You've got to sin to be saved

Blast from the past phones from the blue. Make sense? Hope not. It's the second time the same from blast from the past has phoned in a week. This is an important sign. It shows she's either drunk or expecting our friendship to kick off again. And weirdly, as good as the first call was (and long), the shorter second call was more fulfilling because we were able to talk rather than simply exhange news of the last few years.
Red sky at night. And it is a kind of red, either that or my contact lenses are playing up. A stormy sky tonight. And yes, the title is current best song for the next fifteen minutes.
I'm pleased my blast from the past is in the present again. I've been catching up with some of the blasts from the past I let slip recently for reasons hinted at in the multitude of self-conscious posts below. But this is one of the two blast I most wanted to update tense for.
So welcome back. And the next call will be mine. And then, my blast, we will be well and truly on the way to the future. (Pretentious ending arrived at, shall now publish and give myself a group hug)

Weight a second

In order to kill time whilst low clouds trundle up the Thames blurring everything and rain thumps on the windows I've been looking at some old photographs. I dug out some pictures from the sponsored walk I did in support of Leukaemia Research (as briefly alluded to in the Geoff Thomas post a couple of days ago).
Now, I'm not exactly slim. And I have lost 9.5 kilos (one and a half stones) since 1st February. But looking at the pictures makes me think that I was ill for a long time before I finally fell ill (if you see what I mean). I look unhealthy.
The pictures were taken a year ago and I may post them up at a later date (or when I've lost even more weight, another two stones will do). It makes me wonder how much excess fluid I was carrying around even then.
You know that when you look for the signs with hindsight you can see too many. But everything I see and remember screams at me that I've been killing myself for too long now. I was ill before the walk. The walk didn't help. Then moving and the curse of flat pack furniture (why didn't I buy the divan!) and the stress of a new job. Blah, blah, blah, self-pity, voyage of discovery, self-help and so on and so forth.
I'll now dig out some photos from 2002 and the Australia/New Zealand trip and compare me to the 2005 version.
Ah, vanity at the age of 33.

And as if to prove the point...

My brain is now full of Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine and their classic Twenty Four Minutes From Tulse Hill. Didn't put a timer on it though.
This is why pop is so great (he he he). It's the pick, consume, dispose invention that rules the world. Now if only modern day pop "stars" could earn enough money to buy some clothes to wear then the whole thing could move slowly ever onwards once more. I'd better go to bed before I start thinking about Sarah Cracknell.
Too late.

And for those of you listening in black and white...

I feel obliged to point out that the previous post is not a poem in any way, shape or form. It's just late night ramblings. And I also feel obliged to point out that for the next fifteen minutes, the best pop song ever written is Depeche Mode's Just Can't Get Enough. You know, the single from the very early 1980s with the black and white photograph of the cute little cat on the cover. But that's beside the point. Fifteen minutes should be about right as it's the same length of time that I was convinced that This Is Not A Song by the Frank and Walters was the greatest ever. Before that Michael Caine by Madness. Fifteen minutes is about long enough for pop music. Then you can return to it fifteen or twenty or twenty five years later and suddenly it's the greatest song all over again.

So Tony, what do you think of your Frosties?

What a great save.
That's a great result.
What a great film.
We had a great time.
Well, that's just great.
Alexander the Great.
I predict great things for him.
That was a great meal.
What a great haircut.

I love it when people say things like that.

Geoff Thomas

Tonight, last night, Thursday night was a bit special. Even if you don't know who Geoff Thomas is or what on earth (or where) Crytstal Palace Football Club is, you'll have heard of leukaemia. And if I told you that Geoff Thomas is one of my personal heroes then of course it's a little sad and fitting the one dimensional male profile that he is a footballer and Crystal Palace are my team and he was the captain in our most successful period, the one in which I fell in love with the game. Yeah, I know how sad it sounds and I've stopped caring. And when Geoff (see, I call him by his first name) was diagnosed with leukaemia it really meant something. It's part of the aging process I suppose and short of having a close relative or friend die, having a hero fall seriously ill is something to come to terms with. Anyway, Geoff got very ill and is getting better all the time (look at www.geoff-thomas.com and give a little something please) and I am proud that last April a colleague and I raised a decent sum for his campaign. And I am proud that I went to his testimonial tonight/last night/Thursday.
(Geoff Thomas, right, meeting his old manager and team mates)
Sporting heroes don't always grow old gracefully in the way that actors, musicans etc can. But it sometimes helps to be reminded of why they're your heroes. Geoff's charity work is entirely consistent with his on-field determination from days gone by. Mark Bright, Ian Wright, John Salako, Richard Shaw, Phil Barber, Dave Madden and co were all important to me once and seeing them come together for something like this reminded why. I could bang on about how football has changed for the worse, how fantastic these players were and so on but each generation is different. I will always think back to these people when thinking about heroes and when I think about my own illness (see, I had to make this about me) I will always be inspired by Geoff.

But I'll also be inspired by those close to me. Around the time I, unknowingly, started my descent towards heart failure, two friends, Logan and Sam were taking part in the British Heart Foundation's London to Brighton cycle ride. I will always consider acts like this to be of the utmost importance. And although I'm not going to start a foundation or take part in massive events, I am going to take the time to consider how to make my life better, perhaps really going for the weight loss to take the pressure off the heart rather than the half-hearted (sorry) and limp efforts I'm making at the moment. When I'm back in action properly I will take the time to consider what I can do to help those around me, even if in small ways. I have no intention of ever applying for hero status, simply alive will do.
(Mark Bright. Legend. Fact.)
Thank you Geoff. You gave me such pleasure in the late eighties and early nineties. I fondly wish we had won the 1990 FA Cup Final against Man Utd. But you really gave me and my brother something special then. And tonight/last night/ Thursday you allowed me and my friends to come together and discuss an event that we were all involved in and our parts in it, even though we didn't know each other at the time. It's great to be a one-dimensional male every so often. And Geoff, I thank you for reminding me of that.
(Geoff Thomas and Bryan Robson before the start of the 1990 FA Cup Final, the game we came together to re-create in south London tonight, last night, Thursday).

(And thank you to Paul Wright of www.cpfc.org as the first three photographs are his (well, maybe not the first one and as of Friday morning not the second either which is a blatant steal from the current bun) and I haven't even attempted to get permission. Sorry and thanks)

It's all lies

In case I know you, thanks for taking the time to come along. After the last post I thought I'd rally three or four of the troops. Friends that is. Read the previous post. It's a good job I can't sleep tonight anyway.
I've become obsessed with the hit counter/hits counter so much so that the small number of friends have been requested to boost it. The sheer vanity.
But it's ok because none of them have been mentioned. In fact hardly any one has been mentioned. Curious.
Cue deep analysis and bouts of tortured self-awareness.
Or, cue various methods of sleep inducement.
Think I'll try the second, after all if I don't my entire life story will be on here by morning.
And no one would be happy about that.
Someone remind me to let you know about my favourite sleep inducing thing. But not just yet. I need to see if it will work tonight first.

Yeah! Two already.

Gosh. Hit counter inserted. Mind you, I have no idea about that link beneath it. Sneaky hit counter people. Will have to try to get that moved. Anyway. Two and counting. Check back in sometime around 2009 to see if I've gone past 8.
If only I told my friends about this site. But then I might not write the crap I do if I thought that anyone might read it.

Insert cliche about London buses here

Thinking about getting a hit counter just to see how long I can keep it below 10. Or would it be too depressing to keep pasting these little daubs up if no one sees them. Tree, forest, no one, fall, sound? etc. Perhaps it means this, what do they call it, a blog? Really? Perhaps it means this blog doesn't exist. A blog? What is that? Slang for constipation?
Sorry about that. For a moment I turned into a comedian from the 1970s trying out new material at a holiday camp in the north-east.
Where was I?
By the way, as has almost certainly been pointed out by 27,352 people, the spell checker on this thing doesn't recognise the word blog.
Moving on.
Do you like the view (look at the pictures below dummy)? I do. But it's time to move on (in literal and metaphorical senses).
Perhaps it's time to try to reach out into other areas. Change. And not the small kind (apologies, it's a bad gag and it's stolen, I am a puddle). Why am I telling you this? Who cares? But it's out there now. I think I know the job I want. They're advertising. I have the qualifications and the experience. But it's a case of persuading them that, aged 33, the reason I have spent the last six months off work is consigned to the last six months. It's a case of persuading them that my heart condition (or failure as we like to call it) is not going to cause me to take more time off work.
"Of course, I could be dead in five years."
"That's good, we don't like our staff to become stale. It's a severe form of moving on but it fits in with our corporate plan."
Getting to interview will be tough enough. Leaving my current "job" will be easy. The only reason to stay is the money. And before any of you non-existent readers remark on the six months off thing and how nice they've been need to understand how horrible they were before the six months thing and how they had no choice due to being a public sector employer and there being rules about that kind of thing.
But I will have this condition for life. I do not know how long that life will be. I owe it to myself to make that life as decent as possible and my current job will not allow for that.
So I'll have to sell the flat. First I'll have to clean the flat. Or more specifically, the carpet. Or even more specifically, pay someone else to clean the carpet.
Whatever happens, the view is temporary for me. I know that now. Sure, it looks pretty permanent but I found an old picture of me with my brother and my dad taken in the very early eighties in Greenwich Park and none of the buildings the sun is setting behind were there then. So perhaps all views are temporary.
And on that philosophical note...

New Years Resolution

And yes, I know it's April.
And yes, I know I'm talking to myself.
And I am certainly aware that these posts are appearing in badly spaced out batches of at least two.
So, this year (and from now on in fact) I am going to have fewer opinions.
Because there are too many opinions in this world and so many of them are negative and based upon quick emotional reaction rather than rational thought. And so many of these opinions are about things that are based upon the lives of others that otherwise would have nothing to do with anyone else. More information does not mean better information.
And yes I am aware that most of this is opinion and thus I have negated my own resolution. But then it is April so that's better than most people.
And yes, I am already in the process of getting my coat.

Er

Hello? Is this thing on?

The ipod knows...

Everytime I walk to the station from the flat my ipod shuffle plays Bowie's Heroes.
When I'm on the train approaching London Bridge it, without fail, plays The Bitterest Pill by The Jam.
The ipod knows...

How to spot signs of aging

If you like the Arctic Monkeys you are young.
If you like the Arctic Monkeys but they remind you of Ian Dury and the Blockheads then you are old.
I'm getting old.

And while I'm not on the subject

I have one plant in the flat, a lilly. It has dandruff.
One of my best friends is pregnant and quite possibly giving birth right now (avoided the temptation to used the word 'dropping', very mature me) and I'm due to be an uncle in May.
When I think about the possibility of having my own family I take the view that I shouldn't be allowed to bring up a child when I can't even look after a house plant.

The power of positive thought

Go for a walk I thought. Get the train up from London I thought. Stroll up to the Political Cartoons Gallery on Store Street from Charing Cross I thought. Pop into the British Museum on the way I thought. I can't be bothered I thought when I passed the museum by. I'll take the long way round, the wrong way round to Store Street I thought.
I know you I thought. I used to teach you I thought. You used to be my form tutor she said. How are you? I replied.
I could have been inside the British Museum looking at lumps of metal. Instead I found an ex-student of mine who is about to pass her first year at medical school. That sounds good I thought. Another one of your ex-students is working in a pub on Tottenham Court Road she said. That sounds very good I thought. And off I went to visit his beard.
And so, having strayed north of the river (I feel dirty) and been thinking about old times, about happier and healthier days, there they were on Montague Street, WC1, twenty five miles from their origin.
On the down side, I managed to walk past the gallery twice without having the balls to go inside. Both times it was empty. Both times I worried about being thrown out or laughed at. I'll go back. Honest. Anyway, it'll give me another chance to wander up Montague Street and Tottenham Court Road.
Hey, go see it yourself, it looks interesting from the outside: http://www.politicalcartoon.co.uk/html/gallery.html
I wont mention the name of the pub though...

Oh lord. I can't believe he thinks he can write fiction. (Part One)

20 things you need to know if ever you find yourself in south London


One. The Battersea Children’s Zoo does not have any children in cages. They roam wild.
Two. We don’t have parks. We have commons. There are twelve in total. North London has marshes, heaths and flats. Commons are much better for meeting people. Sometimes these people get along so well they rush straight off into the bushes to have sex.
Three. No one really speaks in that weird accent, you know, cockney with attitude. We put it on when you’re in town. Jenna speaks a bit like that though. She’s not from round here.
Four. South Londoners can’t count. And we’re not very good at keeping time either.
Five. Ok, we do have parks. But a couple of the bigger ones, Richmond and Greenwich, are royal parks so they don’t count. I was meant to meet Jenna in Greenwich Park last month. On One Tree Hill. Except I was waiting at the top of the wrong hill.
Six. One Tree Hill in Greenwich Park has a lot of trees on it. It’s very confusing. And it makes it hard to see if anyone is there. I never understood why we couldn’t meet at the gate or in a bar. Jenna says I’m unromantic. It’s not true. I was just lost. And late.
Seven. When the World Cup was stolen in 1966 it was found near my grandma’s house. No charges were ever brought against her. I took Jenna to see my grandma. It went horribly wrong. My grandma thought we were engaged. Jenna thought it meant we were getting engaged. I thought I was getting a decent home cooked meal. Turns out we were all wrong.
Eight. I thought our anniversary was on the fifth. That’s why I was a week late giving Jenna her present. It turns out there’s a whole week’s worth of Jenna I am not aware of and will never get back.
Nine. Not many tube lines come south of the river. That’s why Jenna was mad when I wanted her to move in with me. She says my place is hard to get to. She should try the Falkland Islands. She acted as though I asked her to live on the moon. But I like it here. Why should I move?
Ten. I once spoke to god on the 249 bus between Crystal Palace and Balham. It turns out his name is Brian and he works for the local council assessing social security claims. He told me that life is pretty good as long as you compromise. I told him that Jenna wanted me to compromise about where I lived and god replied that I should, “dump the bitch because she knows nothing.” I took it as a sign.
Eleven. There is no Crystal Palace in Crystal Palace anymore. It burned down. If I was a little piggy that would confuse me. “So if I build it with glass the wolf can’t blow it over but he can burn it?” Jenna thinks I spend too much time worrying about whether or not my house is going to be attacked by wild animals.
Twelve. There are tourist attractions on this side of the Thames. The Globe Theatre, Kew Gardens, Tate Modern, the London Eye. But they hug the river so it hardly feels very south. Jenna thinks I should call off my boycott of tourist attractions north of the river. God thought I was being proactive. Jenna says that she is a non-believer and that even if god does exist he’s more likely to have a chauffeur.
Thirteen. South London is the fried chicken capital of Europe. Jenna says Dallas Fried Chicken is an inappropriate venue for eating out despite the fact that they have loads of those little tissues you wipe your fingers with so that they smell of lemon for three minutes.
Fourteen. South Londoners have no patience.
Fifteen. Clapham Junction is the busiest train station in the world ever. I think. It’s also the place where I left Jenna waiting for forty-five minutes. Apparently in that time we missed three trains and a strange man asked her to go water-skiing with him or something like that.
Sixteen. Jenna has been angry with me for some time now.
Seventeen. I miss her.
Eighteen. Are you still here? Ok, twenty was a bit optimistic.
Nineteen. Look, we’re not together anymore. Is that what you wanted to know?
Twenty. I’m not sure that god was right. I’ll tell him when I see him next.

Sometimes you've just got to move on

Key songs: Heart Failed In The Back Of A Taxi by Saint Etienne.
And why? I hear the overwhelming silence announce from absolutely no where. Er, good questions. Eight months on and another pointless post that no one will read.
Brief update: I nearly died in October after being ill for most of August and September without being bothered to do anything about it. Now being lazy is one thing. Being lazy and nearly dying as a result is another. So, near death. Some great Christian experience to boost the old faith system? Well no, it's about as non-faith related as it gets. There is no great white light, no corridor sending you forward, no big guy with the white beard. Face it folks, this is it. So, heart failure at thirty-three and I'm trying to get back on track.
Sort your own life out, don't wait for anyone else to do it.
You have the answers. Or in this case me.
Except I don't.
Next question?
At this point, imagine your own rant - this product is rubbish, no one cares, the government are stealing from me, everything is awful, the neighbours are too loud and so on. Then write is down and throw it in the bin.
Tips on surviving death? Don't rage against the dying of the light. See a doctor. But lets face it, sometimes you've just got to move on.

How often does that happen?

An aircraft carrier went past my living room this morning. Possibly the most bizarre sight since I moved into this flat nearly two months ago. The aircraft carrier had four tugs and three police boats with it. In such sensitive times (as announcements on every train station platform remind me) I still find it weird that the navy needs a police escort. But then this is Woolwich and they still had Thamesmead to go past. Without the police there the local residents may have stripped the ship of all its metal in a thrice.
The river at this end of London is fairly busy. It's not the most upmarket part of London but there are enough yachts to give the impression of more peaceful climes. Huge cargo ships arrive every so often, there's a new ferry service operating a couple of minutes walk away to take residents of a posh new housing estate up to London, most evenings there are some grotty looking party boats no doubt the guests are too surprised to complain about not seeing central London ("We're where? You mean the Dome is all we'll see?" "Don't forget the Thames Barrier!"). But of all the boats I see, I'm obsessed with the Woolwich Free Ferry, the lumbering, ugly vessels that take HGVs from one bank to the other. All day. All week. The journey is brief, it's value, with no Thames crossings for miles either side, is huge. It's such a simple, old fashioned operation, I hope it stays that way forever. You can keep your huge navy ships, I'll keep the ferry named after Ernest Bevin. You can keep the occasional oddity on the river. I'll hang onto the mundane, the everyday.

People get ready...

I’ll be forty when the Olympics finally roll into town. It’s all due to start on my fortieth birthday. A fitting celebration I feel. But what to do when it gets here? Which event should I choose? I suppose athletics is probably out. Running has never been a strong point. Ditto jumping. And throwing. I could probably fire the starting pistol but I can’t be certain of my aim. So, twenty-three more sports to choose from. I’ll rule out any that need an impressive physique. Or any level of fitness. No swimming. No gymnastics. No pentathlon. No cycling. Definitely no rowing or beach volleyball.

What’s left? No, really, I’m asking. What else does the Olympics provide? For most people it’s all about the athletics but south of the river in dear old Greenwich there will be four or five events. There’ll even be one in Woolwich. There’s always the football although that’s an under 23 tournament so I’ll be too old. I’ve never been near a horse in my life. That’s eight sports, sixteen to go. Is canoeing the same as rowing? Does anyone care? Could I partner Tim Henman in the doubles? Would anyone care? I’m quite happy to give hockey a go. I’d easily qualify for the heavyweight boxing but I’d want to wear a shirt, one that the blood would come out of easily. They do that silly Greco-Roman wrestling which just looks like an excuse to roll around on the floor for five minutes. I’ve got the height for basketball but not the skill. So I’m stuck. The Olympics are coming to London and I really want to take part.

If only gambling was an Olympic sport. I could have a go there. And I’d be a cert for gold in the couch potato event. I’d consider commentating but trying to crowbar three hundred words into the 9.8 seconds of the hundred metres would be slightly daunting. Mind you, I’d just have to repeat the athletes’ names, quickening up and increasing the volume as they approach the line. No, it’s programme selling for me. Not much to worry about there. Or perhaps I’ll go where the real money is. I’ll find the place in the whole Olympic movement that there is a guarantee of some ready money. I will be working in East London come 2012. I’ll be an estate agent…

Please note archive fans, photo added so that I can get it hosted and therefore on the profile.

Introduction to the start

Just finding a name for this stupid thing was hard enough. Have all the best ones really gone? Has the world gone blogging mad? Does it really matter when the only people to read this will be those so bored by what's out there in the real world that they're up at three a.m. on a Sunday night, too hot to go to sleep, too unbothered by the prospect of Monday at work to care about turning up on time and in a semi coherent state. If that's you, hello. If not, then hello anyway and damn you for having a healthy sleep pattern and a job you actually like.

Excuse me for not ranting on about work (it's ok), the current state of world affairs (it's not quite so ok), the state of various sports teams (really not very ok) or the wild antics on the latest night out (really the most un ok thing ever, weekend not great, new homeowner, shelves more important, I have to have something to hang myself from). Excuse me for not yet going for the big reveal. Excuse me however for moaning about how hard it is to get hold of someone when you only have their email address, you haven't used it for two years and suddenly you realise that the Good Doctor is the one person you want to hear from above all else, even though you know that it's pretty pointless and you'll soon realise why you haven't emailed her for the last two years anyway.

Try tracking any normal person down on google. It's not that easy. All that information and most it utter crap. More information is not better information. Twelve thousand pages of similar names and only twenty four hours in the day. Work for a firm that doesn't proudly display your name on the flashy but pointless website? Thought so. Want to be anonymous? Probably. Want stupid, rambling fools like me tracking you down? Of course not. I should take the hint. Some people don't want to be found. By me.

Hint taken.

Rant over.

God bless the Good Doctor. Wherever you are, what email address you now appear to be using.