Blockbusters of Religion.

In the town where I grew up many of the local pubs in the area have closed. Conversely, a number of modern churches of all denominations have opened to the point where there are now more churches than pubs. The Church of England has been bemoaning falling attendances and lack of interest for years but clearly there are still many people wishing to have their souls saved. It seems the C of E is missing the boat.

A church survey from 2005 states that church-going in all categories has declined but the percentage of evangelical worshipers has risen. Now 40 percent of church attendees class themselves as evangelical as opposed to traditionalist Roman Catholic or Church of England. I have friends and family who are ardent churchgoers and I respect their views. I am not religious myself but if I were, I would go to somewhere uplifting and inspiring, not somewhere sombre and doom laden. It's not a problem of doctrine, it's one of marketing.

It seems to me that the old and dusty Church of England leaders are content to sit around arguing points of principle and trying to maintain the status quo while their congregations dwindle in favour of more energetic soul saving. It reminds me of the High Street chain Blockbusters who dominated the video and DVD Market for years but failed to take advantage of their position when streaming came along and consequently went bust. They could have been a market leader up there with Lovefilm and Netflix.   

They have already sold of a number of churches which have turned into pubs and the like. As congregations drop, more churches will become financially unviable and there aren't enough clergy to cover them all anyway. What happens when they decide that the great cathedrals have become too expensive to maintain? Will the government step in and pay for them out of taxpayer's money as part of English Heritage or National Trust? The general trend is towards privatization for whatever the government can unload so they could end up being sold off. What companies would benefit most from huge buildings in the heart of the community? Retail outlets like supermarkets could be front runners.

Fortunately, the Church of England is far from broke so we don't have to worry about York Minster being run by ASDA just yet. A quick scan through the phone book for my local town still shows many more listings for pubs than it does for churches so the spirits of the imbibing kind still hold sway over the spirits of the redeeming kind.

To Bah, or Not to Bah.

'So this is Christmas' sang John Lennon and, sure enough, the great wheel of time has rolled round to the festive season once again. Christmas is as inevitable as death and taxes and every year there is an important dilemma to face' to bah humbug or not to bah humbug, that is the question?

My Dearly Beloved's birthday falls right on top of Christmas. She made it absolutely clear from the start of our relationship that she was having no truck with this joint birthday and Christmas present malarkey. Consequently, we celebrate both days separately which is great as it spreads the festivities over two days. There's no chance of bah humbugging in our Buckinghamshire hideout. 

There are advantages to bah humbugging. You can avoid the blatant commercialism designed to part you from your cash, you won't be disheartened when your goodwill gesture is not reciprocated. It's not going to be a disappointment when your family fall out and ruin the cosy atmosphere. Mostly, you won't be surprised when a Christmas miracle showing the world as a magical place and the essential goodness of human nature doesn't occur. You can enjoy being smug that your cynicism is proved accurate once again. There is a lot to be said for bah humbugging. 

The problem is that is comes around whether you like it or not. You can choose to play along and turn a blind eye to the hypocrisy, or, you can try and ignore the whole thing and hope it goes away as quickly as possible. Fate doesn't take time off during holidays. Nasty things happen at Christmas and some people's festivities are overshadowed by memories of loss and tragedy. Such people can be forgiven for bah humbugging but for most of us there is a choice whether to join in and party or, like the Grinch, go off and hide somewhere.

It seems to me that you get out what you put in. The more effort you make to engage with people the better time you'll have. Christmas is about people, not things. Personally, I think all the shops should be closed boxing day to allow people more time with families but unfortunately, money talks. For all its faults Christmas is fundamentally a good thing and personally, I am glad it comes round, life would be much duller without the brightness of Christmas to punctuate the years. 

Spot Blog.

A couple of days ago I got out of bed to get ready for work in the usual manner. It was a normal day in every respect, except one. I stumbled down the stairs to put the kettle on and then stumbled back up again to the bathroom. That's when I discovered the occurrence  which made this day different from every other; the event which was going to define the day and skew my interaction with my colleagues and general public alike. Overnight, I had grown a huge spot on the end of my nose.

It's okay for the fairer sex, they have all kinds of foundations and concealers to combat facial disfigurement. Whilst they may have a hissy fit for the first 10 minutes, it's not long before the potions and poultices of female alchemy come into play. Manly men have to wear their imperfections with pride so, with the fortitude of Ranulph Fiennes facing an arctic blizzard, I set off into the world with nose aglow. I knew people would be pretending not to notice my radiant schnozzle. These things just aren't spoken about.

People are very touchy about this kind of thing. I once mentioned to a colleague that he had a bit of lunch stuck to his chin. He reacted as if I had just caught him burying his mother in the back garden. First he tried to cover it up, then he became defensive edging towards belligerent before stomping off. The level of embarrassment far outweighed the event. Perhaps that's why people hedge round it with gestures and meaningful looks instead of mentioning it outright.

In one of my previous incarnations jobwise I used to deal with clients face to face. One elderly lady had a large purple growth about the size of a golf ball sprouting from her lip that was a wonder to behold. It didn't seem to bother her and we never discussed it although it had its own aura that pulled your eyes towards it. She must have known people would stare at it and I never understood why she didn't get it removed, but then again, I didn't ask.

Back in the 70s there was a blonde, singer songwriter called Lynsey de Paul. I can't remember any of her songs but I remember her 'beauty spot'. personally I'm not a fan and found it irritating but I expect some people love them. To save Lynsey's  blushes, I've transposed her facial embellishment on to a less well know phizog, What do you think, improvement or not?

The Homer Gene.

I have an affliction. There I am, keeping busy as I generally have at least one project on the go and bimbleing along nicely, things are getting done and I'm feeling upbeat and positive. Then I seem to hit an imaginary wall and run out of steam. For no apparent reason I become lacklustre, demotivated and just can't be bothered. Even the things I enjoy become too much trouble and all I really want to do is eat and drink too much while lazing around watching DVDs. I call this trigger in my head my 'Homer gene'

I have named it after the popular, yellow cartoon character as it seems to mirror his slothful, overindulgent ways. Eating large pizzas until your stomach hurts and washing it down with Duff beer while the fabric of your life collapses around you seems like the way forward. Why waste your time striving, trying to keep fit and chasing rainbows when you could just chill out and hang loose man, what's it all for anyway? This lasts for a couple of days until the guilt kicks in and re-motivates me back to my normal, industrious lifestyle.

It's not depression. I know people with depression and it's nothing like as bad as the crushing, hopelessness true depressives feel. Churchill spoke of his 'black dog' mine's more of a pink Chihuahua. It's not despair, It's can't be arsed, like a really bad duvet day. If it has a scientific name it's probably something like
'Spooner's psychosomatic lassitudinal malaise syndrome'. I doubt that I'm the only person on the planet who suffers from this affliction. For some people it seems to be a career choice.

I'm sure I shall get re-inspired to get off the sofa and do something constructive in the next couple of days but, for now, I'm off to the fridge for another beer and a packet of pork pies while the adverts are on telly. I was going to write more but, quite frankly, I can't be bothered.

PS. This blog is apparently now on newsfeeds across the USA so if my regular commentators could avoid causing any diplomatic incidents it would be appreciated.

The Bogey Man Lives.

I was talking to a police inspector the other day about a seminar he attended on modern policing and what 'protecting the public' actually means. I have to say it was quite disturbing. He didn't tell me anything I didn't already know but once you put the pieces together like a jigsaw, the final picture is unsettling. He was saying that when he joined up it was perceived that there were good guys and bad guys and the good guys locked up the bad guys. Modern thinking says the person sat next to you is the bad guy, not the burglar in the stripy shirt with a bag of swag.

It's a fact that most murders are carried out by people known to the victim, perhaps a relative, partner or acquaintance. Murders by strangers are extremely rare. The same is true of rape, stranger rapes do happen but are very uncommon compared to rapes by offenders known to the victim. The same applies to other types of sexual and violent assaults on both adults and children, there are such people as predatory paedophiles, but they don't become predatory until they have been caught molesting their own children or nephews and nieces and denied access to easy pickings There are a whole range of crimes ranging from blackmail and threats to kill to making indecent images and sexual exploitation where the victim knows the offender.

As for your children, well, they're safe at school. There's a security system and the gates are locked aren't they? Unfortunately, the people most likely to do them harm are locked in there with them. They are more likely to be beaten up, psychologically intimidated' bullied and sexually assaulted by fellow pupils than by random people in the street, even if it happens outside school hours. Everyone has heard of kids going through the most awful trials at school sometimes ending up in suicide but somehow it's just' playground stuff' and doesn't really count. There are drug dealers who hang around outside schools but then again there's Jimmy in year eleven whose older brother can get whatever drugs you want. So who exactly are we locking the gates against?

These offenders are all victims themselves in the modern parlance. The fact that he's six foot tall, built like a tank and just beat you black and blue doesn't mean he's not a vulnerable victim himself and suffering from mental health issues. He's not the bad guy, he's just not getting the appropriate support from the mental health professionals for his anger management issues. It just so happens he is also your uncle,brother, ex-boyfriend or husband.

So how do you protect the public when the enemy is also the victim's friend or relative? It would need a level of intrusion by the police 'behind closed doors' as the saying goes which would never be acceptable to civil liberties campaigners, remember 1984 and Winston's  television which spied on him? How do you stop the trolls on social media sites for example? Perhaps there should be electronic spies monitoring your every update, alternatively, shut it down altogether. It's the old 'with freedom comes responsibility adage. If some people negate their responsibility to their fellow man do you restrict the freedoms of all?

Sorry, no answers, only questions but one thing I do know, the bogeyman does exist but he is not hiding under the bed or in the cupboard, you've been looking in the wrong place.

Travellin' Blues.

I had to catch a bus the other day. I haven't had to catch the peasant wagon for years and it's not something I would recommend but my Dearly Beloved needed the car. I could have cycled to work but I was too lazy and I could have caught a cab but I was too tight to pay for it. The bus stop in the city centre is a short walk from where I work and it's a direct route almost to my front door so it seemed straight forward. My naivety of public transport had lulled me into a false sense of security and I'm sure you can tell where this is going.

I left work and wandered up to the bus stop via W H Smiths to discover I had missed my first bus by five minutes. They run every half an hour so I mooched round the shops for another twenty minutes before returning to the bus stop.
There is nowhere quite as bleak as a bus-stop on a cold, wet day and my fellow passengers looked dejected and miserable. We waited and then we waited some more. Buses to other destinations came and went with annoying frequency but our transport failed to show up. It finally arrived half an hour late.

 The disgruntled passengers and I boarded without a word of explanation or apology from the driver or the two employees in company jackets standing on the bus. I presume they were there to eject anyone who complained or cut up rough. Due to the delay the bus was packed and consequently had to stop at every request stop on route. I can drive home from work in under ten minutes, I can cycle it in twenty minutes and I can walk it in an hour. My bus journey took an hour and a half. That will teach me for being tight and lazy.

There are some strange people who take public transport. I once knew a girl who recounted a story about travelling home on a bus one day with a fellow sat behind her who made her uneasy. All the way home she felt an slight tugging the back of her cardigan. She finally got off the bus much to her relief and hurried home to find the back of her cardigan had been slit open with a knife.

Dearly Beloved and I often catch buses when we go on holiday as a way of visiting the larger towns and travelling the country side. The buses abroad are much like the buses here except the weather and the view from the windows are much nicer. We once visited a bus garage in a busy town in Crete where they could have taught our local bus company a thing or two. None of the buses seemed to be marked with numbers or destination so we had to play ' guess the bus'. If you got it wrong the staff shouted at you and wildly gesticulated in no particular direction. I am pleased to say they seemed to treat the locals with the same level of contempt.

My middle son who catches buses regularly says no-shows and late arrivals are a daily occurrence. I'm surprised the company can treat people with such contempt and get away with it but that's what happens when you have a monopoly. At least I don't have to rely on public transport unlike many people. It's no wonder people at bus stops look so dismal.

The Thief of Time.

I am a wood elf. I travel the world scavenging for things that might be useful or that I can sell. I have to kill various animals, people and undead creatures in my line of work and I'm especially skilful at killing dragons. It's not my day job though.

I have recently had a birthday and received many interesting and useful presents. One of which was a new game for my Xbox and I don't know whether to curse or cheer about it. The problem is that I get carried away playing it at the expense of more worthy pursuits, like painting the kitchen ceiling.

There are two camps of people, those who play computer games and those who don't understand the attraction. I have always had a vivid imagination with a particular slant towards fantasy and adventure and if these games had been around when I was young, I would have been one of those reclusive teenagers who seldom leave the bedroom.

I've played several games over the years and every time I finish one I promise to get myself a life. I have been known to switch it on early evening and still be beavering away killing zombies when the sun comes up. It's all so pointless.

Most women are in the 'don't get it' camp including my dearly beloved. She was seriously tickled when she discovered I was a wood elf, the ribbing has been merciless. Even I have to admit it's ridiculous. I don't find it relaxing because it's so intense and frustrating and I feel guilty about the wasted time. Then there's the lethal combination of game and alcohol. I wake up with a hangover and can't even remember what happened in my alternative world.

I shall try and resist the pull of the thing but it's hard, I think I'm addicted. Perhaps there's a self-help group I can join. I've tried to ration myself to an hour a day but there's always just another little bit you need to finish, then another, then another. Devious bastards those game designers.

And The Point Is...

You're only as old as you feel, they say. Age is just a number, they say. I know people in their seventies who haven't grown up and I know people in their twenties who seem to have been born straight into middle age with all the cares of the world on their shoulders'. Personally, I think I'm about 26. 

Last week, I went out with some good friends of mine. By pure fluke we started off in the pub where I used to hang out with my punk rocker buddies back in the 70s and were I had my first pint. The pub had hardly changed in the thirty years since I last darkened its doorstep and the memories came flooding back. After a while I went to the bar for another round and was just about to launch into my reminisces with the pretty, young barmaid when I managed to stop myself. It's the classic old man's mistake. On no planet in the known universe is a young girl interested in the ramblings of an old drunk talking about a time before she was born. I still think I'm 26 but clearly, if you can remember a time when you could get three pints for a quid this can't be the case.

I've had a go at growing old gracefully and acting my age but, when push comes to shove, I would rather be in the pub than the garden (unless it's a pub garden). I have tried to take finances and wearing beige more seriously but I find it all a bit dull. I'm in robust health so have no hospital stories to swap or ailments to complain about. I still use the term granddad in a derogatory fashion when roundly cursing other car drivers whilst conveniently forgetting I am a granddad myself.

The only thing that reminds me of my age is the mirror. Just like Dorian Gray I remain young while the face looking back at me gets older. Therefore, the point is, I might think I am 26 years old but the rest of the world knows I'm a delusional old git.

The Church of Rock 'N' Roll

One of the definitions of a religion is; a particular system of belief or worship. There's a group of people who fall under this definition but who are not a recognised religion. There are certainly more of them than there are people claiming to be Jedi. No-one has done a head count but there are probably more adherents to this sect worldwide than regular Church of England worshipers. This sect is known to the wider world as Elvis fans. 

They have many similarities with other organised religions. There is a central figure who they believe to be the one and only true deity. He inspires a devotion that bears no truck with any suggestion that Elvis is not the king of rock and roll.  They gather together to worship in dusty, backwater pubs by listening to Elvis' music on the juke box. They are easily identifiable by the dodgy hairdos that resemble quiffs and strangely dated outfits and, like most religions, is more popular with the older generation than the younger.

All religions have a place of pilgrimage and Graceland stands as a gathering spot for people the world over.  Like most religions they have worldwide gatherings to meet up and celebrate his life where they choose the best impersonator. The big event in Europe is at the Birmingham Metropole in January 2014 if you're interested.

Of course, no one has claimed that Elvis created the universe but the Buddhists  and Jedi don't have anything to say about it either. Elvis isn't going to answer any prayers but perhaps his music has helped people in that indefinable way that having a strong faith does. The Question is what the followers would call themselves, Presleyites. Elvishists? Answers on a postcard please.

Achtung Baby.

Britain used to have an Empire and it was the largest Empire the world has ever seen. The French, Dutch and Portuguese have also had a crack at world domination and made a fairly good job of it. The Greeks and Italians under the guise of Romans are legendary for spreading their respective cultures and the benefits of their wisdom. The Austro-Hungarian Empire was the second largest country in Europe after Russia at its peak, but what about the Germans?

The Germans have proved a dismal failure at world domination despite at least two serious attempts. Even during the great land grabs of the 16th, 17th and 18th centuries they were non-starters apart from a few footholds in Africa. In all other respects they are a great nation. They have a fistful of Nobel prizes, some of the greatest composers ever born and have been one of the world's industrial giants. They are a proud and warlike nation, however, they are rubbish at conquest. 

One of the enduring legacies of our formally vast Empire is that a large portion of the world speak English including the Americans who make most of the film and music which is exported to the rest of the globe. This is great as it means that I can converse with waiters and bar-staff with no problems at all when I'm holiday. Not so the Germans; no-one speaks German except the Germans and a smattering of their neighbours. This means that to converse on the world stage they are forced to speak English. Considering they are the financial and industrial powerhouse of Europe and carry the most political clout in the EU, this constant reminder of their inadequacies must be extremely galling for them.

In the order of world's rankings for languages spoken, German comes a laggardly 10th with Spanish third and English second if you include non-native speakers (fourth if you don't). More people speak Japanese than German. Clearly then, the point of the EU is to conquer Europe by economic stealth and pass a law to make everyone speak German so they don't feel left out when on holiday. No wonder they appear austere and sour most of the time, it's a lack of good holidays.

Uninvited Guests

Well, here we are, back from holiday and what a fine holiday it was. We went to Los Cristianos in Tenerife and stayed in self-catering apartments a mere stone's throw from the seafront. The holiday was highly satisfactory in every respect except one, our unexpected flatmates.

I don't have anything personal against cockroaches, I am sure they are fine fellows in their own way but I would rather not share a room with the freeloaders. We found three initially so I searched the flat from top to bottom to get rid of any more. As the little beggars can fly I thought they may have come in via the windows so I closed them all to ensure no further problems.

We returned to the apartment that evening and found one in the kitchen and another in the bathroom which I hastily dispatched to cockroach heaven. Using my Sherlock Holmes-like powers of deduction I decided they must already be in the hotel and not sneaking in from outside.

We spoke to the receptionist in the morning who made the appropriate shocked noises. She appeared to write something down and promised to pass it on to the management. She did the same thing the next day when we reported we had found two more. We also mentioned it to the cleaner who also made the correct shocked expressions. She went and got a can of spray and waved it in the general direction of the corners of the room and then fled faster than a teenage shoplifter. Later that night we found a baby one on the bathroom floor and another hanging in the shower curtain.

I don't know much about cockroaches except that they like the damp and darkness, they can hide in the walls and breed anywhere.
I had worked out that they were coming from the bathroom so I blocked up every possible access point and liberally sprayed the room and doorways with a tin of cockroach killer. We kept the door shut and left the bathroom light on day and night to discourage the little critters which seemed to work.

I decided to ring the holiday rep anyway in case of similar reports. I spoke to a couple of people over the next two days from our tour company who both promised to get our rep to contact us but she remained suspiciously absent.

We spoke to the receptionist again just to see if there was any interest from the management. She picked up the phone and gabbled in Spanish for a few minutes then asked us to pop along to the manager's office. We walked in and were met by a girl in her very early 20's. 'Ola' I said are you the manager.
'Si' she replied.
'It's about the cockroaches' I said expecting her to know what I was talking about as she had just spent a few minutes speaking to the receptionist.
She appeared to be deeply confused and replied 'no speak English'. We spent about five minutes going round in verbal circles before cutting our loses and retreating. Call me a cynic but I think she was playing dumb.

I don't know the protocol for cockroaches as we have never had a problem with them before in all our years of going away. I would have thought it was something the hotel management would take seriously but apparently not. We have never had to try and contact a holiday rep before either; perhaps they are all shy and elusive creatures. It's certainly not a complaint as it didn't ruin the holiday and if we had made more of a fuss, they would probably have changed our room or even our hotel; I would have expected a little more support though. Anyway, we have come home now and we shall add our review to the hotel website while the uninvited guests multiply at an alarming rate behind the walls.

Join the Party

Back in the late 70s and early 80s, the drinking culture was not like it is now. We didn't have the range of strong lagers, real ales, shots and alcopops that are available today. Instead we had to make do with watery bitter and weak lager, unless you wanted to progress to the hard stuff. I used to drink a bitter called Double Diamond and, if you wanted lager, it was generally Skol. The mildly serious alcoholics drank cider but the more dedicated drank Carlsberg Special Brew which looks and tastes like a liquefied, nicotine-based tar.  However, if you were on your way to a party or a night of underage drinking down by the canal, the thing to have was a Watneys Party Seven.

For those that haven't sampled the delights of the Watneys Party Seven, or its smaller sibling the Party Four, I shall explain the concept. Take a large paint tin, fill it to the brim with seven pints of watery bitter,  seal it so you can't easily access the contents, then sell it as a ready-made party in a tin. It was great. The only way you could get booze in those days was either to steal it off your parents, or visit an off-license and convince the watchful gatekeeper you were old enough to buy the goods. Therefore, a man with a seven pints of beer became instantly popular.

The Party Seven could never win any awards for design or convenience and there were several problems with it.  Firstly, it was extremely heavy to carry around. Secondly, you could only access it with a tin opener of the type that punched a hole in the top of the can. Of course, we didn't carry such things around with us, and I remember trying to punch holes with any sharp piece of metal or stone we could find lying around. We were lucky we didn't injure ourselves. Anyone with a knowledge of physics will know that you need two holes so the air can flow into one while the beer flows out the other. This made the hole punching exercise doubly difficult. The third problem was a result of the first two problems. Because you agitated the beer while transporting it, then shook it up further trying to open it; you often ended up wearing a pint of sticky, brown liquid.

The next hazard involved trying to decant a very heavy tin into a receptacle you could drink out of. This time it was the carpet that took the soaking. If you managed to open it correctly and didn't spray the first pint all over yourself, you were faced with problem five. Because the tin was so full, as you tipped it up, the beer would flow out of the top hole as well and dribble onto your shoes. Oh what fun we had.

For all its faults, the Party Seven was an icon of its age. Those wags at Watneys may well have been having a joke with us by marketing their fizzy bomb in a tin but we will never see its like again; fortunately. For all you budding drunkards out there who are too young to remember the distinctive red can, in the words of Harold Macmillan, 'you never had it so good.'

The Bigger They Are.

Randy Newman once wrote a song called 'Short People' apparently mocking those of diminutive stature. Although it was actually a satirical song about prejudice most people missed the point and thought it was actually about, well, short people. As a vertically challenged person myself, I am here to tell you big is not necessarily beautiful.

My Stepfather is a lovely chap but suffers from excessive tallness. I believe he is about 6ft 7ins tall and stocky with it.  In the days before the internet he had to get his clothes and shoes from specialist shops. Not for him a quick trip down the High Street for a new suit off the peg, people of his size just weren't catered for and generally still aren't. I can remember my brother and I being fascinated by his size 13 shoes which looked big enough to climb into and sail across the English Channel. A couple of my friends are well over six foot and recount stories of nearly knocking themselves out on Low beams and doorways. They probably live in a permanent state of semi concussion. I used to go and see a few bands with one of my height afflicted buddies. I would be pushing my way to front to be able to see and he would be hanging round at the back, why? Because he was so self-conscious of his height he didn't want to block peoples view. I don't have any such foibles.

And it's not only people, even stuffed toys can be too big. When our grandson was ill some relatives bought him a huge, cuddly, toy dog. Their intentions were for the best and they were just trying to show their affection but it stands about 5ft tall and is bigger than a 10 year old child. It's too big for him to play with and takes up the entire corner of a room. My lovely wife has already scared herself once by coming across it in the dark thinking it's an intruder. His mother is worried about putting it in his bedroom in case he wakes in the night and it frightens him. When we drove up the motorway to deliver the cuddly dog to our grandson, I had it strapped into the back of the car like an elderly relative. I'm sure we created much amusement for the other traffic.

We took our one of our sons on holiday to Corfu. There was a little shop near the beach which sold all the flip flops, beach paraphernalia, inflatable li-los and the like. Hanging up in the rafters was an inflatable killer whale; it was huge. Of course our son wanted one. Against my better judgement we indulged him and bought it and for some reason, I know not why, he named it Jeffery. The vendor cheerfully blew it up for us and we headed to the beach. I must admit we spent a merry time trying to ride it in the sea and towing him around on it. The problem was that every time we let go of it the wind would catch it and take it swiftly out to sea and I would have to swim like Mark Spitz to get it back again. The same problem happened when it was on the beach, a tiny gust of wind and I would be racing up the beach to retrieve it. My wife is still laughing about it.

We used to have a silver birch tree in our front garden that was planted when the estate was built. Over the years it grew to be an impressive specimen and became a beautiful tree. Unfortunately, it became so large it blocked out the light and filled the neighbours guttering with leaves every autumn. It was just too big and had to go although I did feel bad about it.

Pity the poor roadies who have had their backs broken over the years by moving those Marshall stacks; they look impressive on stage but some poor sod has got to lug them about. It's hard to look cool when you are dragging a speaker cabinet up a flight of stairs.

So the moral of story is big is not necessarily better and, if you are deciding which musical instrument to take up, remember; It's better to be the sexy, glamorous saxophonist leaving the gig with his instrument case in one hand and a girl in the other than the timpani player, dripping in sweat, loading his kit into back of the van while the rest of his mates party.

Little Miss Muffet

What does September mean to you? In our house it means it's the start of spider season. It's the time of year when spiders that have been hiding under the floorboards growing fat decide to come out and party. The garden spiders also seem keen to join in as their large, bulbous, brown bodies suddenly appear in your shrubberies and conifers overnight.

My dearly beloved doesn't like spiders. In some households the little dark demons are left alone to wander about, but not in our home. No mercy is shown to the spindly fiends if they present themselves in the open. They are carefully captured, taken outside and stomped on. I have made the mistake of killing them indoors by squashing them against the walls but, unfortunately, the evidence remains for all to see until the next time I decorate. I have also tried to take them outside and release them but I am certain the little buggers run back in again. I believe I have had to capture the same large spider three or four times before now. Hence, the death sentence is mandatory. In the mornings I find myself checking all the likely places such as the in the bath and the sinks, on the stairs and in the corners of ceilings to prevent my honey getting a nasty surprise. She has been known to get me out of bed before now and I have even been called home from work for a spider in the linen basket on one occasion.

My lovely wife is not alone in her fear of the eight legged terrors. According to a particular statistic I read, 50% of women and 10% of men suffer from arachnophobia. Personally I think that's rubbish, it's much more than that. Fear of spiders is most common in European societies which is odd considering all the dangerous ones live on the other continents. According to the sages who are supposed to know these things, it developed as a survival instinct against the little critters. They also suggest it is so strong because spiders are small, common and adept at hiding in your house and therefore potentially more dangerous than some of the larger animals we have developed defences against.

There was a study where a wolf spider whose fangs had been covered in wax so he couldn't inject venom was allowed to hunt crickets in a tank. The crickets were then allowed to breed and the offspring put in the tank with the spider. The offspring of the crickets who had been exposed to the spider were much more likely to hide from the predator than crickets with no previous exposure. Eureka, shouted the scientists, that proves that fear of spiders can be passed from a mother to its unborn foetus. Unfortunately, the figure they claimed was 113% more likely which, as everyone knows, is a very unscientific figure. It tends to throw a shadow over their findings in my opinion.

They have developed virtual spiders now to assist in the treatment of arachnophobia. Personally, I think they should just make the patients watch the film of the same name which is so laughably ridiculous that it would cure anyone. Of course other things do happen in September, it's also the month of my brother's birthday but I don't think the two are connected.

Habitual Criminal

That well-known Russian wag and comedian Fyodor Dostoyevsky commented, 'it seems, in fact, as though the second half of a man's life is made up of nothing but the habits he has accumulated in the first half'. I'm afraid to say that in my case he's correct; I am definitely a creature of habit. This is particularly annoying because I studied to be a secret agent in my early years by reading all the James Bond books from cover to cover several times. One of the basic rules mentioned is ' don't form habits' because it makes it easier for evil megalomaniacs bent on world domination to kill you. Fortunately, I haven't come to their attention yet.  

I've formed habits over the years because I'm fundamentally lazy. I can't be bothered to waste time looking for keys or scraps of paper with telephone numbers on so I make sure everything is safely stashed in its proper place. I have carried my wallet in the same back pocket for the last 30 years; not the same trousers though I might add. I have filing systems so I can lay my hands on any bill or receipt at the drop of a hat. I tend to buy the same things and eat the same things based on dietary decisions made years ago, all to avoid making tricky choices.

I'm fortunate that I haven't picked up any bad habits, well, none I can be arrested for. I don't follow little girls home from school or steal the neighbour's lingerie off her line. On the other hand, I do have a propensity to tap my hands and feet to an imaginary rhythm which can be fantastically annoying to those non-tappers amongst us. As far as shocking and bizarre habits go it's definitely in the minor league.

Not for me those sudden acts of impetuousness or spontaneity; those spur of the moment decisions or devil may care leaps into the unknown. Not only do I look before I leap, I make sure I have a ladder so I can climb back up again if it all goes pear shaped. Does this make me a boring person? Yes,it probably does. 

Rain Rain Go Away

When I was but a wee bairn I used to have a picture book. The little boy featured in the book was called Charlie and the only other thing I can remember about it is a picture of Charlie looking out of the window with a sad face watching the teeming rain. He was bored and wished he could go outside. Today is just such a day.

There are many things to commend the rain, it's good for filling reservoirs and making plants grow, it's particularly efficient at washing man-made pollutants out of the air and putting them in the ground. Where would those big, green garden water-butts be without the rain to fill them. There's a time and place for everything but mid-morning on a Saturday is definitely not the time for rain.

There are many quotes and sayings relating to rain along the lines of those motivational posters you see. There are people who suggest that 'those who have never danced and sang in the rain have never lived.' That may be true but you can only do it for 10 minutes before people start asking questions and the police are called. Another one is 'be grateful for the rain because it brings rainbows', however you can't see the rainbows because your hood is up and you are trying not to get rain in your eyes. Anyway, they look just as pretty from inside a car. I'm sure there are many hardy souls who don their rain gear and rush out to tramp through the countryside regardless of the weather, but, given the choice between rain and no rain, I would guess most of them would vote for no rain. 

They say that nothing in life is free and this even extends to precipitation. Instead of going down the park to kick a ball about or walking along the canal you end up indulging in pocket bruising activities such as the pub, bowling or the cinema or, in the worst case scenario, DIY. You can always stay in and watch TV or a DVD but Saturday mornings is bit early for such things in my book, however, a rainy Sunday afternoon is a different matter entirely.

I intend to write a strongly worded letter to my MP regarding the continued anti social behaviour of rain and suggest liberal precipitation should only be allowed between the hours of midnight to 5:00 AM. Light showers may be permitted during the day up to a maximum of 2mm and 10 minutes duration just to annoy those people who hang about in public places drinking. I don't expect anything shall come of it though; those coalition governments can't agree on anything. On the other hand, heavy rain is quite handy for blog writing.

MInd The Gap.

On the wall in the gents toilet in my local pub there's a condom machine. These days they don't just sell condoms, there's a whole range of exotic, titillating items to be had. I must confess my ignorance in these matters and admit that I don't know what they all do but it must be something fantastic judging by the accompanying pictures. There's a sticker on the front of the machine giving a number you should call if you have any problems with the machine such as not dispensing the requested goodies. The office is open Monday to Friday during normal office hours but there is an ansaphone you can leave a message on should you have problems in the evenings or over the weekend. That's a job you wouldn't want.

No doubt these machines work fine most of the time but, like most things in life, they don't always deliver as promised. I can only feel sympathy for the poor person who has to pick up the messages on Monday morning. I would expect they comprise a tirade of abuse from extremely drunk, belligerent young men who think they are on a promise and been thwarted in their good luck by a machine which has taken all their change.

It can be extremely frustrating when things don't deliver as promised, I often cycle to work in the morning and have a coffee from the machine in the canteen before starting. On several occasions I have been delivered milky water instead of the cup of steaming goodness promised on the machine. Another example would be my expensive broadband which promises superfast buffer free delivery. It's fine at 2 o'clock in the morning but I don't even bother trying anymore at 6 o'clock in the evening.

Advertisers are naturally the worst culprits for smearing fiction and fact. Where do they find all those empty streets to advertise cars? It's hard to show off a car's finer qualities in a traffic jam but it's closer to reality. Then there are the furniture shops whose displays assume we all live in cavernous mansions. Some of those fitted kitchens advertised would take up the whole ground floor of my house.

It's a well known fact that if you start going to the gym three times a week you will lose lots of weight and look like a film star. Not true, whilst there are undoubted benefits they are limited. I work with people who go to the gym and some who don't and you certainly can't tell by looking at them.
The problem being that if people realised the truth all the gyms would close down.

Those good old Buddhists that I mention from time to time have a philosophy that states all life is an illusion. They mean that because of our ego and social conditioning we are blind to the real world. That's what enlightenment means, to see things as they really are. This illusion is what causes unhappiness. Hence you buy car because of its promise when it's really a tin box that fits in nicely with all the other tin boxes on the M25. That's why Buddhists drive Ladas.

Division of Labour.

Who does the Hoovering in your house? An emotive question if ever there was one. Whilst it all goes on behind the proverbial closed doors I am willing to bet that the household division of labour is the cause for many a domestic tiff. There are many hues of politics and most of them can be found in the microcosm of the domestic household. Perhaps your house is run as a socialist republic with everyone taking an equal share. Maybe it's a despotic dictatorship with you giving the orders, or possibly a democracy where you think you have a say but you don't really.

Our house runs roughly on the socialist republic model. We both do the housework and the shopping generally although my lovely wife does the greater percentage. We both do our own ironing. She normally does the washing although I have been known to put a load on from time to time and we sort of split the cooking. This socialist ideal falls apart here though as anything to do with decorating, the garden or the car fall very firmly into my camp. As a work colleague of mine once put it, 'there are pink jobs and there are blue jobs.' Strangely the pink jobs are mine as well.

Other people I know have a different system. A friend of mine lives in a dictatorship and it's not him giving the orders. My friend receives an allowance  from his partner who manages his money for him. She writes lists of jobs for him to do and has been known to text extra jobs as he is on his way home from work. It's not clear how much work she actually does, it's not really polite to ask but his jobs list includes both pink and blue varieties of tasks. My friend seems perfectly happy with this arrangement.

Alternatively, the wife of another friend of mine flatly refuses to do any housework at all thereby it falls to my friend to complete the chores. Unfortunately he's not very good at it either. They manage to bumble along although the place could do with a really good dust. It's not a political system, more like anarchy. My wife worked with a chap who also did all the cooking, cleaning and just about everything else, I trust his house was sparking and dust free unlike my friends.

I have other friends who live on their own and so have to do everything whether they like it or not. My Dad also lives on his own now since he was widowed and he confessed to me the other day that he had no idea how much effort went into basic housework. My stepmother was one of those domestic goddess types who could do needlepoint at the same time as cooking a Sunday roast, cleaning the house and entertaining guests. He has installed a water filtration system now because he is fed up cleaning the lime scale off the taps. He wouldn't have thought of it before. You can't have a political system with only one person in it and this is where my theory falls down but at least there is no one to argue with.

Then there are the Monarchies. Grown up singletons I know who still live with mum and dad. No doubt some help round the house but there are many who don't and carry on in their merry way oblivious while the serfs around them labour. Eventually the quiet grumbling of the peasants turns into bubbling resentment and then militancy... Then comes the revolution.

The Devil You Know.

I have been stalked mercilessly for years. Unwanted phone calls day and night, appearances on my doorstep and banging on my door, bombarding me with emails. This harassment has been relentless. You have to hand it to those energy suppliers, they don't give up.

Energy companies have been trying to get me to switch for years under the guise that it's in my best interests. The truth is that it's in their best interests otherwise they wouldn't spend so much time and money trying to convert me. I have rebuffed their advances with a variety of different styles including, Mr Obnoxious, Mr Tenant, Mr Nospeakyengleesh, Mr Awkward and Mr Interestedbutchangedmymindatthelastminute. Cold caller baiting has become a sport in our house, so much so that I sometimes feel sorry for the lads and lassies who are just trying to earn a living. Now I just hang up, it's fairer on the poor dears.

The reason I'm reluctant to switch provider is that I have had bad experiences when I have tried before. I have switched both gas and telephone suppliers in the past and ended up reverting back to the original provider because of poor service, hidden costs and not delivering as promised. I have also spoken to many other people with unhappy frying pan and fire stories to tell. A few years ago I considered switching my electricity company. I did all the calculations and found I would be about £15 a year better off and not the hundreds of pounds the rivals suggested. It didn't seem worth the hassle so I switched tariff and stayed with my original provider. 

Now it's time to reconsider and look at switching to a dual fuel monthly payment. The problem with my current arrangement is that I get two bills a month apart for considerable sums of money. As energy prices rise they become even more eye-watering, therefore, I have decided pay the devil his due on a monthly basis to spread the cost.

I have visited those websites that promise to save me hundreds of pounds to check what companies are offering the best deals. Most people would probably just accept their recommendation and sign up. Unfortunately, I am much too cynical for that so have had to spend hours scribbling on bits of paper going through all the permutations and checking the small print. I'm quite the expert now. In the end I went for Scottish Power but I can't say I'm not nervous about it. They have sent me their 7 day cancellation notice masquerading as a welcome letter which is a legal requirement so the wheels are rolling. The website I switched with gave me a free case of wine for my trouble so at least I can drown my sorrows if it all goes pear shaped.

Post Apocalypse

There are some very embarrassing photos of me on Facebook... Well OK, perhaps not that embarrassing. My grandson and I were watering the garden just before I got ready for a night shift. I was unshaven and unflatteringly attired in my bright pink T shirt and blue shorts. Photos were taken and uploaded onto Facebook almost instantaneously. The first I heard of it was when I was told that my sister-in-law had commented on my legs. I playfully objected at this public display of my sartorial inelegance but I didn't really mind.

I used to be on Farcebook but I suspended my account because I became fed up reading, in elaborate detail, what my work colleague's children had eaten for breakfast and similar banalities. The only drawback with this is that you can't see what other people are putting on Farcebook about you. I am probably on it hundreds of time via people I know and as a background person in a stranger's videos or photos. In the old days when you took a photo with friends or family and there was a random, unknown person lurking in the background it used to stay in a drawer. Now, if you are that random person, you are likely to be plastered on somebodies social networking account which could be awkward if you had blagged a sickie from work that day and it gets discovered. It's a small world after all.

To take this a step further, imagine a situation where I am the object of desire for a teenage nymphomaniac stalker. It's difficult to believe I know but stick with it. She follows me round taking hundreds of compromising photos which she uploads to her website to show the world how buff I am. She could break into my house and secrete a camera into the potpourri holder in the bathroom to film me in my most private moments. Then she could put it into the public domain without me being any the wiser.

You can't delete a Farcebook account, you can only suspend it in cryogenic sleep waiting for it to be reactivated sometime in the future. Everything that goes on the Internet is there forever, just like the space junk orbiting the planet in endless cycles waiting for someone with the will and technological know-how to recover it. I once had an incident where a girlfriend discovered some letters I had exchanged with a previous girlfriend which I had kept for old time's sake. My new girlfriend completely over-reacted and a horrendous row followed but we managed to sort it out. At least I had control over those letters and what happened to them.

Perhaps there will come a time in the future when I am called to account for the fact that I was at a party twenty years previously with someone who became a radicalised suicide bomber. Alternatively, an employee may find their promotion blocked or even be sacked because of something said fifteen years ago at a student union rally. Maybe in the future people will be sued for postings they did years ago because they didn't ask the subjects permission and the subject has subsequently suffered because of it. Imagine a contemporary Ronnie Biggs character suing for loss of freedom because the authorities believe he is in Argentina but somebody's Farcebook clearly shows him partying in Rio leading to his arrest. Permission given? Not likely.

There has been much talk by the civil liberties campaigners about CCTV in our towns' high streets. No one is interested in the thousands of faces passing the cameras everyday unless you are actually doing something wrong such as stealing a bike. It seems to me that the civil liberties brigade are barking up the wrong tree, or possibly post.

It's A Bloke Thing.

I have a nephew named Jamie. He lives in Great Yarmouth with some other members of our numerous family who moved to the coast some years ago and have settled in comfortably. Great Yarmouth is not the town it once was and is no longer great. It's very difficult to find employment so Jamie works all the hours he can in a bowling alley, and therein lies the story.

My wife and I went to Yarmouth to see the family over the New Year but Jamie was working so we went to see him at the bowling alley. The seafront at Yarmouth has recently benefited from an extensive and expensive refurbishment however, some of the older attractions date back to the 1950's and the bowling alley is one of these. Jamie wasn't busy and asked if I wanted to have a look behind the scenes. I have always been interested to see how things work so jumped at the chance. My wife declined the invite and couldn't see why I was so interested, she just didn't get it.

Jamie explained that the alley was built in the 1950's and it was still the original machinery. It was fascinating to watch this old machinery gathering the fallen pins via a simple mechanism and smoothly putting them back in place time and time again. I could imagine the youth of the 1950's with slick brylcreamed hair pretending to be Elvis and the girls in their bobby sox and flouncy dresses on Saturday night. The town would have been thriving, there would be money in their pockets and the bowling alley would be the place to be seen. As Jamie finished his impromptu lecture-cum-tour he presented me and my father in law with an old, damaged skittle each. The plastic was torn on the outside but the internal wood seemed to be intact. I am not usually sentimental and I am not materialistic but I was quite touched that Jamie gave me this skittle. It has no monetary value and is hardly ornamental but I felt I needed to do something worthy with it. I decided to strip the plastic off then stain and varnish it. 'What for' my wife said, she just didn't get it.

In my naivety I thought to myself no problem, strip the plastic off, a quick sand down and stain, hey presto. I didn't take into account the plastic would be glued to the wood itself. It took hours to prise the plastic away causing painful hands and a lot of splinters whilst trying not to damage the wood. I also stupidly thought the wood be one piece of beautifully lathed timber with a glorious grain running through it. It is no such thing. It's made of odd blocks of timber a bit like one of those 3D puzzles you can assemble but all glued together. Where I had taken the plastic off the wood had split and fractured. It was like trying to sand a hedgehog. I managed to impale myself several times on the treacherous barbs, but I persevered. 'Why,' asked the wife, she just didn't get it.

After several hours of preparing and sanding I managed to get it in reasonable shape to be able to stain it but, I must confess, I haven't got round to it yet. What I have now is a lump of wood with a bit of history. The only conceivable use for it is as a door stop or perhaps to knock an intruder over the head. However, I am strangely proud of it. My wife still doesn't get it. I am not sure I get it myself; it must be a bloke thing.

The Kings of Neon.

Can you see the band in the photo... no? neither can I. Hidden in the distance, behind all the lights, are those modern purveyors of popular music known as The Kings of Leon. We went to see them last week and this is the photo from the back of the LG Arena in Birmingham. They had a mightily impressive light show with different colour schemes for virtually every song and the strobes were an epileptic's nightmare. The Band themselves must all be shy retiring types because they were in silhouette for most of the gig and didn't really engage with the audience much at all. Even when Caleb did speak I couldn't make out what he said, he just mumbled. I must admit though, it made a refreshing change from singers bellowing ' I can't hear you' at the audience which is really annoying.

I had not been to the LG arena before, it's quite a nice venue with food outlets, bars and even acoustic live music laid on before the main event. Nice except for the toilets that is which seemed to have been designed with mind-bending incompetence. There are no urinals, they are all cubicles which were full so the men had to queue which caused much confusion and head scratching, we men are not used to the relevant protocols. Each cubicle contained one of those thin boxes used for disposing of used 'Women's things' which were clearly pointless. The cubicles were so small that there wasn't room to stand up and open the door; I had to squeeze myself in next to the pan to be able to open the door enough to get out. This caused much cursing and bemusement by my fellow users attempting the same manoeuvre. On the way out I checked I hadn't wandered into the Ladies by mistake, I hadn't. It's possible some wag had switched the signs on the door. I should have made more enquires about the ladies facilities.

They had people selling bottles of beer out of those wheeled trolleys that old ladies use to do their shopping. One of these venders managed to knock his trolley over and all his bottles rolled across the floor to our feet, we assisted him in picking them up and putting them back in the bag. I don't expect he told his customers to open them carefully or they could be sitting through the gig soaked in beer. It was nice to see the venue had complied with their responsibilities with regards to disabled access but this didn't actually extend to letting the disabled patrons see the band. The disabled section was in the standing area at right angles to the stage. All they could have seen was the people standing in front of them. Let's hope they went for the atmosphere.

Anyone who has been to gigs such as these will be aware of their uniformity, it generally starts with he touts outside attempting to sell or buy tickets. It always seems strange to me that, if you have tickets to sell, why would you buy more? If you don't resell them you make a loss. I expect they know what they are doing. A large number of people who attend gigs are numerically challenged. The marshals had to shift people round us on two occasions because they were in the wrong seats. It's not difficult, the number is printed on the ticket, you are guided by a marshal and the numbers are on the seats. At every gig people sit in the wrong seats and then take umbrage about being moved. The seat ballet is hotly followed by where's Wally. This involves someone on the phone behind you trying to locate someone he knows somewhere in the audience and generally follow the lines of, 'what.... the left of the stage... by the stairs...which stairs, are you near a blonde girl in a white shirt?... I can't see a blue shirt... now, now walking past now...wave now... yes wave.....you said left of the stage do you mean right' so on and so forth. The trouble is you can't help but look for their friend as well. About this time you get the Mexican wave which seems to go round and round for ever. Fortunately we were spared this particular annoyance this time. There is generally someone on your row that continually gets up to go the bar and toilet you have to keep getting up to let them through.

At the end of the gig there is the rule of the encore. Every band does it from the humblest pub rockers to the mighty giants. The set finishes, they say good bye the band leave the stage while the lights go down, the audience cheer and stamp their feet for five minutes and the band come back on and do another couple of numbers, usually their most famous ones which they have been saving. I have even seen bands come back on when the audience weren't interested. What a farce. There is no point to it, it's just what's expected. As the stream of drunk, tired and happy fans stream out the venue's exit door there are the dodgy men selling knock off T shirts all laid out on the pavements outside. They are probably the ticket touts from earlier, I guess every business needs a bit of diversity. The next part of the proceedings is the half hour wait to get out of the car park with nothing to alleviate the boredom except laughing at people who have clearly forgotten where they parked the car. Sometimes they even start arguing with each other round an empty parking space.

There was a slight difference this time though at the encore. The band had launched into their last song 'Sex on Fire' they were rocking for all they were worth and the audience was right behind them. The camera picked up a stark naked man dancing and singing like a crazed loon which was flashed up on to the screens. The atmosphere changed to one of hilarity in a heartbeat as thousands of people stopped concentrating on the band and tried to find the dancing loon in the audience. You had to feel for poor Caleb and the boys.

A Shaggy Dog Story.

What kind of dog are you? It occurred to me some time ago that, if I had been a dog, I would probably have been a labrador. I share certain characteristics with the animal in that I have a generally placid nature, we are both prone to be a little overweight with a tendency towards laziness and, dare I say it, we are quite pleasant to look at. My wife on the other hand displays the cool elegance, fine looks and reserved nature of an afghan hound. The image of Winston Churchill depicted as a Bulldog has become iconic and embodies the pride of the British fighting spirit. Who could deny that Graham Norton displays all the charm of a yorkshire terrier in being small, yappy and over excitable. In the recent crop of useless celebrities there is Rylan Clarke who bears a startling resemblance to a poodle in that he is high maintenance, odd to look at and completely pointless. The list goes on.

Any cat or dog owner would tell you that their pet has a personality. I am no zoologist but I would suspect that this is true of all the more intelligent mammals. No doubt sea-lion and dolphin trainers all over the world would claim the same. That's why we humans are so fond of animals, we can see ourselves in them. It's no surprise that the ancients believed in re-incarnation when they could see their loved ones spirits in the animals around them.

I have heard it suggested that there is more evidence for re-incarnation than  for a heaven. No one has ever come back from heaven to state the case, even the TV spiritualists admit it's all a fraud. However, there are plenty of documented accounts of memories of past lives and people speaking in languages they couldn't possibly have known. The most famous case is of the current Dalai Lama. When the previous incumbent died, the other lamas consulted their oracles and went to Lake Ihamo La-tso to wait for a sign from the lake spirit of where the old leader had been re-born. They were shown an image of a little house at the bottom hill in a distinctive village; it took them four years to find it. So the story goes, the four year old child immediately recognised his former colleague dressed as a slave and started talking in a dialect not native to that particular region. It doesn't say why the lama felt it necessary to disguise himself, perhaps it was to prevent over eager mothers forcing their children on him in the manner of the ugly sisters and the glass slipper. After many tests perfected over centuries including picking out items belong to the previous Dalai Lama from a jumble of artefacts, it was deemed that the young lad was indeed the reincarnation and he was whisked off
to begin his religious training.

For me, the jury is still out on this reincarnation business because people see what they want to see. Animals do seem to have personalities though and many are a lot more pleasant than some humans. If I ever find out the answer I will let you know, assuming I still have hands and not paws.

The Art of Spoiling.

There is a theme park close to our Buckinghamshire hideout. It's part of a chain that caters for young children before they are old enough for the likes of Thorpe Park or Alton Towers. Attached to this theme park is a dinosaur park and open farm. We took our two and a half year old grandson there last Saturday along with his dad. It was a gloriously sunny day and we had a really good time. Our grandson wasn't really interested in the animals, at that age they just like to run around in circles and test their parents resolve by being as wilful as possible but we all had fun.

I have to admit that I wasn't tickled pink with the idea of becoming a grandad. Whilst I was happy for the mother and father, I was disturbed by the landmark of becoming old and the negative connotations. I brooded on whether I should put away my guitars, get a pipe and some slippers and take up gardening while sucking on Werther's Originals. Once I realised this attitude was clearly tosh and gave myself a stiff talking-to, I got used to the idea.

The thing about being a grandparent is that you get all the fun without all the hard work. Anyone with children will tell you they need constant attention and every move has to be watched for fear of disaster or mishap. As a grandparent you get to do all the spoiling, go on rides and play with them and, as soon as things get sticky, you just hand them back. Grandparents don't have any responsibilities involving healthy diets, discipline or nappy changing. Some grandmothers can't help interfering and taking over the parenting role, which is a mistake in my opinion, you should let your kids get on with it and provide guidance when they ask. Then again there is the unspoken favourite granny competition which is rife in most families. Most sensible grandads stay out of this particular bloody and bitter battle.

All our parents were invaluable when we were bringing up our children but we had no idea of the depth of feeling involved and their motives for it. We thought they were just being helpful because that's what was expected of them. Had they tried to explain it I wouldn't have understood. It's like being a teenager when someone tells you that it's just a phase, you can't actually see the truth until you are in your twenties and watch someone else go through it. I thought I was done with phases. It makes me wonder how many more of life's great enlightenments are hidden round the corner.

It's possible to enjoy your grandchildren more than your own children because you don't have the worry, the unrelenting demands and you don't have to carry round enough kit for a small army. This weekend was particularly poignant because the little chap was in an hospital intensive care unit three weeks ago suffering from a mystery illness. We were expecting the worst or the possibility of serious long term damage but, by a miracle of modern medicine, he made it through unscathed. The doctors still haven't found the cause of his illness but he is a very lucky boy and we are a very lucky family.

Applause for Doors.

I did some recording with one of my musical collaborators this week. He had managed to find a female singer who liked his music and was willing to add some backing vocals to our existing efforts. We turned up to the studio with our new find in tow and her backing vocals were added; she is very good. It transpires she is studying art and had recently had an open air installation on show in the local area which attracted a lot of attention. She showed us pictures of the installation and it was quite impressive. It would have been interesting to visit it and educate myself on a subject I know nothing about.

The thing about meeting new people is that they can open doors for you. Other people have hobbies, jobs and contacts that can lead you in completely new directions if you are curious enough. Take our new-found singer, we could develop a friendship which would involve supporting her in her artistic endeavours by visiting her exhibitions and meeting her arty friends. I could develop a lifelong interest and an insight into modern art which, at the moment, is a closed book to me. Alternatively my musical collaborator may give her a larger role in his music which would take it in a much more folky/country direction just by her being there.

When you are very young you believe that the way your parents do things is the only way and, as you grown up and mix socially, your friends open doors to alternative lifestyles and attitudes. I can still remember being fascinated by my friends' houses and the way they did things. My best friend at infants and juniors was a lad called David and his parents seemed to me to be so glamorous. His mum had long blonde hair and wore jeans. There was always food about and we could have whatever we wanted, she even kept glucose in a packet in the larder, imagine that, glucose. I didn't have a clue what it was but I knew we didn't have anything that exotic at home.

In my later years at secondary school there was another lad who took to knocking for me. He was well known for fighting and causing trouble. I remember how he once bragged that he managed to avoid the police by hiding in a coal bunker for several hours. I also remember being stop searched by the old bill just because I was walking down the road with him. I began to avoid him and that particular door stayed firmly closed.

As people get older and get settled with partners, life seems to become more insular. The opportunities for meeting new people with interesting doors to open diminishes. Eventually it ends up back where it started, slaves to habit and unwilling or unable to consider new things in case it rocks the boat. I suspect that keeping a curiosity about the world is what keeps people young at heart... or is it the alcohol.