think it is for the better. Where is the skill in just writing 'You big'? There is none. So from then on my brother and I have decided that there are two distinct games. Picture Insult Union (the beautiful, pure and original form) and Picure Insult League (the completely ruined, all fun removed, might as well not bother playing it is so rubbish form). It has to be stated in the first e-mail which rules are being adhered to for the rest of the match.

Anyway, that was a bit of a tangent as I was originally going to tell you about one of the most remarkable rugby matches I ever played in. If you aren't interested in rugby or sport in general, please don't switch off yet, because the story is really not about the sport, but about the remarkable thing that happened in this particular game. That year I was very fit indeed. It was a time when I was a fitness trainer and following a very healthy lifestyle. If you knew just how healthy, it would get on your nerves. Anyway, I had not played rugby for a while. I can't remember why, maybe an injury or just too busy. When returning from such a break it is customary to be placed in one of the lower teams for a couple of weeks to get back match fitness. So I found myself playing for my club's third team. No offence meant to the players who are regularly in the third team, but the pace of third team games is usually quite a lot easier than first team rugby, so together with the fact that I was very fit at that time, I was expecting the game to be pretty easy physically.

The night before, I had been out at a pub and a pretty girl in high spirits had put a fake Hawaiian style garland of flowers on my head. It was basically a circular piece of elastic with fabric flowers all around it in many colours. You could wear it around your head like a crown. When I got up the next morning ready to set off for the rugby match, I saw the garland and a plan began to hatch in my head.

Later that day, I ran out onto the rugby pitch with one extra piece of kit. I was met with a few whistles and sarcastic comments from spectators, the opposition and even my team-mates, but I ignored these and began the match wearing the garland. Rugby Union is generally played in short bursts of activity followed by set pieces (scrums and line-outs) where the game stops and is started again in a formal manner. When the referee blew his whistle for the first line-out, I took off my garland and raced 20-30 yards up the pitch into opposition territory, placing the garland on the touch line where the bright colours could be seen by all our team. I continued to do this throughout the game, my level of fitness making this extra exertion possible. Now, you may be starting to think I am making this up. I have, after all, been known to slide into fiction on occasion. But this is a true story. Every time I did this, my team managed on the next play to gain territory until they were more or less right where the garland was. This continued until we inevitably crossed the try line, at which point I retrieved the garland and put it back on my head in celebration until the next kick-off. This continued all game. People who were watching the first team game on the club's main pitch started to wander over to see what all the commotion was about, until by the end of the game we had more spectators than the first team. The final score was somewhere in the region of 60 points to nil. It was a remarkable experience and one I will never forget. A match that didn't really have any importance, but which made everyone who watched or played in it (even the badly defeated opposition) stop and think: "Wow, what the hell just happened there?"

QUOTES

2008-09-11T02:15:00.000-07:00

Visitors to my Facebook Profile Page will be able to see rather a lot of quotes which I have accumulated over the last couple of years. These will probably disappear, along with a number of other applications which I deliberately choose to have on there because they are good, when the 'new improved' Facebook Profile page becomes compulsory and robs us of a great deal of choice about what we can present to our visitors.

With that in mind, I thought I would write a little bit about some of the quotes I have listed and how they have moved, informed or inspired me.

1. "Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt." - Shakespeare

Inside my head lives a little man. He is a wimp and a coward. However, it seems he has no intention of going away, so I have to listen to his whining and decide what to do about it. This little man is a purveyor of doubt. All his sentences begin with 'But what if ...' The personification of negativity and fear. Some time ago I learned how to deal with this little man quite effectively. The way I deal with him is to imagine him more vividly. I don't just register the thoughts that he brings to my internal debate. I deliberately give him a voice. I give him a whiny, nasal, monotonous voice. I also give him a face. His face is weasel-like, miserable and prematurely aged. Think of Grima Wormtongue advising King Theoden in The Two Towers. His body is slumped and he shuffles his feet when he walks. Do you like the sound of this little man? Would you go to a man like that for advice? Me neither. He now gets short shrift from me. This is Shakespeare's traitor. Identified, a traitor has no power.

Inside my head there lives a big man. He is a bit like Brian Blessed. With a booming voice he bellows encouragement. His posture, body language and facial expressions radiate joie de vivre. With deep resonant tones he reminds me that I must take risks to win, that I must always love without fear, that it doesn't really matter what other people might think of me, what really matters is what I think of me. When I have done something to be proud of, he slaps me on the back so hard it knocks the breath out of me. When I think of something funny, he belly laughs along with me. This man is my captain, my brother* and my comrade. A source of inspiration and courage. Do you like the sound of this big man? Would you go to a man like that for advice? Me too.

* If you have met my brother John, you will realise that this description is pretty close to him, but here I meant it in the more general sense.

2. "Men are disturbed not by the things that happen, but by their opinion of the things that happen" - Epictetus

Some of you may recall that I copied this quote into Random Musings Number 24, which was entitled 'Rudeness'. But I think that the idea the quote conveys is a very important one and understanding it has had a great impact on my life. As we move through life, stuff happens. How we react to the stuff that happens is entirely up to us. However, most people have developed habits of reacting in a certain way to certain things. It is raining outside, feel miserable. It is sunny, feel good. My girlfriend left me, feel devastated. I got a raise at work, feel good. These reactions are so habitual that many people forget that they have a choice. You can listen to the big man or the little man. (There is also third man. He is a hippy anarchist with long hair and purple glasses. He just says, "Ah, well. Never mind.")

We all have a choice about how we react to life as it unfolds around us. That is how two people facing the same event can emerge with completely different reactions. That is why when faced with apparent disaster, one person will panic or despair, while another keeps cool and finds a positive solution. To give up that choice is psychological suicide.

3. "If you wait for happiness to catch up with you, or 'just happen', or be brought to you by others, you are likely to have a long wait" - Maxwell Maltz

Happiness is a choice. Which man shall I listen to most often? Which man will I accept as my advisor? When I look at it like that, it is obvious.

PROCRASTINATION

2008-09-11T02:10:00.000-07:00

I have recently started referring to Facebook as 'The Blue and White Procrastination Engine'. I sometimes wonder what I used to do to waste my time before this remarkable invention came along. Although I often have an uneasy feeling that I am wasting my life away when checking the latest notifications and invitations, prior to joining Facebook I was certainly not a Davinci-like hive of industry and creation. Yet try as I might, I can't remember just what it was I did to waste my spare time in the good old days.

I think I need to approach this like Sherlock Holmes.

"When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

Variations of this famous quote appeared in Conan-Doyle's novels no less than six times. He ommitted to mention the many times that the approach led to the silly-hatted Holmes declaring that a dastardly murder was committed by a completely innocent cheeky chimney sweep who just happened to like hanging around the same places as he and Watson did. But, for want of a better method, I think I will follow his example.

So what other forms of procrastination might I have engaged in before the fateful day that my beautiful friend Kelly Jayne invited me to the merry blue and white party?

Masturbation is or course a firm favourite, but this can really only account for my time at home alone. I have yet to find an employer who is prepared to allow it during work hours, despite my protestations that it would greatly raise my morale. That reminds me of a time in my dim and distant past when I wasn't the fine and healthy specimen of a man you see today, and had drifted into the habit of smoking. But one day I decided to give up and visited the NHS Quitline Website for some tips. One of the tips was: "Replace smoking with another activity that you find very enjoyable." So I decided to replace it with wanking. A couple of weeks later, although I had managed to refrain from partaking of the devil weed, my cock was very sore indeed and I had been handed a lifetime ban from the smoking area at work.

What about television? Well, once again, that may well account for a lot of people's spare time at home, but I do not have TV and it could not account for the several hours a day of mucking about that I have to put in at work so that they don't realise how remarkably efficient I am and shorten all my deadlines by 80%.

So I have eliminated masturbation and television. What else is there? Hmmm. I am struggling to think of anything. Is it possible that I actually spent the time before Facebook (from now on I will refer to that as B.F.) doing absolutely nothing with several hours of the day? Is is possible that Facebook has come to my rescue, allowing me to fulfill my true potential by writing nonsense, arguing with people and making strange profile pictures? Perhaps I can shake off that nagging feeling that I am squandering my precious days thinking of amusing ways to raise my eyebrows in a video message or telling people who post 'nice' chain messages on Superwall to "Please bloody well stop doing that (you lazy, insincere twat)."

Perhaps I have found my true calling at last ....

OVEN CLEANER

2008-08-29T04:39:00.000-07:00

The other day I was strolling round the supermarket. I am not going to tell you which supermarket for fear of being immediately placed into a social class in your minds and forever thereafter finding myself not invited to some of your parties. However, I do wish to point out that I consider myself a first class supermarket stroller. Even when it is crowded, I dodge skilfully past trollies which threaten to take out my knees, hurdle children who are lying on the floor having tantrums about cereal without breaking my stride pattern, and pluck my items of choice from the shelves with remarkable flair, sometimes lobbing them up in the air like Tom Cruise in Cocktail, before catching them in my basket.

That isn't really relevant to this little tale, but really. You should see me.

Anyway, there I was the other day, making my way down the household cleaning products aisle like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, when a certain shelf full of spray cans caught my eye. The shelf in question contained various different brands of oven cleaner. There were quite a lot of them and I was suddenly struck with a thought.

I am 37 years old. I have never, ever even thought about buying oven cleaner. Not once. My mother probably has a stock-pile of it in case there is a nuclear holocaust when she hasn't cleaned the oven in a while. Yet I have managed to reach the ripe old age of 37 without ever feeling the need to buy oven cleaner. How have I achieved this when the amount of oven cleaner on offer would appear to indicate that it is a kitchen essential?

I wonder if I am unusual. I wonder if it is in fact possible to get through my entire life without buying oven cleaner. Perhaps people are just squandering their hard earned cash on this substance and could instead be saving it up for a trip to Blackpool.

I'm sure the inquisitive amongst you will now be thinking that there are a number of possibilities as to how I have achieved this feat. Maybe I have gone through adult life with a series of disgustingly filthy ovens and that is probably why I am still not married. Or maybe I never use my oven because I am being invited to dinner by various members of high society seven days a week.

A quick check reveals that my current oven, which has been in my possession for over four years, is fairly clean.

I wonder if anyone can beat my record. Is there anyone out there older than me that has also never bought oven cleaner? A can of Mister Muscle to anyone who can.

NO SMOKING

2008-03-26T14:58:00.000-07:00

The following tale may well sound a little like a parable. If you have read some of my other musings, you will be aware that I will sometimes let my imagination go off on a little wander. But what I am about to describe happened for real. It was a defining moment in my life and one that I will never forget. When I look back on it, I often catch myself asking 'did that really happen?'

This really happened.

When I first started working in Sheffield, I did not have a car and used to travel on the train every weekend to see my daughters who live in West Yorkshire. The first leg of the journey was the Virgin Trains service from Sheffield to Leeds. On a Friday afternoon, this service was always extremely overcrowded and it was rarely possible to get a seat. It seemed that Virgin were more interested in profit than safety and people would pack the train, sitting or standing in corridors, their piled luggage worryingly blocking emergency exits. After a couple of weeks, I was so used to this scenario, that I never bothered looking for a seat on the train. I would just go straight to the corridor and sit myself down on the floor, usually just outside where the toilet cubicle was in case I wanted to use it.

One afternoon, there I was as usual sat in my favourite floor space. The rest of the corridor began to slowly fill up with people less familiar with the situation who had wandered up and down the train looking for a seat before eventually resigning themselves to the same fate as myself. As the train pulled away, I looked up to see who was sharing my little bit of corridor this week.

Furthest away from me at the far end was a man who I guessed was a bit younger than myself. He wore a smart off the peg suit and had removed his tie so that his pale green shirt collar was open. He was reading a copy of Esquire magazine and occasionally taking a sip of lager from a can that he managed to skilfully old in one hand at same time as using it to turn pages. Next to him were two young women in their early twenties. I assumed by their attire and luggage that they were students on a trip after a week at one of Sheffield's universities. One of them had an MP3 player and kept regularly handing one of the earphones over to her friend to share in the track she was listening to. Their faces came close together so each one could reach one of their ears with the little speaker. It was a touching show of friendship and bonding. Further along there was a young Asian lad, perhaps in his late teens. He wore clothes that one would associate with the stereotypical 'hoodie': expensive looking trainers, tracksuit bottoms and hooded top, the hood of which was currently down so that his dark shoulder length hair which could probably have done with a bit of a wash was visible. Between the Asian lad and myself was a woman who looked like she was in her late 20s. She was sat on top of a suitcase which she had propped up against the wall. She wore a hippy style big billowing brown skirt and a multi coloured woollen jumper. Friendship bracelets adorned her wrists. Her blonde hair was fashioned into dreadlocks. I was surprised to note that someone so young had reached into her handbag as soon as she settled and fetched out some knitting which she proceeded to click click with, her rhythm providing an interesting sub-beat to the sound of the train wheels bumping along the track.

The interesting part of my tale begins with the young Asian fellow, who five minutes after we left the station, proceeded to light up a cigarette, apparently oblivious to the 'No Smoking' sign on the wall behind him and the general societal trend towards dislike for the pastime. I looked at my other fellow passengers, all of whom showed signs of displeasure on their faces, but apparently not quite enough to actually say anything. So that task fell to me.

"Do you mind, mate?" I asked the young lad.

"Ay?" He replied with a not unexpected level of eloquence.

"Can you put that out please? It's no smoking on the train," I continued.

"Oh, is it? Sorry feller. I thought it was all right in the corridor," he innocently explained.

"OK, well it isn't all right," I said and indicated the no smoking sign behind him with my eyes. He turned to look.

"Oh, sorry," he said and then stubbed out his cigarette on the smooth grey wall, leaving a little black mark where he had done so. Not to waste any, he put what he had left back into the silver packet and slipped it back into his tracksuit pocket. The journey resumed as before, with each of the passengers described above returning to their activity of choice after the minor disturbance.

Half an our passed with little to report apart from the ticket check and the occasional visit to the toilet cubicle by a passenger who was lucky enough to have boarded before Sheffield and therefore be in obsession of seat. Then suddenly the relative peace was shattered by the unmistakable laughter of drunk blokes. I could not see them at first but was nevertheless pretty sure a couple of minutes before they hoved into view that there were some drunk blokes about to grace us with their rowdy presence. Although I do not drink any more, I have done my fair share in my youth and the happy exuberance that I could hear made me chuckle inside. They staggered through the sliding door at the end of the corridor and stumbled towards the toilet, deftly managing not to tread on anyone's toes, a feat which defied the apparent lack of coordination in the rest of their bodies. They appeared to be in their forties. Each was wearing jeans and a Celtic football shirt. The shorter of the two was balding and had shaved his hair close in a gesture of acceptance. His taller pal had dark hair brushed back in a style that might have looked a bit like Elvis, had he had used a bit more gel and refrained from running his fingers through it.

"All right folks?" said the shaven short arse. "This is George. He's 40 today and life has well and truly begun, hey Georgie?" This raised a few nervous smiles from my fellow passengers.

"That's right, Dave," answered George with a relaxed slur. "And when we get to Leeds, it's going to begin some more!" said George, clearly thinking he had told a quite superb joke and seemingly oblivious to the fact that something can't begin more than once.

"Are you going in first or am I?" said Dave.

"We could go together," suggested George.

"Hey, steady on, pal! Jim warned me to watch out for you when you've had a few. You wait here and I'll be out in a tick. You can keep the crowd amused."

Dave went into the toilet and the big sliding door slowly shut. George leaned back against the wall and began to fish in his jeans pocket. He pulled out first a lighter and then a packet of Marlborough, which he began to open.

"Here we go again," I thought. Before George had the time to light his cigarette, I once again took the responsibility nobody else seemed to want.

"Hey, George," I said. "You'll have to wait 'til we get to Wakefield if you want that mate. The train normally stops their for five minutes and you can go out onto the platform. It's only another 15 minutes or so. Not in here please mate. It's no smoking." Once again I gestured with my eyes towards the sign which was on the wall behind him.

"What? Ah, bollocks! I'm gasping. How long did you say?"

"We'll be there in about 15 minutes," I answered him, double checking with my watch as I did so.

"OK, cheers, pal. You off to Leeds are you? Going out tonight? Maybe you can tag along with us. Here, have one of these," he said fishing into a carrier bag that he carried in his left hand. He pulled out a can of Stella and held it out in my direction.

"No thanks mate, some other time maybe," I said, not wanting to get into a lengthy debate at this point.

"Ah, the missus not letting you out tonight, hey?" asked George in a knowing tone.

"Something like that mate, yeh," I decided to go along with it. With that, Dave emerged from the toilet cubicle. He had used water from the sink to slick back his hair so that his Elvis look was much improved.

"He hasn't been showing us up has he?" said Dave to no one in particular as he nodded towards George. George used his hands to push himself away from the wall and then staggered into the toilet and the door slid shut once more. Dave continued with a bit of banter for a couple of minutes before George emerged and they both wandered off further down the train in the direction of the shop.

"Cheers, mate," said George to me as he left.

"Aye, cheers George," I replied. "Have a good night, fellers."

About fifteen minutes later, the train arrived into Wakefield station as predicted. An announcement came over the intercom system saying that it would be waiting on the platform for five minutes as it had arrived early. I wondered if George had remembered to take his chance somewhere further down the train. A few seconds before the alarm sounded to indicate the doors would be closing, onto the train stepped a quite extraordinary sight.

A giant of a man had to duck and turn slightly sideways as he came though the door. He looked like someone who Mike Tyson might hire as a bodyguard. He looked to be at least 7 feet tall, with shoulders that would have made Atlas envious. He wore a long black overcoat which was undone at the top to reveal a Mister T style penchant for gold chains. Gold teeth could also be seen when his lips parted slightly. He had tight afro and a black tattoo of an unrecognisable symbol on his left cheek. He came and stood against the wall directly opposite where I was sitting on the floor. I pulled in my feet to make room. There he stood, towering above me menacingly.

Then it happened. From inside his coat, he pulled out a gold cigarette case and lighter. He coolly flicked open the case and flipped a cigarette, catching it in his lips and lighting it one smooth piece of choreography.

"Oh, fuck!" I thought inside my head. But I really had no choice. If I did not stick to my guns on this one then I would not be able to look myself in the mirror.

"Excuse me mate," I said, drawing on my reserves of courage to prevent my voice from wavering. "It's no smoking on the train."

"Who says?" asked the man.

"I says, and the sign over there says," I answered him.

"And who are you?" he asked further. His voice conveyed a withering disdain.

Time seemed to slow down at that moment. I slowly drew another long breath and got onto my feet. Although I am quite a big man myself, I was still looking up at quite an angle as I looked him straight in the eye and held my gaze, unwavering. I was trying hard to show no sign of fear in my body language.

"I am someone who doesn't want to breathe in your cigarette smoke," I answered. We continued to stare. It was truly primeval. I held fast and did not flinch. To my overwhelming relief, after what felt like minutes in my mind, I noticed his shoulders relax and I knew that it was over. He smiled, showing just how many gold teeth he had and then went into the toilet cubicle and threw his lit cigarette into the toilet where it went out with a sizzle. He said nothing more. He just returned, still smiling. I remained standing, knowing we would soon be at Leeds station where I was to alight.

As I walked through the station towards the exit, I felt a tap on my back and turned to see the suited Esquire magazine chap who had been on the train standing there.

"I just wanted to say something, mate," he said to me. I raised my eyebrows invitingly. "That, mate, was one of the most amazing things I have ever seen. I wanted to say something to the first feller, but you beat me to it. I'm kind of glad you did!"

"Ha ha! Yeh. It did get a bit hairy at the end there. But once I had started ...."

"Seriously, mate. I just had to say something to you. You were magnificent. I wish I had half your bottle." He held out his hand to shake mine and I obliged with a smile before we both went our separate ways. I hadn't really thought about it too much up until that point. It just happened. But I paused and thought and in that moment I knew I had become a different man. Before I did not know I had that kind of courage. Before I did not know that I had the power to be magnificent.

Share on Facebook

MOO!

2008-03-22T17:38:00.000-07:00

You can hear the following song sung by Walter the Sofa Elf by clicking here.

I have a jolly bovine chum,
Her name is Happy Cow
And it's to her I often come
If I have had a row.

When I'm feeling in a rage
Or I am feeling blue,
I come and see the bovine sage
She knows just what to do.

Happy Cow says, "Moo, moo, moo, moo."
It cheers me up so much.
Happy Cow says, "Moo, moo, moo, moo."
She has the happy touch.

One day I wasn't quite myself,
Not quite sound as a pound,
Concerned about my mental health,
My bovine pal came round.

She sat me down on the settee
And gave me apple pie,
Then stood herself in front of me
And looked me in the eye

And Happy Cow said, "Moo, moo, moo, moo."
Just for a little while.
Happy Cow said, "Moo, moo, moo, moo."
I soon began to smile.

So if you're ever out of sorts,
One thing I recommend:
Gather your unhappy thoughts
And go and see my friend.

She has the time for everyone.
She will not hesitate.
Soon your troubles will be gone
And you'll be feeling great.

As Happy Cow says, "Moo, moo, moo, moo."
Your cares will drift away
When Happy Cow says, "Moo, moo, moo, moo."
You'll face a bright new day!

Share on Facebook

LEPRECHAUN

2008-03-21T19:38:00.000-07:00

It was the evening of St Patrick's Day. All the way from the Emerald Isle had come Seamus the Leprechaun, who Walter informed me was some kind of distant cousin. With him he brought gold aplenty from the pot at the end of the rainbow, a glint in his eye and taste for some night life.

"Come on Walter ya feckin' eedjit! You caan't go aan loike dis!" said Seamus to his little relative. "Ya haven't washed for days. You haven't changed your clothes. To be frank, you smell. This place is such a mess. Peanuts, pen lids, two pence pieces, unidentifiable fluff and flicked bogies everywhere."

"Yeh, yeh," sighed Walter. "I'll clear it up tomorrow."

"Aaaaah, Jeeeesus, will y'ever snap out of it, now? It's Paddy's noight. Remember? That's what oi came over here for. We should be plaaaastered boi now and foighting arf a couple of young nymphs so we can concentrate on the very impaartant matter of drinkin' even more heavily."

"Yeh, OK Seamus," said Walter. "I'm just a bit tired that's all."

"A bit toired you say? You've done nothing but sit in dat chair and whinge loik an owld woman with arthritis since oi got here. For feck's sake man. What is the matter with ya?"

"Just a woman that's all," Walter finally confessed.

"A WOMAN!! Jeeesus. Hello? Is dat you in dere, Walter? A woman? Since when were you ever affected boy a woman?"

"F**k off, Seamus. She's different."

"Different is she? How's dat den? She have t'ree breasts or something?"

Walter sat up in his chair for the first time in a long time, apathy giving way to anger. Seamus sensed he was getting a reaction and pressed on with his questioning.

"Not t'ree breasts? What was it den, me little pal, was she really a feller?"

With that Walter leapt from his chair and grabbing Seamus by the throat, he shoved him backwards, eyes wide and blazing with anger. Seamus raised his eyebrows and his hands in a gesture of appeasement and then spoke with what voice he could muster with his throat held.

"Dat's it, Walter, you get angry now. Dat's it pal. Take a shot if ya want to. Come on Walter. Come back to us."

Walter listened to Seamus' words as if he was standing at the other side of the room. His rage had temporarily removed him from 'himself' and it felt like he was watching the scene as a spectator. Slowly, as the words sank in, Walter felt himself shifitng back into his body. He could see Seamus' face in front of him and he slowly released his grip, then fell to his knees and began to sob.

"I f**king love her, mate, that's all," he managed to get out between big sobs. "I f**king LOVE her."

Seamus put his hand on the back of Walter's shoulders and gave them a rub.

"Oi know ya do, Walt, Oi know you do. Gary told me all about it. But ya need to get it out, pal. Ya can't go bottlin' it up loike dat. Here, take a swig o' dis," Seamus handed Walter a thimble full of Guinness. "Come on, pal. We need to get you out on the town. We need the old Walter back. What time is Gary coming over?"

No sooner did Seamus speak, when in walked Gary with three rather beautiful flower fairies accompanying him.

"Girls, meet Seamus all the way over from Ireland," Gary introduced them. "Seamus, this is Rosie, Tulip and Violet, some old 'friends' of Walter."

Seamus took each of the pretty fairies in turn by the hand and kissed their wrists with a charming flourish which made them giggle and smile knowingly at one another. The girls then turned their attention to Walter, who was a very sorry sight compared to when any of them had seen him before.

"Walter's been a bit off-colour ladies," Seamus quickly said, "But you're feeling a bit better now, aren't you pal? Go get yourself washed, Walt, and Gary and I will keep these t'ree warm for ya." The three fairies giggled again at Seamus' brash forwardness.

As Walter wandered off to scrub up for the night out, Seamus used his blarney to keep the others entertained.

"Gary, did oi ever tell ya 'bout the god dey used to worship in Ireland in the old days?"

"I'm sorry, the what? The god, did you say? But I thought you said that ...."

"Now now, Gary, never moind 'bout what oi said. Oi'll tell you a tale about the old days, when loife was much simpler. Dis is one me mammy used to tell me when oi was knee high to a grasshopper."

"You're knee high to a grasshopper now, Seamus."

"Aaaah, yes, dis was a baby grasshopper. Anyways. In dem days, the ancestors used to worship a god called Lugh. A moighty warrior, he carried a spear and sling and had a magical hound as his companion."

Seamus' lyrical Irish brogue and flamboyant enthusiasm for the tale immediately had the four listeners gripped.

"Now the old folks used to pray to Lugh in toimes of trouble, when food was scarce or illness struck. Dey drew on his strength to get t'rough dese difficult toimes. Instead of building a place of worship as we do now, dey would use caves and raise a shroine to Lugh inside dem. They called these Lugh holes."

Gary looked at the three fairies momentarily, their gazes seemed transfixed on Seamus' face, waiting for him to carry on the story.

"But slowly these caves came to be neglected and the people started to forget about Lugh. Toimes were good and dey had no need for prayin'. The shrines became dusty and cobwebbed, the pictures painted on the walls faded.

"Then one terrible year the harvest failed and a harsh winter came. Food was scarce and the pain of hunger gnawed at the bellies of even the richest family. People's thoughts began to turn to their god once again. But it had been so long. They could hardly remember the customs.

"They prayed in their home, pleading to Lugh for help. But it was no use. Women watched as their children got sick through lack of nourishment. Then one day from out of nowhere there arrived an old man. Wizened and grey, he nevertheless walked upright through the streets calling to all that could to follow him. A crowd gathered behind him and it grew as he walked on, leading them out into the countryside until they came to a cave.

" 'You need to clean the shroines,' said the man. 'Lugh cannot hear your prayers. He needs his Lugh Holes cleaning out.' "

With that, Gary spat out a bit of the Guinness that he was drinking and the three fairies looked at each other in turn, before laughing out loud at the sudden realisation that Seamus really was spinning a yarn. Then Walter strolled back in with a swagger that Gary had not seen in weeks.

"Fellers," he said. "I'm back! Tulip, give us a kiss." He grabbed her gently by the arm and pulled her towards him, kissing her with apparent passion and then holding her by the waist to keep her close. The other two fairies looked momentarily disappointed, then turned their attentions back to Seamus. Gary sighed an all too familiar sigh.

Some time later, the magnificent six arrived at the Three Toadstool Hostelry which was had been carved out of a huge treestump many years before. The place was run by the legendary Dave the Magic Barman, a fellow renowned for his legendary lock ins and ever bendable ear.

"WALTERRRRRRRRRRR!!!" Dave boomed as the group stumbled through the door. "Long time no see, mate! How've you been? Here, let me fix you a special while you introduce me to your chums. Gary I know, watcha Gary, you finally got him out then did you?"

"It was Seamus did that as it happened Dave," answered Gary. "This is Seamus, Walter's cousin from over the water. Seamus, meet Dave the Magic Barman:
Whenever you are feeling down, forlorn or a little blue,
Come see Magic Dave, he will tell you what to do.
He serves the greatest beer in town. There's darts and pool as well.
The duke box still costs 20 pence and plays Bat Out Of Hell.
When it comes to closing time, Dave rings his little bell.
Everyone ignores it and Dave says 'ah, what the hell?' "

Gary had made the rhyme up himself and this was the first time anyone had heard it. Every one looked at him in astonishment, used to him being the quiet one.

"Did you write that Gary?" said Walter.

"Yeh," had nothing better to do lately what with you not coming out.

"That's pretty good, mate," Walter congratulated him. "Has it got a tune?"

"Nah, not yet," admitted Gary.

"That was really good, Gary," said Rosie, suddenly turning her body from Seamus so that she faced Gary.

"Ah, nah it's just a laugh, really, nothing special," Gary blushed a little and was unable to look her in the eye.

"No really, Gary. I really liked it," continued Rosie. "Maybe you could write one for me some time?"

"A ha, um, yeh, really?" said Gary and at last he managed to look up from his shoes to catch her smiling beautifully at him. Gary smiled a shy smile back and felt a shiver of pleasure go up his back.

"Go and sit yourselves round a table, folks, I'll bring your drinks over," said Dave. Walter went and stood in front of the duke box while the other five sat themselves around a big oak table. Rosie sat close to Gary, her thigh touching against his under the table and making his pulse race. She nudged him a little and gave him another smile as the drinks came over. Then Walter joined them as Fields of Athenry rang from the duke box speakers in honour of Seamus and St Patrick.

The night went from strength to strength with the little group playing some drinking games specially designed by Seamus to make sure that the girls got slightly drunker than the boys. They sung along to more Irish classics. The Town I Loved So Well, Dirty Old Town, Danny Boy and The Irish Rover to name but a few. Gary was astonished to find that Rosie had returned from a trip to the toilet and sat herself down on his lap. He struggled not to get aroused but if anything, she seemed to be encouraging it! He had never had such a night and then his bliss was shattered when in walked Jason the Motorbike Elf and a group of his mates. Standing by Jason's side was Tallina Breeze.

Walter did not see her straight away as he was facing away from the door. But he noticed Gary's face drop and he stopped fondling Tulip for a moment and turned to see who was there.

His gaze fell instantly on Tallina and she stared back. Both were equally shocked and the moment lasted for what seemed like minutes to them. It was as if someone had turned down the volume on the music and the rest of the room went out of focus. For those few moments as Walter stared, he could only see Tallina. He could hear her breath, though the duke box played loud. He could feel her though they were yards apart.

Then the spell was broken as Jason grabbed Tallina roughly by the arm and pulled her towards the bar. Tulip put her arm round Walter's shoulder and tried to pull him back towards her. Walter shrugged her off and stood up.

"Easy there mate," said Gary as he stood up to block Walter's path to where Jason and Tallina had gone. Dave the Magic Barman sensed trouble and told the member of Jason's entourage that had gone to order the drinks that they were closing. Despite his protest that it wasn't even eleven yet, Dave was insistent. The message was passed onto Jason who gave Dave a dirty look before pulling Tallina towards the door and beckoning his mates to follow."

"Come on, Babe," he said to Tallina, once again grabbing her arm roughly. "There's plenty of drink left back at my place. Would have drank more of it last night but you insisted on having your wicked way with me so early." As he said these words, Jason gave Walter a withering look and opened the door. Walter looked at Tallina but this time she would not return his gaze. She looked slightly sad, as if ashamed and then they were gone, leaving a great evening shattered.

Walter was numb and couldn't speak. He sat open mouthed, staring into his drink. Dave switched off the duke box and came from behind the bar to sit in front of him. He brought a bottle of whiskey and four tumblers with him and then poured one out for each of the elves and himself. It was a long time before Walter spoke again.

"Why?" he eventually managed. "What does she see in him? Why him? She said she was breaking up with me because she was frightened of losing me and couldn't handle it. He's the biggest f**king shagabout in town! Different woman for every night of the week. He's just using her."

"To be fair, Walt, that is what you used to be like as well," Gary reminded him.

"I was never as bad as him! And anyway, Tallina was different. She changed me. I never wanted anyone else once I met her. I f**king love her. Really f**king love her." A tear began to roll down Walter's cheek. "You aren't going to tell me that Jason the F**king Motorbike Elf loves her the way I do. No f**king way. Why? Why? Dave?"

"I've seen this many times, Walter, mate. You really aren't going to like the answer very much if I tell you."

"It can't get much worse, Dave. Tell me. Tell me."

"It's pretty simple, Walter. She finds him more exciting. Maybe she found you exciting as well to begin with, but then as you just admitted yourself, you changed. Am I not somewhere near the mark here ladies?" Dave looked over at the three fairies who had respectfully kept quiet since the incident. They each gave remarkably non-committal answers.

"What can I do, Dave?" Walter asked. "I want her back, Dave. He's not good enough for her. He'll hurt her. I have to protect her from that, don't I? She's my little girl."

"I'm sorry, Walt, but in my experience you just have to sit it out. Let her find out for herself. For the record, I think you are probably right, that Jason is no good. But you have to let her learn by her own mistakes. Maybe when that happens she'll realise what she has given up."

"There must be something I can do," said Walter again, his voice trailing off as he reached the end of the sentence.

"Come on, feller," Seamus interjected. "Let's walk these lovely ladies home and get you back to the flat." So they left the pub after thanking Dave for his magical barkeeping and one by one took the fairies home. The mood was very subdued. Before Rosie went inside her house, she pressed a piece of paper into Gary's hand. For a few minutes he didn't dare open it but when he did his heart leapt to read the words 'call me' with a phone number. He felt a twinge of guilt that he felt so happy when his best mate was at such a low point.

The three tumbled into my flat and headed for the sofa, from where I heard Walter's little voice say, "Seamus, what was that you said about if I ever want to come over to Ireland?"

Next Story - Unconditional >>

Join The Magical World of Walter and Gary Facebook Group

Share on Facebook

KAREN ARMSTRONG - CHARTER FOR COMPASSION

2008-03-20T15:30:00.000-07:00

Those of you who know me well or have spent a few minutes looking at my links will realise that I am an atheist. I have been so for as long as I can remember. Since the age of about 4, the idea of there being a personal god has seemed so absurd to me that I cannot even consider it for more than a few seconds. That is not to say I wouldn't quite like to believe there is a god. I live a pretty clean, honest and good life and I think that Old Beardy would look down on me pretty favourably if he existed. However, the idea is as ridiculous to me as if someone told me there are invisible fairies dancing on my keyboard causing the frequent typing errors.

I do, however, live with a sofa elf. He is real.

I recently posted to my Facebook profile a video from the TED Talks website, featuring a speech by author Karen Armstrong following an award she received at TED.

You can see the video here.

I consider the message that Karen puts across to be a crucial one for our time and although Karen's talk is largely in the context of religion, I think the message about compassion is an extremely important one for every single member of our species to grasp, whether they feel a need for religion in their life or not.

My single overriding motivation is my daughters. I want them to grow up in a world where love is in the ascendancy. This is by no means certain in a volatile world in which resources are running out. We face a stark choice: between cooperation with all our fellow humans to find new ways to sustain the species or bitter violent struggle over the dwindling resources we use now. There cannot be the cooperation without an understanding that we are all one. People need to stop thinking about stupid petty and arbitrary divisions such as nationality or religious disagreements otherwise there will quickly be no nationalities or religions because everyone will be dead.

Every one of us has to stand up and be counted. Stand up and say 'I choose love.' Then to do something. Whatever feels natural. To foster love and friendship with other members of our species. To show small minded people that there is another way, a better way. The only way in which we can all survive.The divisions must be removed or there will be nothing left to argue over as we either completely destroy ourselves or plunge back into another Dark Age.

Other prominent authors such as Dawkins, Hitchens and Harris have suggested that doing away with religion altogether is the way forward for the Human Race if we want to survive on this planet.

However, even if I often find their arguments compelling, I don't think that is going to happen any time soon.

The essence of Karen's talk is a message that can appeal to the religious and non-religious alike. That we should stop having stupid petty squabbles about who is right and who is wrong (fun as they can be ;-) ) and find the common message that lies at the centre of all the major religions as well as non-religious moral codes.

That is compassion for all our fellow humans and The Golden Rule.

She argues that it is when religious followers move away from this common central tenet and start focusing on their differences that human ego inevitably takes them down the road to conflict, war and death.

My personal message is this: that we should always look for the things that are common between us. The things that make us 'human and humane'. Compassion for others' suffering, the love of our children and other close ones, a love of laughter, music, art, sport and dancing like an idiot.

It is fun to debate issues, to argue one's point of view. I do it a lot and often annoy the fictitious underground kingdom out of my friends when I do so, as some of them will probably confirm. But I try very hard not to get personal about it. It is usually just an intellectual sport for me and a very stimulating one. I maintain very good friendships with some people with strongly opposing viewpoints on a number of topics.

I maintain them because the common things that we share are so much more powerful and important to me and because their differences are what makes this life interesting.

For the sake of my daughters' and all our children's future, I hope we can all learn to celebrate our differences and cherish our common humanity before it is too late.

Share on Facebook

JUSTICE PART 2

2008-03-15T14:05:00.000-07:00

In my previous musing on Justice, I told of the problems I have had maintaining a regular relationship with my beautiful daughters. Tonight I have just watched a video sent to me by Gail, which moved me to tears within seconds.

You can see the video here.

In summary, Steve Moseley's daugher, Savanah-Jade, has been taken to live in Australia by her mother and her new husband. It was against the Steve and his family's wishes. The mother and her new partner promised under oath that she would let Savanah keep regular contact with her real father Steve and left a phone number and PO Box address with him.

The mobile number is now disconnected and there has been no reply to the many letters sent to the PO Box address.

Steve now has no idea where Savanah is and neither he nor any of his family has had any contact with her since September 2007.

I have not seen my daughters in just under two weeks because their mother is once again being deliberately obstructive. It is hard for me to explain just how much it hurts to be without them for that length of time. For just two weeks. If it carries on for much longer, I normally start being physically sick every day.

So you can probably imagine why the story told in the video fills me with a burning sense of injustice. I consider what the mother has done to be child abuse. I consider her decision to go to Australia in the first place to be child abuse, even if she had not broken contact.

Why do I think this? Because she has removed a fundamental human right from her own daughter. The right to be able to see her real father and paternal extended family when she chooses to. The mother has no right to remove this choice. It seems clear from the photographs in the video that Savanah loves her father and other relatives. But even if he is not the perfect father, she should still have the choice. After all, who is perfect? Putting a barrier of 9,000 miles between Savanah and that choice is very wrong in my view.

Completely cutting contact as they have done fills me with passionate anger and a strong desire to help this girl get her rights back.

If you don't have children, just think about this. When I don't see my daughters for three weeks or more, it is so painful that I start to throw up every single day. Steve has not seen his daughter since September 2007. He doesn't know if he ever will again. He is fighting hard to get a message to her, to make sure she does not grow up thinking that her daddy did not love her.

I cannot imagine how difficult that must be for him. I salute his courage and strength in fighting this injustice.

Share on Facebook

INTERVIEW WITH A FURNITURE ELF

2008-03-03T16:46:00.000-08:00

The following is a transcript of an interview which was aired on Squeaky FM, a commercial radio station very popular with elves, pixies, educated goblins and many other size of your little finger imaginary woodland characters. Oh, and mice and Joe Pasquale.

FROM SIDEBOARD TO SIDEKICK - THE RISE AND RISE OF A FURNITURE ELF

(Interview by Swifty Leafglider, our tiny Music Correspondent)

SWIFTY: For this week's Meet The Miniature Musician interview, our studio is graced with the presence of one of my own personal heroes. Gary the Sideboard Elf, the more enigmatic half of the Christmas sensations Walter and Gary.

SWIFTY: Good morning Gary, and may I take this opportunity to say what a personal pleasure it is to get this opportunity to meet you.

GARY: Cheers Swifty. Good to meet you too. I always like to listen to your little bit every week.

SWIFTY: No way! I'd have thought a rock star like yourself would be far too busy fighting off the nymphs!

GARY: Ah, that's more Walter's department. Or at least it was. He really hasn't been himself lately.

SWIFTY: Really? Well, I must first explain for the benefit of the listeners that I was originally expecting both of you for this interview, but Walter couldn't make it. Would you care to shed a little light on that?

GARY: Ah, yes Swifty. Believe it or not, it seems that the old dog is suffering from what can only be described as a broken heart! I've tried everything. Inviting him over to my sideboard where the bottles of spirits are plentiful. Taking him out to The Naughty Nymph Nightspot to watch a bit of fantasy fairy frolicking. Going through his incredibly little black book and calling up a few old flames to come over and join in the fun. You name it, I've tried it.

SWIFTY: Have you tried sitting him inside a steel pyramid frame while incense burns and you wave various crystals about near his head and genital organs?

GARY: Well, all right, no. I haven't tried that. We did get very drunk on the whisky a couple of times, but not that drunk.

SWIFTY: OK Gary, well I'm sure all the listeners will join me in saying that we hope Walter comes through this OK. I'm pleased that you could still make it. Shall we crack on with the interview?

GARY: Thanks Swifty. Sure, fire away!

SWIFTY: OK, why don't you tell us a little bit about your background?

GARY: Right you are Swifty. Well, there's a large wall painted earthy red with some framed photos of various Squeaky DJs on it. Also some kind of planning chart which appears to have nothing on it. Over to the left, there's the door out into the reception area, in front of which stands your runner Odd Job Jimbo with a smirk on his face.

SWIFTY: Ha ha! Thanks, Gary. That wasn't quite what I meant! You and Walter have quite distinct accents for example. Where do they come from?

GARY: From our mouths, Swifty.

SWIFTY: Hmmm. I can see you are going to be hard work today Gary! Let's move on and talk about your great Christmas hit, Little Donkey. What was the inspiration for your work? Does the Christmas story mean a lot to you?

GARY: Not really, Swifty. I know we are imaginary fairytale characters ourselves, but you have to draw the line somewhere! No, I was round at Walter's one day and the Big Feller asked us to do it for his daughters. It's one of their favourites apparently. 'Why not?' We thought. There was nobody as surprised as us at how successful it was.

SWIFTY: It did go down quite a storm, didn't it? At one point reaching Number 4 in the Little Donkey Charts, a position now occupied by Ricky Gervais and his team. And your version is still there at number 8!

GARY: Yeh, we were as gobsmacked as anyone to be honest. Walter loved it of course. The fame, the attention. That isn't really my thing. I prefer to keep quiet about it. I think some of the union members were a bit fed up with Walter wallowing in it too. He's a great leader. Really charismatic. But it has gone against our Socialist principles somewhat. A couple of the older members have been murmuring 'sell-out'.

SWIFTY: Sounds pretty familiar in this day and age, hey Gary? I gather you and Walter first met at Dave Rogerson's, is that right?

GARY: Yeh! Good research Jimbo! What a place that was! Walter was living in a bean bag at the time and I was shacked up in a bedside chest of drawers. We had some great times, especially when the pantomime horses used to come round. Love that crowd and Rogerson himself was a legend. A major piss-head for sure, but the good kind, you know? The kind you can really forgive if he pukes on your bean bag and doesn't bother washing the cover properly for weeks. We've all come a long way since then, but those days of adversity were what made us who we are today.

SWIFTY: You have certainly moved on to bigger and better pieces of furniture. And a music career to boot! Any plans for another single in the near future?

GARY: Well, not right now Swifty. Not with Walter going through his romantic turmoil. Pete has managed to get him to do a couple of Happy Birthday numbers, which in itself was a minor miracle, but he seems to have lost creativity in all aspects of his life at the moment. Maybe if Tallina is listening she might realise just how much she really means to him.

SWIFTY: Let's hope so Gary. I for one would love to have the opportunity to play your next single. And by the look of the e-mails that are coming in as we speak, I think the listeners would too. I'm afraid our time is nearly up. We have to go over to Lester Serious for the Squeaky News. Gary The Sideboard Elf, thank you very much for being our guest today.

GARY: No problem Swifty, it has been a pleasure. Thanks for inviting me. I'll give Walter your regards.

Next Story - Leprechaun >>

Join The Magical World of Walter and Gary Facebook Group

Share on Facebook

HOPPING

2008-03-01T13:45:00.000-08:00

I was out hopping at lunchtime the other week, when this bloke hopped up alongside me.

"Race you to the Town Hall," he said.

Not one to turn down a challenge, I said "O.K. But you'll have to switch to your left leg. I only do left leg hopping."

The chap agreed that would be fair and off we hopped, slaloming around pedestrians and street furniture as and when necessary. It was a close-hopped thing, but I just managed to pull ahead at the last and took the imaginary tape with a flourish. We both sat down on a bench outside the Town Hall and caught our breath.

"Well hopped, mate," he congratulated me.

"Aw, cheers," I said. "I've been putting a lot of work into my sprint finish lately".

We chatted for a little longer and you'll never guess what. Turns out the bloke is a wereflea. This might explain his penchant for hopping. Every full moon he is powerless to stop himself taking on flea form and rampaging about the neighbourhood causing untold itchiness.

The worst part of it is, he never knows exactly when he is is going to resume human form and on a couple of occasions has suddenly found himself sitting naked on top of someone's head or sharing the overstretched underpants of a very shocked victim.

Amazing what you uncover when you scratch the surface.

Share on Facebook

GOOD WITCH, BAD WITCH

2008-02-29T14:47:00.000-08:00

The following tale was written for my daughter Erin's 5th birthday.

There was a thunder storm that night and a terrible wind. Outside it sounded like a team of wolves and a team of ghosts were having a ‘being noisy’ competition. Every now and then, a giant clapped his approval after a particularly good effort by one of the teams.

Erin tossed and turned in her bed. She could not get to sleep. Lightning flashed and cast momentary shadows of dancing monsters on the bedroom walls. Erin was scared. She needed to hide. She needed to get away from the wolves, away from the ghosts, away from the giant and away from the monsters. She got out of bed. Lottie was fast asleep beside her, dreaming pleasant dreams, blissfully unaware of the noisy competition. Erin went out onto the landing. She heard footsteps coming up the stairs and froze with fear. The footsteps got closer but Erin couldn’t move. Then around the corner came a figure a little taller than her. Louis stopped in his tracks, startled to see someone standing there. Then they both recognised one another and began to laugh.

“I can’t sleep,” said Erin.

“Me neither,” Louis replied. “I hate thunder storms. Let’s hide somewhere. I’ve brought my torch. What about in here? The monsters will never find us in here.” Louis pointed to the little door at the top of the stairs. Erin nodded. Louis opened the door and they stooped a little to go inside. Then they both stood with mouths agape as they suddenly found themselves somewhere quite unexpected.

In front of them was a long wooden path. The wood of the path was dark and shiny and smooth at the sides, but down the middle it was rough and worn, as if many feet had passed this way before. Either side of the path was a high fence. It was too high to see over and there were no gaps to look through. Louis tried to reach up to the top of the fence. He could not. He tried jumping. Still he didn’t come close. Then he tried lifting Erin up to see if she could reach. But it was no use. Louis reached into his pocket and found a coin. He took it out, threw it over the top of the fence and waited to hear what sound it would make on the other side. He waited some more. He looked at Erin. They both waited some more. No sound ever came.

On walked the intrepid adventurers, feeling more than a little uneasy about the coin experiment, but determined to see what lay ahead. Eventually, the path led to a tall arch. After walking through the arch they found themselves in a small room. A thick red carpet covered the floor. It also covered the ceiling and the walls.

“How strange,” Erin thought. “A carpet on the ceiling. What ever can that be for? Nobody ever walks on the ceiling. Well, spiders do of course, and flies and daddy long legs. Maybe the carpet is for them.”

In the middle of the far wall was a picture frame. There wasn’t a picture in the frame. It just had a large red letter A in the middle on a plain white background. In the centre of the room was a small black table and on the table stood a white box with a single red button in the centre of it.

Before Erin had time to think about it, Louis strode confidently forward and pressed the button. Suddenly the letter in the picture frame changed quickly to a B and then a C and then a D. It kept changing again and again, going through all the letters in the alphabet. After Z it changed back to A again and then B again and then C again. This continued until all the letters in the alphabet had appeared three times. Then the changes became slower. Each letter stayed just a little longer. Eventually the letter stopped changing. It stopped at the letter W. A faint cracking noise could be heard and the outline of a door began to appear around the picture frame.

Erin and Louis looked at each other, their eyes wide, and then looked back at the newly appeared door. They looked at each other again. Without speaking, they both began to move towards the door. The new door had no handle. Louis pushed on the right side of the door. It seemed stuck. Erin pushed on the left side. This time, the door swung open and they walked through into what appeared to be a shop. There were a counter and various shelves with bottles and bags of what looked like crushed up dried leaves on them. Behind the counter, a woman stood over a stove on which stood a large black cooking pot with steam rising from it. The woman wore a blue dress and an apron with red and white checks. Her hair was fiery red and was tied neatly in bunches. Her eyes were deepest blue with delicate wrinkles either side and her skin was pale with brown freckles.

“Hello there, my dears,” said the old lady. “What can I do for you?”

“Who are you?” asked Louis.

“My name’s Claria. I’m a witch. What brings you here? I don’t think I’ve seen you two before.”

“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” asked Louis.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” replied the witch.

“You know! Are you wicked or are you kind?” Louis explained further.

“Hmmm,” pondered the old lady, rubbing her chin for an extra boost of thinking power. “Do I have to choose one or the other?”

“Yes, of course! Everyone knows that all witches are either good witches or bad witches. You can generally tell by looking at them. You know: the bad ones are green with warts and great big hooked noses. They talk in croaky voices and cackle instead of laughing. What’s more, the things they laugh about are usually not funny at all, but really horrid,” explained Erin.

“That’s right!” Louis agreed. “And good witches are beautiful with pretty pink dresses and wands with stars on and silver crowns and they use big bubbles to fly around in instead of broomsticks and their voices are like a carol-singing choir, only with the volume turned down a bit.” Louis often saw little point in separate sentences.

“I see,” said the witch. She rubbed her chin some more, calling on her last reserves of thinking power by vigorously going over a bit she had missed the first time. But still the answer did not come to her. “Do you know,” she said eventually, “I really don’t know. Nobody ever asked me before and as you can see, I don’t really fit either of your descriptions. Do you think someone should have told me what sort of witch I am? Maybe my mum should have told me when I was little, or do I just have to decide for myself?”

The two children looked at each other for a moment, each one hoping that the other might know the answer. After a little while, Louis thought of another question: “What kind of witch was your mum?”

“My mum?” the witch pondered. “My mum wasn’t a witch at all. She was a goatherd.”

“What’s a goatherd?” asked Louis.

“Like a shepherd, only you look after goats instead of sheep,” the witch explained.

“Oh, right!” Louis exclaimed. “So someone who looks after cows must be a coward!”

“Why are you a witch then?” asked Erin, returning everyone to the question.

“Why? I don’t know really. I suppose I was just very good at spelling when I was at school,” the witch answered, sounding none too sure of herself.

“I know!” Erin suddenly had a flash of inspiration. “Do you do nice spells or do you do nasty spells?”

“Yeh! Nice or nasty?” reiterated Louis, pressing the point.

“I’ve never really thought about it,” the witch had to admit. “How do you tell?”

“That’s easy,” Louis chipped in. “When you do nice spells, you will feel nice inside. In here,” he pointed to his chest. “You’ll feel all tingly and warm. Also, some people might smile at you and say ‘thank you’ to you in a soft voice. They might do something nice for you in return. When you do nasty spells, you will feel a bit sick. A bit further down,” he pointed to his belly. “People will shout at you and tell you off. They might stop speaking for a while or they might even never speak to you again. They might do something nasty to get back at you.”

“I see,” said the witch. “Well, now you’ve explained it, I think I probably do both kinds of spell.”

“Both!?” exclaimed the children in unison.

“You can’t do both! You have to choose one or the other. Otherwise, how will anyone know what kind of witch you are?” Erin continued the questioning.

“I’ve never really thought about it like that,” the witch had to admit. “I didn’t know that people needed to know what kind of witch I am.”

“Oh, yes.” Louis confirmed. “People need to know what kind of witch you are. If they want a nice spell casting, then they go and see a good witch. If they want a nasty spell, then they go to see a wicked witch. I think you’d better decide what kind of witch you are right away.”

“Hmmm,” the witch pondered some more. This time she scratched her head as she had lost all faith in her chin. “How can I decide?”

“Well, which kind of spells do you like best?” Erin asked.

“That depends, really,” the witch answered. “Sometimes I am tired and fed up. Sometimes people are horrid to me or to my friends. Then I think I like the nasty spells best. I can get my own back on them and teach them a lesson. But at other times, people are really nice to me. When the nice people need my help, or I want to thank them, then I feel much more like doing the nice spells.”

“But you must like one better than the other,” Erin continued. “What about that feeling you get? Do you prefer the one in your chest or the one in your belly? Do you like people to smile and say thank you or do you prefer them to shout and get cross?”

“Oh, that’s easy!” The witch decided. “The first ones for definite! No contest.”

“That’s settled then,” said Louis. “You should definitely be a good witch. It’s good spells for you.”

“But what about when people are horrible to me?” The witch asked. “Can’t I just do a few little nasty spells to get back at them?”

“Oh, no, no!” Erin answered. “Good witches must never cast nasty spells. If you want to be a good witch, you must only do nice spells. That’s the rules.”

“Not even a teeny tiny nasty spell?” the witch asked. “I don’t want to turn anyone into a toad or anything. I was thinking more along the lines of a bit of an earache, or maybe a verruca.”

“Nope. Absolutely forbidden I’m afraid. I’m something of an expert on these things. I’ve watched the Wizard of Oz nine times, don’t you know?” said Erin.

“But what am I supposed to do when people are nasty to me?”

“Well,” said Erin. “I’m not sure about that one. I don’t think that was in the Wizard of Oz. Maybe you could try doing a nice spell for them anyway. Perhaps they are just feeling a bit tired and fed up and you could do a ‘wide awake not fed up’ spell. Or maybe someone else was nasty to them and you can do a ‘forget about the nastiness’ spell. Or maybe you could just ignore them and do a nice spell for someone else who you think deserves it.”

“I like the idea of that!” said the witch. “Thank you children. Can I do a spell for you now?”

“We can’t sleep,” said Louis. “There’s a thunderstorm. Can you make it go away?”

“I have just the thing,” said the witch. She reached up to a high shelf and took down a dusty green bottle. She dusted it down and pulled out the cork. “Take some of this, each of you. Half for you and half for you.” she said.

Louis and Erin both took a drink from the potion and the room around them began to fade.

The next morning, Erin was awoken by her little sister. She was back in her bed, and the thunder storm had stopped.

“What a strange dream I had!” Erin thought to herself. “Wait until I tell Louis about it.” She got up to go to the toilet and noticed the little door at the top of the stairs was ajar. Slowly she opened it further an inch at a time. Behind the door there was just a cupboard full of boxes. Erin laughed to herself. Of course. It was just a dream. Then out of the corner of her eye she noticed something familiar on the floor. It was a green bottle with dust clinging to it in places. Its cork lay next to it. Erin picked up the bottle and looked inside. It was empty. She thought she faintly heard a coin landing somewhere and spinning to a rest on the ground.

THE END

Share on Facebook

FOUR LEGGED CHEERING UP

2008-02-28T14:01:00.001-08:00

A few years ago I decided try try my hand at a new profession. The profession I chose was animal psychology. I couldn't be bothered with the whole training to get proper qualifications thing, so I just decided to get some business cards printed at one of those cheap machines you see at train stations and airports. I added some important sounding letters after a false, slightly foreign-sounding, name. Then off I went into the merry world of four-legged cheering up. How hard could it be?

To my unceasing astonishment, I was an immediate and resounding success. People would bring their dogs and cats along to me who were off their food or had started showing an unhealthy interest in rubber garments, and I would rub my chin for a little while and look pensive whilst asking a few relevant-sounding questions, the answers to which I paid no attention to whatsoever.

Then I would say, "Hmm, yes. Leave Rover with me for half an hour and I'll see what I can do."

I would then take the problem pet into a back room and say something like "For goodness sake get a grip. Pull yourself together. Life's not a rehearsal you know!"

Anyway, it seems like I unwittingly stumbled upon a winner with this no-nonsense approach and nine times out of ten it did the trick. Off-colour dogs stopped moping around looking sad and immediately returned to the much more healthy state of mind which is indicated by chasing a ball and bringing it back over and over and over again until their tongues are touching the floor. Cats with low self-esteem returned to their surly 'take take take and I'll let you stroke me every now and again if you're lucky' arrogance.

Very quickly my reputation spread and soon folks from far and wide were heading in my direction with their fed-up furry friends in tow. Elephants with amnesia. Belligerent sheep. Noisy mice. Rabbits that had lost their sex-drive.

Quite frankly I was starting to get a bit out of my depth. My original formula worked fine for crabby canines, forlorn felines and even pissed-off piscines, but I couldn't really take the same approach with these more complex animal issues. What was I to do? It was only a matter of time before I was exposed as a shameful psycho-charlatan. There was only one thing for it. I decided to fake my own death in a tragic terribly uptight tiger tantrum accident.

I got a few steaks from the butchers, and then let out a terrible scream, then quickly climbed out of the window, chucking the steaks and a ripped up bloodstained white coat in the direction of the tiger as I left. When the circus owners burst into the room, all they saw was the tiger polishing off the last bit of the steak and what was left of my white coat on the floor.

The incident made the front page of the local newspapers and there were some rather pleasing quotes from former customers, but my adventure into a new exciting life was over and now I have returned to the more mundane world of computer science. Win some lose some I guess.

Share on Facebook

ELF IN LOVE (OR ELFIN LOVE)

2008-02-28T04:03:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago I went to visit my parents and left Walter in charge of the flat on the strict instructions that he is not to admit any more imaginary creatures or pantomime characters in for comedy knees-ups, drug smoking, political meetings, shoemaking, fashioning of magical rings or pretending not to realise that someone is behind them. He phoned me on my mobile one night, all forlorn. Turns out he is having girlfriend trouble. His voice is pretty squeaky at the best of times, but he was sounding noticeably very upset. He's always been a bit of a jack-the-lad before, bringing home a different tiny pointy-eared female every couple of weeks. They were always a little worse for wear and I long since resigned myself to the fact that I would always very soon be hearing the sounds of tiny elfin bedroom gymnastics from within the sofa.

But lately I had noticed a distinct change in him. The regular sofa guests stopped. I was pleased about this as it meant I didn't have to explain the noises to E & L when they stayed. He seemed very restless and unable to concentrate on his normal everyday tasks and he started stopping and smelling flowers for no reason and waxing lyrical about how beautiful everyday things were. After questioning him about it, I found out the reason. Walter was in love! Her name was Tallina Breeze . A tree nymph from Bolton Woods. Walter spoke of her in an enchanting lyrical fashion. Such a contrast from the usual crude descriptions he gave for his latest conquests. Beauty, fear, honour, privilege, longing. affection, constancy and love all of a sudden became part of Walter's vocabulary.

I had the pleasure of meeting her one evening. Walter sent me out to the shops for a teeny tiny dining table and dolls china dinner set and he locked himself in the kitchen all afternoon from where tantalising smells wafted into my nostrils like an amusing game of Name that Smell. When Tallina finally arrived for Walter's repast, I was pleasantly surprised to note that she was markedly different from Walter's usual arm trophies. She had a winning smile and was pretty and striking in a quite unique teeny tiny way. She and Walter seemed to get on effortlessly and the evening was filled with squeaky laughter, despite the notable absence of Walter's usual inebriation.

A number of similar evenings followed and when I left Walter in charge of the flat that week, it was in the rather confident hope that he had put his wild oat sewing and hedonism days behind him and was now forging an altogether more lasting happiness. So when I heard his voice on the phone, betraying signs of personal devastation, my heart sank for my little love-struck squatter.

To cut a long story short (well, not that short, but I'm trying my best), Tallina has gone all cold on Walter. He can't understand it and frankly, neither can I. From what I saw of them together, she seemed as besotted with him as he is with her. From what Walter has told me about what she has said to him, it seems she has been rather badly let down in the past and is frightened to open herself up to such hurt again. Walter quoted something particularly poignant which Tallina apparently said to him in cartoon-mouse like tones:

"because it's easier not to have something than having to worry about how to keep it and look after it"

The poor little things. Sounds like they are both experiencing some considerable angst and anguish. I hope that they can work it out with time and that Walter doesn't go off the rails in the meantime.

Next Story - Interview With A Furniture Elf >>

Join The Magical World of Walter and Gary Facebook Group

Share on Facebook

DEUTSCHES ZUR MIETE

2008-02-28T03:23:00.000-08:00

If you are planning a wedding reception (Therese and Martine - listen up) or a house party, you just want to have some fun for the weekend, or are having a family get together, you may be searching for something to make that occasion just a little bit special.

If you are prepared to spend a little bit of money to make your party go with a swing, I think I may have found just what you need.

I quote directly from the reasonable attempt at English on the Rent-A-German website which I encourage you to visit.

Imagine to appear with your German at parties, family events, or just hang out with them at the local shopping center.

No matter which occasion you choose, you will surely impress your environment by presenting an original German.

There are now 240 genuine Germans to choose from, all guaranteed to liven up even the dullest bash.

Here are a couple of quotes from satisfied customers:-

"I will never forget, when I went to the beach with the German.
My friends had a good time, eating chicken with him under the sun of Ipanema beach. Next time, I will buy him a new swimming trouser."

Leila R., 36 (Rio de Janeiro)

“It was awesome! Having a German at the office for a week was a huge success! Since then, my relationship with my co-workers has improved big time! I’ll definitely do it again- It was, like, oh my god, this is so it!”

Adam G., 48 (San Francisco)

What are you all waiting for?

Share on Facebook

CHEETAH BICYCLES

2008-02-27T13:01:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking up an idea for livening up Natural History programs on the telly. Think about it. A really fast man can sprint at about 20 mph, but given a fairly decent bike, might reach a sprint speed of 50 mph or more.

If you assume the same is possible for animals, this means that a cheetah could reach speeds around 175 mph on a bike. Obviously, in the interests of fairness, you would have to give bikes to gazelles and springbok and such like too, but I think you'll agree that this idea could bring back a lot of interest to these now frequently seen natural contests.

Of course, there would need to be a period where the animals were taught to ride the specially designed bikes, probably using stabilisers to begin with. Then after a couple of months, the daddy animal could take off the stabilisers and hold on to the back of the bike to begin with, then keep saying to their cub or fawn 'I won't let go' and 'it's all right, I've got you' even though they had already let go several seconds before. Once the animals have mastered the basic riding, the predators will probably need some training from a stunt man in order to perfect the skill of leaping from the moving bike and onto their poor unfortunate brown-eyed prey.

I've contacted Sir David Attenbrough but as yet have had no reply. He's probably mucking about with his gorilla mates again and not answering his e-mails. If he doesn't go for it, then maybe it will work for horse and greyhound racing instead.

Share on Facebook

BEAUTY

2008-02-27T12:40:00.000-08:00

One of my friends recently posted a video to my Facebook wall which was made by the Dove Campaign For Real Beauty.

You can see the excellent video that my friend sent me here.

Please take a couple of minutes to watch it before reading on.

The funny thing is, even at the end, that woman isn't attractive at all to me. The same would go for a lot of models and celebrities and I'm fairly sure I am not atypical. A lot of men would much prefer the 'girl next door' in real life.

Yet women and especially young girls aspire to that and it it so damaging. They are aspiring to be something nobody really wants them to be and something that they can never achieve. Destroying their self-esteem and their health in the process. Two things that are crucial if a woman wants to be truly attractive.

As a father of two young girls I sincerely hope that something changes before they get old enough to be seriously affected by the media distortion.

A lot more excellent information is available on the Dove Campaign For Real Beauty website.

Thanks again, Bee.

Share on Facebook

ANIMALS

2008-02-27T08:57:00.000-08:00

Here's another amusing coversation that I had with my daughters one day:-

ME: What is your favourite animal?

LOTTIE: I like all animals.

ME: What, even wasps?

LOTTIE: Wasps aren't animals.

ME: Really? How do you know they aren't?

LOTTIE: They don't have any fur.

ME: But what about elephants? They aren't furry.

LOTTIE: Animals have eyes.

ME: Does that mean that a worm isn't an animal?

ERIN: Anyway, we have eyes and we aren't animals.

ME: We aren't? Why do you think we aren't animals?

ERIN: We just aren't! We're us.

ME: Why not? I think we might be animals.

ERIN: Animals have four legs and we have 2.

ME: What about chickens?

We continued in this fashion for some time. At the end of it, I don't think there was any firm conclusion about how one decides what is an animal and what isn't. Please leave your suggestions in a comment.

Share on Facebook

ZIG A ZIG AH

2008-02-27T05:51:00.001-08:00

"What's on tonight then, love?" asked Jim as he sat back in his arm chair after a satisfying evening meal. With his favourite mug full of tea just how he liked it in one hand and his Yorkshire Post in the other, Jim felt deep contentment. Every evening he followed the same routine. It was comfortable. It was safe.

"Turn it to ITV will you? Time for Coronation Street," Jim continued.

A deep and heartfelt sigh came from his wife at the other side of the room.

"What's up, love?" asked Jim. "You've got the remote there haven't you? You know we always watch Coronation Street at this time."

"Oh, yeh. Don't I just know it," replied Brenda with a sarcastic tone that was so out of character it took Jim by surprise.

"Is something up, love?" asked Jim "Come on, out with it or we'll miss the start."

"Is something up?" Brenda repeated his question, her tone becoming more sarcastic with every syllable. "No, Jim, something isn't up. Fucking everything is up."

Jim had lived with Brenda for 26 years and not once had he heard her use the F word. He sat there with his mouth open wide and very slowly put his favourite mug onto the coaster that sat atop his side table to prevent unsightly stains.

"Wha...?" said Jim, momentarily unable to form a complete word.

"For fuck's sake Jim! You are soooo unutterably dull! Every evening the same thing. 'What's on tonight love? Turn it to Channel 4 love. Rory Bremner's on. We can tape Eastenders and watch it later.' FUCK!! For years we had no choice. The routine enforced by having to work around the kids. For years I waited because I thought there was a light at the end of the tunnel. I thought we could really start to really live our lives again when the kids grew up. Let me tell you, this is NOT what I had in mind. Do you think this is what I want Jim?"

"Wha...? I... I thought you were happy Brenda. I thought we loved each other. I love you Brenda, I am content just to be in your company. I thought you felt the same. We have a nice home in a nice area, no real worries. Another couple of years and I will maybe be able to retire. We have a nice life Brenda. What is it that you want that you don't have?"

"I'll tell you what I want. What I really, really want."

"So, tell me what you want. What you really, really want."

"I want to....I want to....I really, really, really want to zig a zig ah."

"I'm sorry? You really want to what?"

"To zig a zig ah."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Don't swear Jim, it is not like you."

"You fucking started it. What the fuck is 'zig a zig ah' ?"

"Oh, Jim, if I have to explain that to you then there is no hope is there? What is the matter with you? What happened to the Jim I once knew? Where did all your va va voom go?"

"So, you would like to zig a zig ah and you are concerned that I have lost my va va voom. Oh, well that's very straightforward. Yes, of course. I will attend to those two things immediately. Is there any other unintelligible bollocks you would like me to be thinking about while I am at it?"

"Don't get sarcastic with me Jim. You know I don't like that."

"Well, I thought I knew what you do and don't like Brenda, but now it all seems to be up in the air doesn't it? Because apparently I should have been paying more attention to my Vorsprung durch Technic all this time rather than working hard to provide a stable home for you and the kids. And maybe I should have been concentrating on my doo wah diddy diddy dum diddy doo as well to make sure that you were able to get all the rama lama dingdong that you are so yearning for. Forgive me if I got it wrong, but maybe it was the fact that YOU HAVEN'T SAID ANYTHING ABOUT THIS FOR THE PREVIOUS 26 YEARS that threw me off track a little."

"Please don't be nasty with me Jim. I am telling you now because I don't think I can take it any longer. God knows I have tried. Are you really happy with this? Same thing every single evening. Emmerdale, Corry, Eastenders, The Bill. Cup of tea. Yorkshire Post. The odd comment about the newspaper or aimed at the TV and never talking to me. Never really talking."

"I am happy Brenda. At least I was until this. Because I thought you were happy. That is really all that matters to me. I am shocked to be honest. I really do feel content just being in your company. I thought you felt the same. I thought we were good together Brenda. Comfortable."

"Maybe 'comfortable' is a bit overrated Jim. Remember exciting? Can't we try exciting again just a little bit, Jim?"

Share on Facebook

YELLOW

2008-02-26T17:55:00.001-08:00

One day a few months ago I was talking to my youngest daughter Lottie (three years old at the time). The conversation went something like this:-

DADDY:
What is your favourite colour, Lottie?

LOTTIE:
Yellow.

DADDY:
Still yellow? You haven't changed your mind?

LOTTIE:
No. Sometimes I wish the whole world was yellow.

DADDY:
If the whole world was yellow, how would you find your bananas?

LOTTIE:
You would look for the black bit on the end.

DADDY:
But if the whole world was yellow, then the black bits on the end of bananas would be yellow too.

LOTTIE:
Oh, well. Then you would just have to sniff them out.

Genius!

Share on Facebook

XMAS DINNER

2008-02-26T17:09:00.000-08:00

A couple of years ago I invented a special attachment for dinner plates at Christmas.

The original concept started as a special plate with a hole in it. It had a tube attached to the bottom (obviously the hole has a raised rim to prevent gravy going down it). The idea is that you can put your brussels sprouts down the hole and they go down the tube and into the hutch of a grateful rabbit or guinea pig. If you don't have a rabbit or guinea pig, the tube can just go into a bucket, the contents of which are taken to the compost heap of a wizened old allotment owner later. At other times of year it could be used for that nasty curly lettuce which reataurants and chefs on TV use all the time, but which basically just tastes like paracetomol. However, this would require some kind of suction device at the hutch end of the tube as lettuce does not have the rolling qualities of a brussels sprout. I fear this may make the cost prohibitive scare the rabbit.

After a little bit of extra brainstorming, I decided not to go for a hole in the actual plate, but a funnel type affair which can clamp onto the side of your plate or table and feed into the down tube. The advantages are obvious. Consumers will now not have to fork out for a whole new set of holey crockery or drill big holes in their tables, but instead can keep using their favourite plates and just pull them near the table edge when engaging in sprout disposal. The device can also be taken to restaurants and dinner parties provided they don't mind you bringing your rabbit. Come to think of it, I reckon most rerstaurants would mind you bringing your rabbit.

Therefore, what we need is some kind of cute furry animal and cage concealment device. That is, a device which can conceal cute furry animals in their cages rather than a cute device which can conceal furry animals in their cages or a device which can conceal cute furry animals and cute furry cages. Cages are generally neither cute nor furry, so inventing a concealment device for cute furry cages would be a massive waste of time and resources. And the device itself need not be cute unless our primary target market is pre-teenage girls.

Now I just need a financial backer with huge piles of cash and we can go into production.

Share on Facebook

WERESHEEP

2008-02-26T06:55:00.001-08:00

One day a few years ago I picked up a personal training client. In this story I will call him Larry. I have a duty of care to make sure that I don't injure or in any other way cause harm to my clients so it is necessary at an initial consultation for them to fill out a questionnaire about their general health so I can find out any underlying problems they might have.

This consists of a number of yes or no questions covering the major issues such as heart disease, diabetes, blood pressure, joint injuries etc. At the end there is a box for the client to write anything else they think might affect their partaking in exercise.

"So, Larry. You have ticked 'no' to most of the questions. That's good. But at the bottom here you have put in the box 'I am a weresheep'. Would you care to tell me a little bit more about that?"

"Yes Doc. Sure thing."

"I'm not a doctor. But please, do carry on."

"Right coach. I'm fairly OK most of the time, but every full moon I am powerless to stop myself taking on sheep form and rampaging about the neighbourhood going 'baaaa', eating people's grass and generally being shit scared of anything that moves."

"I see. Well, that is an unusual problem and I sympathise. But to be honest, I don't think that will have much effect on your training. As long as you avoid training when it is a full moon you should be fine. Maybe you should get a little patch of grass in your house and when the night in question comes around, get someone you trust to lock you in."

"Yes, thanks coach. I do already do something along those lines. I have had this for quite some time now."

"Oh, right. So why did you feel the need to tell me?"

"Well, the thing is, even when I am in human form, I still have sheepish tendencies. It's especially bad when I am confronted with a decision that I can't avoid. Then I will tend to lose it and I feel like I want to run around in little zigzags, desperately trying to find a group of people to latch onto so that I don't have to make the decision as an individual."

"Hmmm. To be fair Larry, that sounds pretty similar to what an awful lot of humans do anyway, be they ovine lycanthropes or not."

"What, so you don't think that will affect my training?"

"Well I don't think so Larry. I will tell you what you need to do and as long as you follow that, you will get the results you desire. In fact, folks who do what I tell them to the letter are the ones who get the best results so it may well be that your lack of independence is a bonus in this case."

"Thanks Doc, that's a weight off my mind."

"I'm not a doctor, Larry. Let's crack on shall we?"

Share on Facebook

VICTORY

2008-02-26T06:52:00.000-08:00

In July 1759, Mr Edward Allen, Master Shipwright of Chatham Dockyard received a letter from the Principle Officers and Commissioners of the Admiralty directing him:

"To make preparation and to prepare costing for a First-Rate Ship of 100 guns, to be built and fitted for sea at Chatham".

The name for the new ship was chosen by The Board of Admiralty in 1760 (although it was not completed and launched until Sunday 7th May 1763.

"Gentlemen. Today we have the task of naming the new First-Rate Warship being built at Chatham dock. Tradition has it that we use one of the seven names reserved for this class of ship. As six names are already taken by ships in service to His Majesty, this should be a fairly simple matter."

"Sir, are you sure that is wise in this case? The ship which we are replacing with this new vessel was lost at sea with all crew members. Perhaps we should break with tradition and choose a new name. It would seem that this name is an ill-fated one and even if we are not to believe such things, it may still strike fear in the hearts of any crew."

"What name did you have in mind?"

"Errmmm, how about HMS Fingers Crossed? We don't want to get too complacent after all. Pride comes before a fall and all that."

"Hmm. You might have something there. Our bravado did not work very well with the last ship did it?"

"That's right chief. Maybe it's time to admit that all that positive thinking and God is on our side because we are British stuff is a load of old bollocks and go back to good old fashioned superstition. I mean, just the other day I saw seven crows and a couple of hours later won 25 sovereigns on the gaming table down at the Old Salty Seaman Tavern."

"It's six for gold isn't it?"

"What?"

"One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret ...."

"Is it? OK, hang on. No, that was it, I saw one crow before I had my win."

"One crow? One for sorrow?"

"Ah, no. I am going by the other rhyme now. One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready etc."

"That's Elvis. Hasn't even been written yet."

"Who?"

"Elvis."

"Who's Elvis?"

"Oh, never mind. About this ship. Have the rest of you any suggestions?"

"Yes chief. How about HMS You Never Know Your Luck. That should keep the sailors onside. They aren't going to fall for another super-positive name like we had last time, but that at least gives them a bit of hope. Not superstition as such, just pragmatic realism."

"Any more ideas?" Those around the table looked at their big buckled shoes to avoid catching the High Admiral's eye, thus indicating they had nothing further to say.

"OK, so we have three choices before us. HMS Fingers Crossed. HMS You Never Know Your Luck and the original choice, HMS Victory. What say you? Shall we have a show of hands? Thank you gentlemen. It seems the traditionalists amongst us have won the day and we shall go with our original plan. "

So tradition was followed and the new warship was named HMS Victory. It was later to be captained by Admiral Lord Nelson as he led the British Fleet to victory in The Battle Of Trafalgar in 1805, defeating the combined Spanish and French fleets and changing Britain's fortunes in international affairs for many years to come. Nelson was fatally wounded on the deck of HMS Victory during this battle.

One can only ponder if history may have been different had the name HMS You Never Know Your Luck been chosen.

Share on Facebook

USING 'UTERUS'

2008-02-26T06:48:00.000-08:00

*** WARNING: Very Polite Sexual Content ***

One evening a couple of weeks ago I was talking on the phone with one of my female friends and we got onto the subject of 'talking dirty'. If you are worried about my moral integrity at this point, may I please assure you that this doesn't happen all the time and that I usually stick to subjects such as hairdressing, interior design, lovely fluffy bunny wabbits and cute little lambs gamboling through lush green pastures dotted with golden buttercups on balmy spring afternoons.

Anyway, somehow this topic came up and my friend suggested that it would be rather amusing if couples talked dirty but used the very polite / medical terms for the acts and body parts which they were describing.

Give it a try! It is indeed very amusing. I particularly recommend putting on a voice like Noel Coward when you do it.

Here is an example but do feel free to experiment with your own. :-)

"Darling, you are looking quite wonderful tonight. More blood than usual has flown into my penis. It is larger than normal and it is in a state of rigidness. I really would like to engage in sexual intercourse with you."

"Oh, yes my love. I too am rather keen on engaging in sexual intercourse. It will probably be facilitated by the fact that I am currently secreting vaginal fluid which will act as a perfect lubricant when your penis is inserted into my vaginal canal and will help prevent any painful friction."

"Oh, baby! I am going to insert it and then I am going to perform some vigorous pelvic movements, stimulating the super-sensitive nerve endings of my glans until I reach a point of ecstatic climax and am unable to stop myself filling your uterus with my spermatozoa."

"Oh, yes. Go on then love machine! Insert your erect penis into my vaginal canal. I want to feel your glans (which is rather swollen due to the unusual amount of blood flow to the region) touching my cervix as you engage in sexual intercourse with me. I am also looking forward to feeling the contraction of your bulbospongiosus muscle which will propel your spermatozoa into my uterine chamber."

OK! You can write the rest yourselves!

Thanks to my friend for the very funny idea :-)

One last thing. If you want to engage in talking dirty proper, I cannot think of a thoroughly naughty way of saying 'uterus'. The only other word I can think of is 'womb' which you would have no problem saying to your grandmother. That just will not do!

Please leave your filthy word for 'womb' suggestions in a comment!

Share on Facebook

THINKING

2008-02-26T06:45:00.000-08:00

If you haven't met me in person, you may be surprised to learn that I am a fairly quiet individual. The strong, silent type. I am usually fairly happy to go for long periods without speaking at all. That isn't to say that I can't have a good old conversation, but I tend not to initiate them much. This is in rather stark contrast to writing or chatting on MSN which I like to do rather a lot of!

When I am in a reasonably long relationship with a member of the wonderful opposite sex, these periods of silence often prompt my partner to ask the dreaded question:

"What are you thinking about?"

Why is it a dreaded question? Because I am very often thinking about nothing at all. But in my experience, women just won't accept this as an answer. They are aware that I am fairly intelligent and therefore cannot get their head around the concept that I might be just sitting there not thinking about anything.

This often leads to a bit of conclusion jumping.

"Pete must be thinking about something. Therefore he must be thinking about something he doesn't want to tell me. Is he thinking about another woman? Is he thinking about leaving me? Is he in a mood about something and won't say?"

I have learned this will happen and therefore when I am faced with the question 'What are you thinking about?' and my real answer is nothing, I have to decide whether to make something up to avoid the conclusion jumping.

But this is fraught with danger too. For women have special magical powers which can detect lying and I have a moral code which makes it difficult for me to do.

However I choose to answer, I am heading for a row. A row about NOTHING. Totally fabricated in the imagination of my partner who nevertheless will not accept this to be the case and will press on with her interrogation.

Share on Facebook

S.F.O.

2008-02-26T06:42:00.000-08:00

One day a few of years ago, I was showing a chap round the gym where I worked as a fitness trainer. It is good to try and create a bit of friendly rapport on such occasions, to make the client feel at ease, so I asked the chap what he did for a living.

"I'm a detective, mate," he said. "Silly Fraud Office."

"I'm sorry?" I said, thinking that I may have mis-heard him.

"A detective. Silly Fraud Office," repeated the man. "You've heard of the Serious Fraud Office, right? They deal with the Conrad Blacks of this world, the major financial tricksters. Well, there's an awful lot of silly fraud going on as well. That's where my department comes in."

"I see!" I said with considerable surprise in my voice. "What kind of things do you investigate then?"

"Well, I can't speak about any current cases. But I'll give you some examples from a few years ago. One time there was this gang of particularly nasty silly villains who cheekily named themselves Cereal Swindlers. They set up a nationwide network of forgers who would buy boxes of cereal which had a special offer of a little plastic toy if you sent in 5 coupons from the packet. Some of their early attempts at forging these coupons were pretty crude. But after a while they started to use more sophisticated techniques and the folks over at Kellogg's and Nestlé were unable to distinguish their work from the real thing. We estimate that as many as 450 little plastic cars, action figures an twirly rainbow spinning tops fell into the hands of these villains and were then sold on the black market for whatever price they could get. They were completely oblivious to the fact that they were depriving children of the life lesson of diligently cutting out and saving up their coupons over a number of weeks."

"Really?" I said while mentally starting to calculate how much of my hard earned taxes might be going to fund this department.

"No lie mate. The bastards had no scruples whatsoever. Here's another example. This one happened back in the days before entrance to museums became free for all. Those were dark days and dark days often see the rise of dastardly characters. You may recall that you could get into museums free or half price if you had a Blue Peter Badge. Another group of forgers started churning out their own Blue Peter Badges and handing them out to members of their underworld organisation so that they could go round dressed as schoolchildren looking at the bones of dinosaurs, old paintings and really stupid modern sculptures without paying their share for their up-keep.

"We sent a few of our boys into the most popular venues disguised as janitors and museum guides. It was fairly easy to catch out the culprits in the end. They made the mistake of being actually interested in the exhibits (one actually did some sketches) rather than just charging around the museum shouting, laughing at phallic statues and trying to think up ways of getting to snog the girl who developed breasts before all the others.

"Some of them were really hard to break when we got them back to the station. They just stayed in school-child character and refused to cooperate with our questioning. Because we couldn't prove their age, we had to get a Duty Social Worker to sit in with them. But one of my colleagues came up with an ingenious method of sorting out the real villains from the occaasional actual schoolchild we picked up who turned out to be just a really dull swot.

"We leave a brand new all singing and dancing mobile phone on the desk along with a packet of cigarettes and then make an excuse to leave the room. When we returned, nine times out of ten, if it were a swotty kid, they had found out how to play sudoku or chess on the phone and were happily sitting there wiling their lives away with mental stimulation. The real villains virtually never touched the phone or if they were clever and rumbled our little game, they would try but fail dismally faced with the baffling array of options presented on the screen. Sometimes they would take a photo of their ear by mistake." The detective concluded his tale.

"I don't want to be rude about your profession, mate. But aren't these things all a bit trivial? Surely the money you spent solving these petty crimes could be put to better use," I questioned him.

"I often get this question. We believe it is very important to nip these things in the bud. To show the silly ne'er-do-wells where the line is that must not be crossed. If we didn't do something with these cases, where would it end? You'd have people up and down the country opening bank accounts under false mustaches, sending paintings into competitions saying they were 8 1/2 years old when they were actually 9, getting into the pictures half price by sending the short kid whose voice hasn't broken yet to buy the tickets while the others hide near the pick and mix. The economy would be in ruins. This let the little things slide attitude is what is leading this country to the brink of ruination."

Just before he finished this speech, the chap stood up with a flourish of patriotism , clenching his fist in defiance before I ushered him towards the next exercise machine shaking my head slightly with incredulity.

Share on Facebook