Heroes heroes heroes

I've just been reading Eric Bogosian's excellent website, and in one article he talks about why he writes. He goes on to describe the cascades of thought and how they need an outlet ... and how writers are heroes to him.

"Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's a hairy bloke from Manchester writing a book!"

Modest as I am, reading his view gave me quite a buzz. I mean, damn it, writing is a heroic thing. Allen Ginsberg's great quote on the Cold War (America, "Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb") would be a ballsy thing to say at any time. In the 50's, as a gay drug taking Jew with interests in esoteric religions, it was extremely bold.

Now to shamelessly bring this back to myself.

Only last week I heroically took the re-(re-re-re-re-re)edited opening chapter of a book to my writers' group. I found several sniffing about it far more than I liked.

I'd turned an 8 page chapter into 3 pages, and one feller said that I "needed about a page and half more." Ah well. I'm now turning my brains upside down trying to find the right bits to put back in. A painful way of getting nowhere is how this looks, if I'm honest. On the plus side, it was considered to be tense and claustrophobic, which is what I'm aiming for to get the ball rolling.

Anyway, I decided that I was going to list a big group of my heroes from a variety of different fields. Just people who have always been great and noble, people I've always been glad to have known about.

Clint Eastwood - my first favourite film star, back when I was a boy. Dammit I had great taste even then. Needs no explanation.
Sales at the hat shop picked up in no time.

Bill Hicks - one of the funniest, boldest and most honest comedians. Elevated stand-up to a rebellious art form that eviscerated idiocy, lies and greed like nobody else. Very few people can get within a hair's breadth - maybe George Carlin, but few else.

One of my favourite bits of his is on the Dangerous CD, talking about musicians - his near feral screech of Play from your fucking heart! is scalding.
"Okay ... you want me to explain the mess of today? Well, I died 15 years ago ... but let's see if anything's changed ..."

Jimi Hendrix - one of the best "victories" in my teens was playing my dad Purple Haze. My old feller was a professional cellist and rarely listened to anything that wasn't classical ... this blew his hair 40 foot but dammit he loved it. Good call Dad.
George Orwell - a less predictable choice, but this man was one of my gods in earlier life. I still rave about him today, but haven't read anything of his in maybe 18 months. Some time soon I will have to change that.
Mr Orwell and his new Nokia.

PG Wodehouse - anyone who doesn't know Mr Wodehouse and his sublime works is missing a treat. He's probably the funniest writer who ever lived, or at least an excellent candidate for that. Below are two of my favourite of his jokes:

"He wasn't exactly disgruntled, but looked very far from being gruntled."

"The Right Honourable was a tubby little chap who looked like he'd been poured into his clothes and forgot to say when."

Wodehouse's skill with words simply astounds, as he had a flexibility and music in his prose that is pure delight.
Exercise videos have changed a bit since his day.

Tina Turner - still sexy, husky, delicious ... a voice that could overheat a vicar from 500 feet.
"I lost weight the Wodehouse way ..."

It's an odd thing to say that I have women who are heroes, but how else do you describe:

Judi Dench - one of the very few people who look like they could keep James Bond in line just by looking cross and occasionally waggling her eyebrows. Quite a skill.
"Get me 007 ... and a hammer."

Joanna Lumley - manages to cram as much poshness into one syllable as Rolls-Royce manage in about 200 cars. Incredible ... ??? No idea what the word is.
"I believe the word is 'thing-ness.'"

The next two aren't heroes, just people I've wanted to get close to for no small amount of time ...

Helen Slater - she was only in one film that I've seen, and in fairness it was crap, but my gum she looked very tasty in it. An 8 year old me had his eyes out on stalks.
"Look, a bloke with a beard writing a book ... see ya!"

Elle MacPherson - my most lusted after celebrity. No question, no debate, nada ... oh yes.
"25% off bathing costumes, this week only ..."

That's all for now. More later if it occurs to me.

Life's Odd Moments Of Juxtaposition

Last Wednesday I saw BB King live, probably for the last time, as he's now 83 and sadly not in the best of health. We can't expect him to keep going forever ...

This was one of the reasons I went. Cash isn't flowing too well into my pockets at the minute, and tickets for that sort of thing aren't cheap. I discussed it with a friend of mine who's also a fan, and we decided to go because, as he said, "It'll probably be the last chance we get to see him."

Sad but true, and a fair point. So last Wednesday we both went along, saw a fine gig, and shouted ourselves hoarse with approval. I should point out that's exactly what Mr King was asking for, he being one of those performers who asks his audience to show him a little appreciation here and there ...
"Can you feel it?" Hell yes!

It was clear that BB wasn't in the best health - he talked about it quite a lot in the show, he sat down throughout the gig and after he left the stage - to the tumultuous applause he warrants - he was moved off in a wheelchair. I don't mind admitting that brought a lump to my throat.

After the show, I discussed it with my friend over a beer. Great show, we both agreed, also ... did you see how frail he looked? Ah, sad to say neither of us expect the great man to hit these shores again. Fantastic to have had the chance to see him while we still can.

One of my favourite songs of his is called "There Is Always One More Time." Let's hope.

And then ... and this is the most bizarre thing ... Michael Jackson dies the next day.

So Paul and I went to catch BB King because ... see above ... and then ... again, see above. What the hell? I'm not a huge Jacko fan, and if anyone felt a twinge of loss when he died, well, my sympathies, but at the same time, life is sometimes quite odd.

An 80-something diabetic who's got frailer and frailer? Sadly yes, I doubt he'll be around for much longer.

A 50-something pop, uh, I don't know I should go into detail on Michael Jackson ... let's say he had an unusual life. I doubt it was a happy one, and let's not speak ill of the dead, so RIP.

Can I say one more thing?

DAMN YOU, TICKETMASTER!

Six pounds fifty per ticket and a holding fee? Pah! I went to the box office and I happen to know the lad behind the counter HADN'T been holding them, because he got them out of a drawer.

It's the principle of the thing that gets me ...

PS - One Kind Favour

BB King has an album out called "One Kind Favour," with one track on it that goes on to implore, "See that my grave is kept clean." Make an old man happy and buy it, would you? I'd love it if he had a big hit with probably his last of 150 or so albums.

Get it from US Amazon here

Or from UK Amazon here

Shameless Just Got Cheekier

This will be the 482nd time I have drawn down on the imbecilities, greed and pointlessness of modern adverts, but this one really is a cracking piece of presumption.

It's based on a nice, simple and easy way of beating the Credit Crunch, and boy it is effective. It's about ... mailing a (completely unheard of) company any gold you might not want.

Or, as the voice over puts it:

"Just call this number now (1-800-GULLIBLE-TWAT) and we will send you a FREE gold kit!"

This 'gold kit' is an envelope which you fill with, er, gold and then, um, mail back to them. Did I say shameless? Well, I was wrong, because, you see, they pay the postage!

Sounds perfectly reasonable to me. You see, like most people, I have big piles of gold lying around that I don't know what to do with. Obviously, gold isn't very valuable and I often think about just throwing out my huge piles of gold because it seems pretty pointless. The thing is, I assume it's worthless, as I have so much of just piled up in the corner doing nothing.

Good of them to help. Obviously I, as a teacher, have more gold than I have the time to cultivate. Also, I'm too dim to know if it's worth anything. Hmm, who, I wonder, will be good enough to help?

In Digital Britain, Gordon Brown Is Less Of A Turd

Amazing what you can do with computers, isn't it? England's astoundingly useless PM, a man who makes John Major look like Hannibal from The A Team, has used digital technology to look less of a gormless incompetent.

I suppose this technology began with the jaw-dropping effects in the movie T2, which redefined what film special effects could do. And now, less than 20 years later, computers can make someone as useless of Mr Brown seem vaguely ... less crap.

Astounding. But James Cameron evidently has a lot to answer for. That said, news concerning a top ranking politician is one thing. Elsewhere, as I've said so many times before - largely because it still continues to baffle me, how the hell is it that so much of the news is given over to celebrities?

Russell Crowe needs a helicopter, otherwise he doesn't go to work. This strikes me as quite reasonable. Not only do I need a helicopter, I also require a staff of at least 15 to get myself ready to get cracking on a new day. So this is not overindulgence on his part, in fact the more I think of it, the more modest and reasonable it seems.

Lindsey Lohan may have stolen several hundred grands' worth of jewellery from a photoshoot. Sorry, this is only news if she is either a) hunted down and killed by vicious brutes employed by the jewel insurers, or b) offers sexual bribes to everyone involved in the case. Then it's news.

Paris Hilton isn't sleeping with a footballer. What, are we supposed to guess the profession of her latest bloke? Does some journalist sit there thinking, "Stockbroker? Umm, medic? Plumber? Puppeteer?" I'm so glad I don't work in the press.

Thank God Kate Moss is writing a novel. The world makes sense again.

Coincidentally, I have a CD playing at the time of writing this, and as I finished the above section on media nothing concerning celebs, the line "You've got to be a fool to understand" was sung. Quite so.

In non-celebrity news, apparently the UK is a haven for war criminals. This is down to our highly efficient justice system, which will fine old people fifty pounds if their dustbin lids are open more than four inches, but hasn't got round to finding any problem with genocide. Well, that's all right then.

Democracy ... it might be old and tired, but it gets some things bang on

I doubt the news will have made much impact outside the UK, but last week a rather shitty thing happened.

Anyone take a guess? No? Well, a small clue - it happened at the ballot box.

(Any of you thinking, What, someone registered a protest vote by ... no, let's leave that thought there)

You probably won't have got the answer if you live outside of the UK, but in brief our far right party the BNP (British National Party, and yes that is as progressive as it sounds) won two seats in the European Parliament Elections.

It's headed up by this steaming piece of low rent excrement:
"Nick Griffin ... come on down (the sanitizing chemicals are in place) ..."

Having very little to boast about in electoral terms usually, last weeks' result turned the noise up on this man's unpleasant politics. I should point out that the BNP didn't get any extra votes, it just maintained its turnout at the ballots when most other parties saw their supporters busy, oo, I don't know, having a quiet night in front of the box.

I feel a little ashamed here, because I didn't vote either. No excuses.

However - and this is the fine part - when Mr Griffin (a lovely feller whose charming ways of denying the Holocaust have earned him many friends and well wishers) tried to speak in front of Parliament, protesters silenced him with a barrage of eggs!

Wonderful thing, people power.

Our enlightened, liberal minded friend had this to say:

"It's a very, very sad day for British democracy."

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!

Cough cough couldn't agree more ...

27 Hours Without A Cigarette

We all have traditions, and one of mine is to quit smoking every 2 years or so. Usually I get a certain distance, then think "To hell with this." At that point I go right back to pouring tar into my lungs and developing a cough which makes me sound like a 97 year old running a marathon in thick smog.

My fitness goal.

"Run? You can fuck off."

They say you should plan ahead in order to quit effectively. Pick a date, enjoy your last few pulls etc, then cast the evil coffin nails to one side and begin a new life of healthy lungs and happiness.
Oh, we're all winners.

Trouble is, I'm a little too impulsive for that. I've been meandering around various habits for a few months now. I've truly overhauled my lifestyle - no boozing between the hours of 7am and 1pm, no heroin before noon and I rarely if ever set fire to midgets these days. Yes, I'm better at handling those moments of boredom now.
(pauses to acknowledge wild applause at this fine and impressive stance)

So, yesterday at about noon I decided not light another one, having had my last smoke at about 10.45. There are various reasons for this - curiosity, health, cash, avoiding nicotine withdrawal in the classroom-
"I said, homework in for Wednesday."

- which is a pretty good reason, and should mean I spend less time being pursued by burly attendants with tranquilliser darts.

The bizarre thing is, so far it hasn't been that difficult.

Admittedly, my thoughts have at times veered a little away from their usual refined tracks.
Soon, I will deliver them all ... erm, I mean, make some tea.

One thing I will say is that it helps to bear in mind that cigarette craving only lasts 5 minutes. Put it out of your mind any way you can for those 300 terse, provocative seconds.
"Hey, it keeps me off the Marlboros!"

No idea if this'll last. In 3-5 days, the nicotine leaves your system. I gather it takes 21 days to modify a routine, so I'll let you know in 3 weeks.

So far, I have far more energy, and that's the weird thing. I was feeling better inside of 12 hours.

Now, the stumbling block:

I HATE THE PIETY OF NON-SMOKERS!
So, to avoid this, I will simply recommend that everyone smokes. Except me, but that's different, because I'm not going to preach at you. In fact, do what the hell you see fit. Why other people make lifestyle recommendations is beyond me. Most people aren't vastly improved by eating yoghurt or kicking the dog in the balls whenever Lynard Skynard plays on the radio.

But, I leave that to you.

It's now 28 hours. My house is still standing.

One For The Wallet

The day just got better. While lazing around looking at nonsense on the net, I came accross this fantastic excuse:

"non-insane automatism"

Apparently it means that your body is doing things you have no control over. Ah, the possibilities where this fine excuse might come in handy:

1. Infidelity. "I had no idea what why groin was doing. Honestly, sweetheart, I thought I was doing the washing."
2. Shoplifting. "My pockets are full of CDs? Damn my uncontrollable hand."
3. Drinklifting. "Your pint. (Yoinck, burp). Not any more."

(A serious aside here - while shoplifting and adultery are comparatively harmless, swiping alcohol is a major sin that tinkers with all manner of dark forces. Avoid it.)

I found this term while looking at the Wikipedia entry for Peter Buck, REM's guitarist. Years ago he was charged with air rage, owing to an incident which involved struggling with a yoghurt pot, which exploded (a dangerous word to use in relation to airliners in these sad days) and he was charged with "causing damage to British Airways cutlery."

On a side note, I have to mourn the loss of true rock star behaviour.

The favourite for excess in this area has to be Keith Moon, The Who's inventively destructive drummer. This is someone who once checked out of a London hotel then, in the limousine, shouted out, "Stop! I've forgotten something." Back at the hotel, he raced upstairs to his room, threw the TV out of the window, then got back in the car saying, "Phew. I almost forgot."

In my opinion, the best tale about was (reputedly) being discussed by two friends.

1. "Old Keith loves a joke."
2. "He does. I went round to his house for some lunch the other day, and there he was, lurking in the garden, dressed as an SS officer."
1. "See what I mean?"
2. "No, you don't understand. I was making a surprise visit."

Superb.

In reference to Mr Buck, I have to give full praise to his lawyer, coming out with such a batshit nonsense excuse that actually worked! It's not often I feel inclined to praise a lawyer, but on this occasion, hats off. A fine effort.