Is it a Solitary Life?

Friday 20 April 2012 – Goodness me I can’t believe we’re twenty days into April already. We’ve all heard people say that as we get older, time passes by quicker. Perhaps it’s true; mine seems to slip by at an alarming rate, and today as if to prove this, my iPod is playing mostly songs from the eighties. I’ve lost track of how many, Stock, Aitken and Waterman, sampled and pop pulverised tracks have been blurted out this morning. At the moment Donna Summer is playing ‘When Love Takes Over You’.

As usual I’m sat at my desk writing. and having my morning espresso before I tackle the word count for the day. Unlike some writers’, I don’t  have a set amount of words I feel the need to achieve daily, yesterday I was happy with 2,155 and the day before just 853. (this posting has 423).

The life of a writer can be a solitary one. Some need total silence and no outside stimulation to perfect their craft: I once chatted to an author from Andalucía who moved her desk away from the window, so it faced a blank wall. She told me the view, although beautiful, was so distracting that she couldn’t focus.

I also know two writer’s that share the same space; both work alone on separate projects, but bounce ideas off each other during the day, and don’t seem to find the sharing of a workspace off-putting.

For me I have music playing, okay it’s at a discrete volume so as not to invade my thought process too much. I have spoken about this with other writers’ all of whom said they’d be unable to concentrate. For me it’s the opposite, I find silence crushing; almost physical. I do however edit without any music playing.

As I mostly write non-fiction for magazines, and therefore spend a lot of time doing research, so a musical backdrop can enhance a somewhat dull few hours of web browsing. I guess whatever job we do, we all have our personal preferences when it comes to our work space. I guess I just like to share mine with Kate Bush, John Lydon, Toyah Willcox, Tiziano Ferro, Jessie J, Peter Murphy et al.

So with the weekend approaching, and No Doubt shuffling with ‘Waiting Room’, to break the eighties cycle I’ll leave you with another photograph, I spotted this sign in a restaurant window, and had to question the use of the uppercase D and R.

Have a good weekend, see you next week.

Nothing Ventured

Thursday 19 April 2012 – I’m sitting listening to music before my day at the laptop begins; it shuffles and Giusy Ferreri sings Rossi Papaveri; I love her husky voice it’s so full of character, and a change from the auto-tuned, computer enhanced singers of the British/American mainstream music scene.

Outside I can hear some raised voices, so being a nosey scrote, I open my front door and take a look. A man has just reversed out of the alley between two houses further up the street. Oops! his brand new Mercedes van has two deep, long scratches down the side. It appears he thought he could cut through to the next street; rather than take the thirty second trip to the top and turn left, then right. The opening of the alley is wide enough for a van, however the alley gets narrower and sharply turns left. I guess he thought, ‘nothing ventured…’

Those of you who were here a week ago, will have read about my experience, with a pie in a tin. Well I was walking through a shop and spotted something else that I’ve seen many times, but never had the opportunity to try.

Despite having reservations, I thought the offer of ‘3 for a £1’ merited trying the item:

The instructions were pretty straightforward; well actually, a single cell organism could prepare this. I open the tin, saying to myself, “This must be good, it’s been on sale for years, so people must buy it.” – Am I trying too hard to convince myself?

The flavour says it’s cheese and ham, and it looks like something that has passed through the digestive tract of a baby with radiation sickness. There’s an odd synthetic aroma of  brined pork about it too, but does this stop me – No.

It’s spread upon the toast, heated under the grill and removed. Again I’m trying to convince myself, “Maybe it’ll taste better than it looks.” Sadly no, it tastes exactly as it looks.

The iPod shuffles and the B-52’s start to play ‘Tell it like it-T-I-IS’.

So I will – It was shite

Offal

Wednesday 18 April 2012 - The other day I was standing at the butchers counter buying some pork chops, I asked the man  if he had any kidneys and the woman next to me wrinkled her nose, then said, “Ooh, I couldn’t eat those.” The butcher then responded by saying, “You don’t know what your missing; love.” (I did like the added patronising tag.) She then baulked at my request for liver too, saying “I’d never eat that”. - You should have seen her face when I asked for some black pudding; adding that I liked a bit of blood sausage.

According to statistics, due to the current economic climate more people are enjoying offal again, with butchers takings going up with the sale of items that our grandparents would have been buying. Sadly the sale of offal declined in the 1970’s. I’ve always been partial to those things other kids turned their noses up at; I think I was the only kid in our school that looked forward to having liver on the lunch menu.

I recently read an article that claimed that over 80% of children have no concept of where the meat they eat comes from. Researchers believe that because they see it ready packaged, they have no concept of it once being a living creature. I think this may be in part correct, yes I can understand that kids see a sirloin steak on a supermarket shelf and don’t equate it with a cow, but surely they’re not as dim as the boffins think. I challenge anyone to suggest that kids are not aware that chicken nuggets derive from chickens; the clue is in the name.

The one thing about chicken nuggets that makes me smile is, despite it mostly being machine separated meat, it also contains offal meaning all those nose wrinkler's out there are getting their liver after all.

Don’t Stand So Close To Me

Tuesday 17 April 2012 – I’ve never really been too worried about people getting too close to me; in fact I’m quite a touchy-feely sort of person, so don’t really bother. Over the past few days however, I had the misfortune of understanding what is actually meant by, ‘Personal Space’.

Don’t Stand So Close

I was standing at the till in my local supermarket, my shopping is travelling slowly down the conveyor belt towards the cashier; when a girl; deep in conversation with her friend loads her items and stands behind me. When I say stands behind me, she’s actually touching me. I step forward, and so does she. I politely ask if she can move back, and she looks at me incredulously. “Why?” she says, completely unaware of my reason for asking her to move away. So I just turn away and step forward, she’s still yakking to her mate and unconsciously steps forward. I’m very tempted to say something rude like, “I usually ask for a glass of wine and maybe dinner before I allow someone up my arse.” But think better of it, so I pay and leave.

I suffer a further incident the following day, again in a shop. This time a woman leans on my shoulder using me for support, as she reaches around me to take something from the shelf.

Where will it end, will I be sharing my under-crackers with the man across the street whilst having his wife insert her arm in the left sleeve of my jacket. NO!

It’s my space – so do one.

Did he really say that?

Monday 16 April 2012 – It’s Saturday morning as I write this in preparation for Monday. I rose relatively early; must have had something to do with the fact I went to bed on the previous evening at 10.30, okay I read for a while, but it was still a tad early for me. (But you don’t need to know about my nocturnal habits – or do you?) Well actually I had a message from a follower in NY, who asked why I haven’t mentioned what music was shuffled on my iPod lately. So here’s what’s playing as I write this: ‘Small Town Psychopath’ by The Humans from their fantastic 2011 album, Sugar Rush.

The Humans Official Website

I think my blog being called A Life on Shuffle can also apply to the various things that I blog about, no one can accuse me of consistency regarding topics.

Being a writer means I like words, that’s obviously a given. Sometimes though I feel because writers’ use words to earn a living, they do tend to hear sentences in a different way. I don’t mean they hear what’s been said in a different dialect or tongue; that’d be a stupid claim to make. What I’m trying to say in my hock-handed way,(did you see what I did there?), is writers’ maybe hear a sentence and they are instantly drawn to something there that others may miss.

An example of what I’m saying is this:

On the local evening news there was a discussion about the proposed election for a mayor of Birmingham. In the debate it was questioned whether politicians sitting in the house of commons should put themselves forward for the position. The news reader then innocently said: “Should sitting MP’s be able to stand?” I just liked the idea of all these men in suits sitting down, then unison standing up.

Another interesting sentence on the news caught my attention on Saturday morning. It was during the newspaper round up; you know, when the presenters have a guest on and they talk about what’s in the daily tabloids. During this segment of the show (BBC1), a guest (respected writer/presenter, who will remain nameless) was delving into the papers and giving his opinions. He started to talk about a news-feature about how men are unable to compliment their wives for fear of upsetting them. Now the content of the newspaper is of no real importance here, it was what he said, live on TV. When asked if he was fearful of complimenting his wife he said, “I’ve now been living for 35 years with my first wife and am still unable to get it right.”

I bet his missus is happy about being referred to as first wife; I wonder was it a Freudian slip or a cryptic missive to someone he’s been seeing on the side. Either way, I bet he’ll be spending the next few days grovelling.

Public Art

Friday 13 April 2012 – Whether we like it or not public art is out there, either the ludicrously expensive, waste of money types paid for with tax-payers money, or the  rebellious tags and aerosol images of disaffected youth. There’s also innocuous shop fronts that have the ability to become more than a point of sale and emerge as a pleasing high street installations.

However there is also some pieces of public art, that are just plain rubbish – okay I know out there someone is gnashing their teeth, and shouting at the laptop screen about art being subjective. Well all I can say is – This is my blog so I can say what’s shit and what’s not.

Here is Stoke on Trent we have our fair share, one of which is the Privilege statue at Etruria, in my opinion the most unsightly piece of aluminium ever erected. I understand it’s supposed to represent the steel and pottery industry; (obsolete now), it’s there to symbolise growth; (you’re having a laugh) and the national garden festival; (years ago and forgotten by many).

We’ve a few aluminium statues around the city, which leads me to believe that someone must have had a job lot going cheap. We do however have what must be the most grotesque piece of public art in the country. Words fail me every time I pass this monstrosity, but I’ll leave you to make up your own mind: It’s made up of elements of the ceramics industry, however should we be visited by another life-form, they’d take one look at this and say, no wonder the potteries lost their ceramics heritage, if this is the best pot they could come up with.

But as art is subjective sometimes pleasure can come from the most unexpected places. Here’s a piece of advertising coupled with the interaction of a passing individual, it may not be a Damien Hirst, but it made me laugh.

But not all public art is abstract or aluminium, we’ve a fabulous piece of ceramic art that pays homage to one of the city’s great men, Reginald J. Mitchell. CBE,(1895 – 1937) – designer of the world famous Supermarine Spitfire. Sadly he died at the young age of just 42.

But what about art the isn’t intentional art? Well, take a quick look around any high street and you’ll uncover it lurking, minding its own business, unaware of it aesthetic persona. It’s surprising how pleasing the frontage of a pie and pasty shop can be, and how it plays homage to the Bauhaus arts movement with even knowing it.

There’s also public art that looks worryingly sinister, I came across these hoardings that are protecting cleared land from invasion by travellers. I’m sure they’re not meant to look like a piece of pre-war German propaganda, but they do to me.

      

Finally before I leave you with a photo album of other pieces of artwork in the city, please let me share with you my favourite public art, it stands beside the A50 on the way to Uttoxeter, it symbolises the pottery industry perfectly; shaped like bottle-ovens it’s a poignant reminder of how the city of Stoke on Trent became one of the most important ceramic producers in the world.

Have a good weekend everyone, and if you’re out and about take notice of all those installations out there, and maybe look for those potential masterpieces that you’ve overlooked before.

 

Public Art: Stoke on Trent VIEW SLIDE SHOW DOWNLOAD ALL

After all, we’re civilised aren’t we?

Thursday 12 April 2012 – I’m always up for justice being done, when someone commits a crime I’m a firm believer that given the proof justice must prevail. After all, we’re civilised; aren’t we? The news recently has been full of the ruling by the ECHR in Strasbourg to extradite to the U.S. people suspected of being involved with terrorism. One of these people being the outspoken cleric Abu Hamza; who has publicly vilified England and its people, so I guess there won’t be too many people here that will be sorry to see him leave for his incarceration in a U.S. prison.

We’ve all heard about people in other countries being taken against their will and being locked up for crimes they did not commit. Innocent people like Hana Shalabi, whose only crime is to be a Palestinian;  we sigh, sad isn’t it, and then give thanks that we live in an enlightened society where this could never happen. – Or can it?

One of the men named in the extradition press frenzy is, British Citizen, Babar Ahmad. Mr Ahmad is the longest detained without charge British detainee, who has thus far spent 2807 days in prison.

Babar was initially arrested back in December 2003, but was released six days later without charge, during this time of detention he suffered 73 forensically recorded injuries. (Remember I asked the question – After all, we’re civilised aren’t we?) Despite being awarded £60,000 in compensation and the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, Sir Paul Stephenson making a statement, admitting that Mr Ahmad had been the victim of a ‘serious, gratuitous and prolonged attack.’ Did Mr Ahmad get justice? Sadly, not in my opinion, as during a trial the officers accused of attacking Mr Ahmad were acquitted after just 45 minutes of deliberation by a jury: a jury that requested permission after to shake the hands of the policemen accused. (Remember I asked the question – After all, we’re civilised aren’t we?) Just who are these people asking to shake the hands of men obviously guilty of inflicting abuse?

Now any quick search of the internet will bring up a plethora of information about Babar Ahmad and the case, and I’m not here to bang on about the intricacies of said case; my point is, after all, we’re civilised aren’t we? So let’s set an example to the rest of the world where incarceration without charge takes place, and charge Mr Ahmad or release him.

Come on British justice isn’t it about time you ‘Put Up, or Shut Up'?’ After all, we’re civilised aren’t we?

I make no apologies for my feelings on this issue. I firmly believe that if Babar Ahmad is guilty of the crimes he is believed to have committed, then he should be punished in accordance with the law. What I don’t believe is that Britain can keep a man detained without charge, yet condemn other countries for doing the same thing – when did the dictionary definition of ‘British’ become ‘hypocrite?’

Bargain Calendars?

Wednesday 11 April 2012 – Yesterday I stumbled across one of those; ‘We Sell Everything Imaginable’ shops; You know the kind, with rows of shelves selling everything from tea pots to towel rails, air fresheners to air guns and sugar bowls to shovels.

I ventured into the depths of the shop, passing cleaning products, then cutlery; the next aisle had light bulbs and after this one, it was packet soup. This shop really was an Aladdin’s cave; sadly not full of jewels though; this one was full of crap; even the ‘poundstores’ would shudder before they sold much of the merchandise here.

But amidst all of this retail detritus I found a gem, a box which had a sign saying ‘Bargain Calendars’, expecting half price offers on the current year’s calendar I was surprised to see one for 2007, another for 2003 and a couple of 2002 ones; there were even a handful of Enrique Iglesias ones, some from 2004, another from 2001 and a bunch dating back to 1999. I wonder why there’s so many Enrique ones left over? Could it be, the Spanish pop star isn’t very popular in this urban backwater?

But more importantly:

Who would want to buy an out of date calendar, and  surely wouldn’t it make more sense to dump them and use the space to display more goods?

Bank Holiday Bin Men

Tuesday 10 April 2012 – As regular readers of my blog, you’ll already know that I’m here in the UK temporarily; so to speak. I’m staying in a short term rental property, in a part of the city that I’ve never had much association with previously. I have thought long and hard about how I can sum of this area in a few words and sadly kept coming back to: – It’s dog rough.

Having had the good fortune to have always lived in semi rural areas, just edging suburbia, life in a built up urban area takes some getting used to. When out in the street, locals here tend to conduct  their conversations a few decibels higher than normal. It’s a common practice during the hours of darkness, for car doors to open and close noisily, not to mention the hoot of taxi horns.

But nothing could prepare me for the unheard of custom of sending in the bin men on a bank holiday. Yesterday, the cockerel down the road had crowed, and I was enjoying a little post sleep repose, when a bin lorry with very vocal bin men came down the road. I looked at the clock, it was 07.15.

Now having, as I said had the good fortune of living in less urban areas, I am used to not having a refuse collection if it fell on a bank holiday, the operation always taking place the next day. So why did we have one yesterday?

I can but assume that the natives may not cope with an extra day of a filled bin and could resort to burning its contents, or is it because they need the routine, so that they don’t forget what day they are due to sign on?

Guess who woke up grumpy today?

Going Commando and Pie in a Tin

Monday 9 April 2012 – Today I’m talking chav, it’s all about pikey lads and chav grub. But fear not I’m not about to tuck my track-suit bottoms into my socks and buy a Staffordshire bull terrier.

I have been known to go commando myself, in fact I don’t think I wore any underwear throughout the 1980’s. It can be liberating not to mention cooler to be sans boxers, but why doesn’t anyone point out to the pikey public, that walking around without pants while wearing fleecy trackie bottoms isn’t a good look. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve seen a youth walking towards me with his tackle silhouetted through the fabric. There’s nothing more off putting when you’re subjected to swinging appendages on the high street.

To demonstrate my point here’s a picture of the tennis player Novac Djokovic, although his bulge is because of his balls; Steady on! his spare tennis balls that is.

I’d now like to move on to Chav food if I may. A few weeks ago when walking through a supermarket with my OH, I pointed to a tinned pie and explained that I’d never had one. Laughingly OH said, “You don’t know what you’re missing.” So I dropped the said food item into my trolley and continued shopping. The tinned baked product has since languished in a kitchen cupboard; overlooked every day.

A couple of nights ago, possibly during a momentary lapse in taste I decided it was time to try the pie in a tin. The cooking instructions were quite simple, remove lid first; (obviously, unless you want it to explode in the oven) then bake for twenty-five minutes. The blurb on the side of the tin makes it look very appealing, phrases like crisp, flaky pastry and juicy, tender steak are really selling it to me. I wait for the required cooking time to elapse, then remove the tin. The pastry top has risen as promised.

Within seconds the inflated crust collapses, so I cut into it in anticipation of the juicy, tender steak, and lo and behold there it is, six cubes, each one being one centimetre squared.The taste experience is one I’ll never forget, the gravy is salty, the meagre meat portions are devoid of any flavour and the underside of the pastry has the consistency of phlegm. The only thing missing from this gourmet experience is a can of cheaply produced energy drink and a dollop of red sauce.