Wednesday 28 February 2007
Tuesday 27 February 2007
Pensioners Attempt to Make Contact with TP Fuller Over the Tragic Death of Freddy.
Broadsheet Journalist: She might be a 76 year old, great, great grand mother, with two prosthetic legs and a pair of badly fitting dentures, but Betsy Hinderson, of 26 Turnpike Lane, North London is a determined woman.
"She’s a force to be reckoned with", said Harry a passer by.
Broadsheet Journalist: According to one neighbour, when Betsy discovered the disturbing news; that Freddy the famous Finsbury Park squirrel had been squashed to death, under the wheels of a TP Fuller van, she took immediate action. She picked up the phone and called Western Coaches of Wood Green.
Mike Barker, a friend and confidante to Betsy Hinderson, and MD of Western Coaches tells us what happened next …
Mike Barker, a friend and confidante to Betsy Hinderson, and MD of Western Coaches tells us what happened next …
Mike: When Betsy called me I could tell she wasn’t happy. She hadn’t even put her teeth in properly – which is out of character for her – she’s a perfectionist is our Betsy – ask anyone who knows her. They’ll tell you the same as me; that Betsy always puts her teeth in properly. She kept stopping and saying
Betsy: Sorry Mike I am so angry about this, I’ve not put my teeth in properly, they’re upside down pet.
Mike: She was adamant though ….
Betsy: We’ve gotta do something about this Mike. We can’t let a hit and run driver get away with this. We must confront him – justice needs to be done.
Mike: She arranged everything, found out the address of the depot, everything. She was even on the blower to the best Taxidermist there is. And, she's very kindly had Freddy returned back to his former self, well sort of. He’s lost his pulse and he sort of just stares all the time.
Broadsheet journalist: How did she afford to do this?
Mike: Well her and her two neighbours clubbed together. They’re eldery ladies as well, but they all had one thing in common, a love for the little guy. Apparently, he used to cross the road and visit them on a Friday morning, when they were having coffee and biscuits together. You know what I mean – a coffee morning for ladies. He loved a soggy digestive did the little lad. One of them, Jacky I think it was, said that it was almost as though he was a human being, one trapped inside a small squirrel suit. That’s why people loved him so much, they felt they could relate to him.
Broadsheet Journalist: Did they raid their savings?
Mike: Er … yes, I believe they did. God You’re making me feel guilty now.
Anyhow, rumours spread like wild fire on Green Lanes and soon the entire over 70’s Luncheon Club had heard about the coaches.
Anyhow, rumours spread like wild fire on Green Lanes and soon the entire over 70’s Luncheon Club had heard about the coaches.
Broadsheet Journalist: The coaches?
Mike: Yes, that’s right lass - the coaches. In the end we had three coaches packed full of eager pensioners. They all worked hard to create banners. All hand painted saying ‘Justice for Freddy!’ And ‘A life for a Life’. And, ‘Fuller, You’re Next!’
Broadsheet Journalist: Where were they going?
Mike: By heck lass, you’re not too bright. Down to Scotney … you know the place where TP Fuller lives. We made a night of it. We had flasks of tea, cheese and pickle sandwiches, pork scratchings for the more carnivorous members.
The local vicar’s wife Jean had even packed candles so we could have a candle lit vigil at midnight.
The local vicar’s wife Jean had even packed candles so we could have a candle lit vigil at midnight.
Broadsheet Journalist: And, what was the outcome?
Mike: Er…. Well the depot was closed it said TP Fuller has vacated. Gone to Morocco. His wife was lovely though brought us out mugs of hot chocolate. It was just nice really, you know. A night out for all the old dears. Of course Betsy wasn’t best pleased.I just said to her - put your teeth in love your dribbling!
Monday 26 February 2007
Justin Hinchcliffe
I think Justin is right - I should delete the poem below. It makes me look a bit bonkers. The thing is all my girlfriends in Turnpike Lane love this poem.
I'll leave it on for a few days then I'll delete it.
Thanks for the advice.
Love DSBJ
I'll leave it on for a few days then I'll delete it.
Thanks for the advice.
Love DSBJ
You’re Nothing But A Naked Architect – Go and Put Some Pants On!
(A really badly written poem I wrote about another one of my ex-lovers. We'll call him PBA which stands for the Peckham Based Architect).
A card
His card, thrust into my face
Advertises his services
The naked architect:
“Come along any time of day. All you do is pay”
I phone his number, without even dialing it.
I find him smooth talking and refined in a way that nearly blows my mind away.
I have never really met his kind.
He invites me round for tea, in Peckham-on-the-sea.
I confess to my architect that I have no money.
And he says, “Don’t worry young Northern lass. I don’t want you for your brass. Take your knickers off. There’s no need for cash”.
Feeling crass I go and visit him,
Without even traveling there.
I find myself in Peckham-on-the-sea.
A tourist for the day.
I take my camera, like all the rest.
I want a memento for my wall.
He pours some gin.
He is naked – totally naked.
I knock the gin back and say,
“You’re naked, naked, naked, naked, naked, naked, naked, naked. You’re exactly what your card says. You’re a naked architect. Would you, perhaps, do me a favour and go and put some pants on”.
“No!”
He pours another gin.
At some point soon the room begins to spin.
I find him on the ceiling
I find him on the floor
I find him on the wall
Then I find him leading me through the hall,
And up the stairs,
Until, at last he takes me into his work room.
I demand he puts some pants on.
“No!”
We fight together, roll around on the floor
Until, at last I find him, in me.
He’s so fucking big; he nearly ruptures my internal organs
He plays it well, to the point where I can’t tell anymore.
What zone am I in now?
I’m no longer in a comfort zone,
Or, a pain zone.
Instead it’s a rapturous applause zone
The stuff that standing ovations are made out of
It’s opera, it’s high art. It’s a Brian Sewell moment.
But, what it isn’t is a night out in Batley, at the Variety Club, dancing in white stiletto shoes around handbags on the dance floor.
This is a squeezing grapes in-between your toes moment, a making wine in France moment. This is some bloody FUCK!
We did it on the floor, under the bed, in the bath, in a cupboard, in an enchanted forest – the fairies and the elves watched that one – they thought it was highly entertaining, on the kitchen table, on a balcony, standing up, lying down, spinning around. We even did on the walsas, on Peckham pier. We tried it on a washing line – but that didn’t work
We even had a go on the ironing board, but my gigantic hips broke that. So, I’ll have to buy him another one. That’s the least I can do.
When we had finished
He threw me out of the window, and in the direction of a busy main road
I could hear the on coming traffic; all aggressively tooting their horns, breaks screeching, sirens screaming.
I panic, but then he catches me – the naked architect
I find myself falling backwards, and into his arms – the naked architect
Where did the naked architect come from?
I tell him he’s a magician, at which point he vanishes – the naked architect.
I think he went to put some pants on.
His card, thrust into my face
Advertises his services
The naked architect:
“Come along any time of day. All you do is pay”
I phone his number, without even dialing it.
I find him smooth talking and refined in a way that nearly blows my mind away.
I have never really met his kind.
He invites me round for tea, in Peckham-on-the-sea.
I confess to my architect that I have no money.
And he says, “Don’t worry young Northern lass. I don’t want you for your brass. Take your knickers off. There’s no need for cash”.
Feeling crass I go and visit him,
Without even traveling there.
I find myself in Peckham-on-the-sea.
A tourist for the day.
I take my camera, like all the rest.
I want a memento for my wall.
He pours some gin.
He is naked – totally naked.
I knock the gin back and say,
“You’re naked, naked, naked, naked, naked, naked, naked, naked. You’re exactly what your card says. You’re a naked architect. Would you, perhaps, do me a favour and go and put some pants on”.
“No!”
He pours another gin.
At some point soon the room begins to spin.
I find him on the ceiling
I find him on the floor
I find him on the wall
Then I find him leading me through the hall,
And up the stairs,
Until, at last he takes me into his work room.
I demand he puts some pants on.
“No!”
We fight together, roll around on the floor
Until, at last I find him, in me.
He’s so fucking big; he nearly ruptures my internal organs
He plays it well, to the point where I can’t tell anymore.
What zone am I in now?
I’m no longer in a comfort zone,
Or, a pain zone.
Instead it’s a rapturous applause zone
The stuff that standing ovations are made out of
It’s opera, it’s high art. It’s a Brian Sewell moment.
But, what it isn’t is a night out in Batley, at the Variety Club, dancing in white stiletto shoes around handbags on the dance floor.
This is a squeezing grapes in-between your toes moment, a making wine in France moment. This is some bloody FUCK!
We did it on the floor, under the bed, in the bath, in a cupboard, in an enchanted forest – the fairies and the elves watched that one – they thought it was highly entertaining, on the kitchen table, on a balcony, standing up, lying down, spinning around. We even did on the walsas, on Peckham pier. We tried it on a washing line – but that didn’t work
We even had a go on the ironing board, but my gigantic hips broke that. So, I’ll have to buy him another one. That’s the least I can do.
When we had finished
He threw me out of the window, and in the direction of a busy main road
I could hear the on coming traffic; all aggressively tooting their horns, breaks screeching, sirens screaming.
I panic, but then he catches me – the naked architect
I find myself falling backwards, and into his arms – the naked architect
Where did the naked architect come from?
I tell him he’s a magician, at which point he vanishes – the naked architect.
I think he went to put some pants on.
Sunday 25 February 2007
Another One of my Former Lovers.
And, no it is not William Shakespeare.Ten years ago when I was living in West Hampstead with Sian and Seanine, two Royal College of Music students. I developed a curious fascination for one Joseph Priestley. I liked the man so much that I had a life sized cardboard cut out of him made.
It was also a bit of a protest because I was getting a bit cheesed off with them both (Sian and Seanine) trying to fix me up with some of their crusty dope smoking musician friends. So, Joseph Priestley this extraordinary man of science rescued me from that terrible fate. They were actually horrified when I brought him home, back to the flat. I on the other hand was delighted. I was now no longer single and I had at last found someone who was really special. I can honestly say (hand on heart) he never ever strayed once.
What I liked About him .....
Well, By heck, he's a solid Northern lad is our Joseph. He wore born in tha village I wore born in - Birstall. He's dead flash like, as he likes to do fancy experiments with test tubes and pumps and other things. He discovered oxygen, invented soda water. By heck tha lad is bright.
God Bless you and your dephlogisticated air Joseph.
Sadly, in Birstall marketplace where his statue stands on a plinth, it's subjected to frequent attacks of vandalism, by the underclass. Even the pigeons don't care about him, they crap on his head all day. The dross have even been known to place an orange beacon on his head, and Tesco carrier bags are usually strung on both of his arms. So, Joseph lad this one is for you.
"Joseph Priestley (March 13, 1733 in Birstall – February 8, 1804 ) was an Yorkshire chemist, philosopher, dissenting clergyman, and educator. He had important contributions in the fields of education, moral philosophy, theology, metaphysics, political economy, history and physical science.
He is known for his investigations of carbon dioxide and the co-discovery (with Antoine Lavoisier) of oxygen (see also Carl Wilhelm Scheele)".
He is known for his investigations of carbon dioxide and the co-discovery (with Antoine Lavoisier) of oxygen (see also Carl Wilhelm Scheele)".
So, where is my former lover now? Well, I delivered him to BBC Portland Place F.A.O senior producer Piers Plowright, Radio Four.
So, it's official - it's a dull and dim Darker Side of Bridget Jones. Apparently, according to the elite.
The Day I was Snubbed .....
Well, thank you ‘H’ for pointing out the correct spelling of Primark. I am actually quite dim really; this is why I teach the Dramatic Arts as opposed to the more academically challenging subjects.
Yesterday I was speaking to what I consider to be one of the new Metropolitan Elite. She is a prospective candidate. At first I thought what a lovely woman but as the conversation progressed I could see that she was getting bored and I was right: She then proceeded to put her hand up to my face (as in the Jerry Springer show, “Talk to the hand coz the face ain't listening” sort of a gesture) and abruptly said ‘Okay!’
which I interpreted as a signal for me to stop talking, which of course I did, straightaway. At which point she turned her back on me and walked away, and found a group of other, more interesting women to speak to (all clones of her probably). For about five minutes I just stared at her back wondering why. I mean I know I am no sophisticated middle class bird – but, really what was so offensive about the subject matter? We were discussing my school. If she cannot relate to an inner city school teacher from Hackney, then who can she relate too? Obviously, ego is her main motivation in wanting to become an MP. Either that or I am incredibly dull.
It seems though that our paths are destined to meet again, in two weeks in fact. I have been invited to sit on a selection committee. And, guess who I will be interviewing?
Saturday 24 February 2007
Phone Call From T.P. Fuller.
Photograph above shows the former T.P Fuller (now known as Ibn Battuta) catching his breakfast this morning.Last night I couldn't sleep, this was due to the shocking news I received about the whereabouts of T.P. Fuller. Basically, he's gone mad and thinks he's Ibn Battuta, and that its the year 1325.
As we speak he's got a camel in between his legs and is sat in between two enormous humps, traveling through Morocco. Regular updates to follow.....
I've been in Chelsea all day completing a public speaking course for W2W. It's not often that I am allowed to venture out of the ghetto. It was like going to Blackpool for the day, except there were no illuminations and of course no sandy beach present.
We all had to pick cards with random topics on, mine was on fashion, so, naturally I was in my element - Primark eat your heart out. I captivated my Chelsea audience, one of them even asked me when Primark will be opening on the King's Road. I just said I had no idea as I had not been in regular contact with the CEO for some considerable time.
As we speak he's got a camel in between his legs and is sat in between two enormous humps, traveling through Morocco. Regular updates to follow.....
I've been in Chelsea all day completing a public speaking course for W2W. It's not often that I am allowed to venture out of the ghetto. It was like going to Blackpool for the day, except there were no illuminations and of course no sandy beach present.
We all had to pick cards with random topics on, mine was on fashion, so, naturally I was in my element - Primark eat your heart out. I captivated my Chelsea audience, one of them even asked me when Primark will be opening on the King's Road. I just said I had no idea as I had not been in regular contact with the CEO for some considerable time.
Friday 23 February 2007
Coming Soon, my take on - Civil Servants Who Bitch.
I am not happy. Where I work it is full of unexpected twists and turns. This half-term I've gone in every day (apart from Monday) and worked my socks off. I haven't done any teaching preparation - nope! What I've been doing is laborious paperwork - clocked up about twenty five hours and I still haven't cleared my desk. I discovered today from a colleague that my boss has been bitching about me - BIG TIME! God only knows what I' m meant to have fucking well done wrong - worked too hard perhaps? She's so two faced, it was all smiles on Tuesday when I saw her.
Anyway - here's some bitching about her - she's been shagging the Deputy Head for the last five and half years! And, he's married. Total hypocrite, whenever he delivers his assmeblies - they're always about maintaining good strong, Christian family values.
Tell you what ladies (not my thing though - far too independent for that shite) this affair business certainly is a fastrack to promotion.
It has definitely gone to her head, she thinks she is Queen Bee now. Well, let me tell you I also have a sting in my tail!
On strike now for a few days.
Finsbury Park Residents Want to Know Why.
The above photo is of 'Freddy the Famous Finsbury Park Squirrel', taken by a Ms. Jean Brodie during the summer of 2005.Born 2002 - died 2007
Breaking News….A park in North London is said to be besieged with mourners for Freddy, the famous Finsbury Park squirrel.“You can hardly walk,” said one grieving woman, as she stepped over one of many thousands of floral tributes. The park is said to be awash with roses (which were apparently the squirrel’s favourite flower).“He captivated all of our hearts and minds, he was simply the best”, said another woman holding close to her chest, a photograph of the pink eyed squirrel.Residents near Finsbury Park are said be furious with the driver of a black ‘T.P. Fuller’ van. The driver of this van is thought to be the one responsible for Freddy’s hit and run death last week.A large busted lady from Turnpike Lane said of Freddy, “He was the kindest squirrel I’ve ever met. The park will never be the same without him”.
Thursday 22 February 2007
The Suspects.
The police want to interview the suspects above. They were all seen running from the abandoned 'T.P. Fuller' van, on Green Lanes, at 5am, on the morning of 17th February 2007.They are thought to be one T.P. Fuller a truck driver from Hampshire, Michael Hitch a David Cameron 'A' Lister and a teacher from Hackney, known to the criminal under world as 'The Daker side of Bridget Jones'.
Wednesday 21 February 2007
Doctor Mackaroyd’s Magical Cloud Remedies.
And ‘Un porteur de Nuages.’
A short story by the Darker Side of Bridget Jones, dedicated to that beautiful woman - Maggie Noach, I met you at Westminster, last summer. Thank you for your kind words – I will never forget you.
On a microscopic, windswept and remote Hebridean island with a population of one, lived a Doctor Mackaroyd, a now retired meteorologist. This island was so small in fact that it did not exist on any maps. In fact the ‘British Land Registry’ had quite forgotten about this insignificant blot. However, Doctor Mackaroyd was not entirely isolated here, in the only remaining white washed croft left on the island, he shared this with his loyal albino golden retriever, named Lucy. And, to the rear of the croft was a precariously built, rickety old shed, which housed a multitude of well loved, well travelled and hardworking racing pigeons.
Doctor Mackaroyd’s appearance was a comical sight. He was a short, stout man, with a belly so enormous you could easily rest a plate full of food on top, which, of course, the doctor frequently did. And, vaguely visible to the naked eye were heather coloured stitches, exposed at the seams, of his tight Harris Tweed trousers - evidence of the strain of supporting Doctor Mackaroyd’s generously proportioned figure. Doctor Mackaroyd was particularly proud, although, some might say, a ‘wee bit vain’, about his white locks of hair, as they resembled several hundreds, of thousands, of swirling pallid cloud formations and clouds for the doctor were his only passion, in life.
Today, his bespectacled, cherubic face was deeply thoughtful. He was considering ways of how to best serve the needs of his newest client; a Peckham based architect. Occupying every wall from floor to ceiling were shelves filled with immaculate and lovingly positioned bottles. On each and every one was a meticulously handwritten label, which offered a description of their contents, in Latin. These were no ordinary bottles. What these bottles represented was an accumulation of forty years hard work by the doctor. For forty years Doctor Mackaroyd had battled with all kinds of treacherous weather conditions so that he could catch definitive examples of particular cloud configurations.
He knew not to take risks anymore, 1972 had taught him that. This had been a particularly bad year for the doctor. He had gone out in gale force winds one day and had been swept away, off the island and into the Atlantic Sea. If it wasn’t for the generous help of two seals he would have never have reached dry land, as they both tossed him backwards, and forwards with their noses, until they got him close to land. The bigger of the two, managed to give him one last, big toss, causing him to bounce back, safely onto one of the many white sandy beaches, that surround this tiny world.
Today, the doctor always took precautions. On his door was a checklist of garments he needed to put on before venturing out into the hazardous weather conditions: Life Jacket - check, Barbour wax boots - check, Barbour wax jacket - check, Marks and Sparks cashmere socks - check, grandma MacDougall’s woolly red mittens - check, motorbike crash helmet - check and the list went on - check.
The doctor’s pursuit of clouds, were his life, he was totally absorbed by them. When he was not chasing them across the Highlands in his Land Rover, he was eating them. Yes, that’s right, he was eating them. He simply loved the taste, and, in particular the sensation of those fine drops of dew condensing in his mouth, and then trickling down the back of his throat.
Some Mackaroyd sympathises say that he is a misunderstood man, especially by women. His three failed marriages are testimony to that. Whilst making love to his last wife, Susannah, he yelled out "Cumulus Nimbus!!" At the point of climax. He often compared parts of their anatomy to his favourite cloud formations. At first all of his wives thought this was an endearing sweet quality and frequently laughed about it, but, when they realised the doctor was being serious, they packed their bags and promptly left.
"How dare you!" One roared, as she threw an expensive pair of his binoculars across the room, aiming it at his head. "I am not a cloud. I am a woman, a complex being. Look at me Mackaroyd! Do I honestly resemble a Nimbus to you?" Her hysterical and confrontational outburst made the doctor extremely nervous. Susannah’s physique like her temper, were huge. Mackaroyd knew that she had outgrown him, in so many ways and his tiny croft home could no longer accommodate a woman of this size and magnitude. It simply was not big enough for the two of them. Stumbling fearfully over his words, he said, "No, no, no you don’t my darling. I would have said more like a ….. like a …. a …. Swelling Cumulus". He gulped hard, lips trembling.
It was after he had said goodbye to Susannah that he realised that no human woman, yes, that’s right, no human woman could ever live up to any cloud.
Going back to the dreaded 1972, he was even kept at Her Majesty’s pleasure that year. He tries hard to forget about that particular experience. It had something to do with trespassing on the ‘Balmoral Estate‘, one summers afternoon. I believe the Queen had spotted him halfway up a tree, which, unfortunately for the doctor, directly faced her bedroom. Apparently, she was horrified by the sight, of this rather peculiar short, stout man. He had been cloud watching with binoculars. The very same pair that his last wife had thrown at his head.
Poor Doctor Mackaroyd had an unsympathetic judge, who accused him of being, "The worst type of peeping Tom there is",
The judge made it clear to the dithering Doctor Mackaroyd, that he had to make an example of him. The judge expressed a fear that there could be copycat incidents elsewhere in the Highlands. The judge did not want this on his conscience, as he would be retiring next month. The doctor tried in vain to explain to the judge that he had been following a rather attractive cloud across Scotland. The judge shook his head in disbelief and then delivered a weighty seven-month prison sentence.
Doctor Mackaroyd was nervous today as he had just been sent a commission, for a cloud remedy by a young and upcoming architect from London - a Peckham based architect. He’d never worked for an architect before and he was petrified that he might choose the wrong one.
He read over his frantically scrawled down notes. Objective: to help replenish energy after an exhausting, three-month project. "What was the project?" Mackaroyd enquired. Further down in his notes, he read on; to make a derelict synagogue in Brick Lane more of a multifunctional space, which serves the needs of the diverse communities in and around the surrounding areas.
"This could be a tricky one", he exhaled, looking down at Lucy for some support.
"He obviously needs a cloud that will revitalise his energy levels. The question is: Which would be the most effective one for this young man?"
His fingers and eyes wandered across the assembly of bottles.
"A storm cloud perhaps? With elements of lightning perhaps? No, no that’s too severe! This is the one!"
He seized a bottle. Lucy sat up, to observe the doctor’s next move.
"Well what do you think Lucy?"
He knelt down (with considerable difficulty, due to the restraints of having such a huge belly and not forgetting an extremely tight pair of, bursting at the seams, Harris Tweed trousers on) and presented the bottle to his albino friend. After a good sniff, she yelped. This, the doctor knew was Lucy’s code for ‘you’ve chosen wisely doctor’.
Doctor Mackaroyd was excited now, as he had been given Lucy’s doggy seal of approval and she was always right. Like a giddy teenager, he jumped up, which surprised Lucy (and the author). He didn’t have much time left. He had to work quickly. The architect was expecting this tomorrow morning, in London, in Peckham, in fact, at nine o’clock, to be exact.
Throwing on his life jacket, check, his Barbour wax wellies - check - grandma MacDougall’s woolly red mittens - check, motorbike crash helmet - check and the list went on - check, and grabbing a torchlight check, because it was the dead of night, check. He raced outside, and into the precarious built pigeon shed, he went - check. And, can we please stop saying ‘check’.
He knew immediately which bird to use.
"Jeannette!" He said enthusiastically, and with an exclamation mark.
Jeannette had travelled to London before. All of these birds were exceptional creatures, all specifically bred for one purpose - bottled cloud delivery. Doctor Mackaroyd had carefully implanted microchips into their tiny brains. Using a barcode machine, which was attached to a rather dated IBM computer, he scanned it over the bird’s head. This contained details of the architect’s address in Peckham. Then, he did it again, just on the off chance the bird hadn’t received this vital information. All of the birds wore, specially, a customised harnesses, on their tiny backs, which could easily accommodate Mackaroyd’s bottles. Once clipped into place, he then covered the bottle with a sufficiently sized piece of Barbour wax jacket - check. Now the bird was ready, ready for it’s long journey down to London. Before he could release it, it was Mackaroyd’s custom to whisper into the bird’s beak some old Gaelic proverb.
"Cha dèan cat miotagach sealg", he gently and soothingly whispered into Jeannette’s beak.
Sadly, the doctor’s knowledge of Gaelic was a little rusty, to say the least, frequently he got things mixed up. Jeannette was always too polite to tell him that he had made a mistake. Anyway, she was keen, to start her journey as swiftly as possible. Unbeknown to the silly old doctor, what he had actually said was: "A cat in mittens won’t catch mice".
Now, it was time to release her. Kicking open the door with one of his green Barbour wax boots, and holding her high, above his head he let Jeannette - go.
Jean Paul lived in Hampstead, in a claustrophobic, cube shaped bed-sit. The conditions were grim, as it was dark, damp, cramped, cluttered and the most offensive thing of all - it was a shrine to seventies décor. This was a miserable place for any living creature to inhabit. Within this compact and condensed world it housed various opportunistic fungal communities. These unwanted guests mushroomed abundantly in wild and uncontrollable masses, and
sprouted freely from the grimy, floral wallpaper of Jean Paul’s dubious home.
These conditions had inevitably taken their toll on the health of the tall, miserable, Frenchman. Poor old Jean Paul. He had already suffered immunological damage as result of their poisonous and dangerously toxic fungal spores. Consequently, Jean Paul was a man who was constantly sniffling, or blowing his nose. His respiratory tract had also been badly affected, which caused him to have regular bouts of wheezing, coughing, and even spluttering fits. It is was hardly surprising then, that Jean Paul had decided to lead a solitary life.
His strong Roman features looked as though they had been clumsily chizzled out by an unsympathetic sculptor and the two prominent dark rings circling each of his eyes were evidence of his frequent, long spells of insomnia. He was a sorry soul. And, despite being in the alleged ‘prime of his life‘, Jean Paul had never celebrated life, not even in his youth, instead, he had always, merely, existed.
Surprisingly, there were three things, which kept this isolated characters pulse beating, one was his cello and love of Vivaldi’s concertos, and the other was his insatiable appetite for clouds. In French he would known as ‘un porteur de nuages’, which in English means; Cloud Carrier, and this is exactly what Jean Paul was. He was Doctor Mackaroyd’s Cloud Carrier.
Jean Paul’s south facing wall was unique in that it had not, miciracously, been visited or affected by any fungal communities. This wall had not even a hint of damp on it. As result of this he had dedicated it to his favourite classical composers. When he wasn’t acting as ‘un porteur de nuages’ he was applying, in black ink, scores upon scores, of musical annotation of great classical symphonies to the wall. There were now no spaces left as he had covered it with the music of Bach, Vivaldi, Mozart and Brittain.
In Jean Paul’s free time he would indulge in his second most favourite activity, which would be standing for hours on end, running, his tactile finger tips across the bars and the notes of music. And, with his eyes firmly shut tight, this experience would transport him, far away from the miserable confines of his dreary bed sit, and catapult him, to, of all places - The Royal Albert Hall, where these great symphonies would be played out in front of him. Sharing this experience with Jean Paul would be a packed auditorium of society ladies and gents, suitably clad in their evening attire, whilst Jean Paul sat amongst these dignitaries - naked. Well, almost naked - dressed, in nothing more than his t-stained underpants, and a small tartan blanket which Mackaroyd had sent him (a gift from the highlands), covering his bony, pale shoulders. So engrossed was he by the enigmatic music that he was totally unaware of the precariously placed cigarette, dangerously positioned on the edge of his bottom lip. But, sadly, like almost all things in Jean Paul’s life this was an illusion, one that came to an abrupt end when the Frenchman’s uncontrollable coughing and spluttering attacks started.
Jean Paul couldn’t sleep. It was mid June and the humid air made him feel even more uncomfortable than usual. Sitting on the edge of his bed, as he habitually did, by the open bay window, as he often did, when he couldn‘t sleep. He heard the unmistakable flapping sound, of a bird’s wings. "Jeanette". He murmured with his deep, rustic French accent.
He knew it was time to work. In anticipation of her prompt arrival he filled a small tub of water, pouring it from an Evian bottle and then working quickly to put out her favourite KP peanuts. He liked this bird. He had worked with her several times before. She was a reliable and good bird, and he admired that, in a bird.
Jean Paul ensured that the infra-red beam, which stretched across the entire length of his only window, was switched on. This was an extremely valuable device, as it scanned vital information held in the bird’s micro chipped brains. This data would automatically be
sent directly to Jean Paul’s laptop. When a bird flew in, the infra-red beam would collate the data stored in their micro chipped brains and then transmit details of cloud type, or, in some cases cloud types, depending on the severity of the client, or, clients’ condition, directly to Jean Paul’s laptop. Both Jean Paul and Doctor Mackaroyd referred to this all-important information as - ‘the knowledge’. Reading the emailed instructions from Dr Mackaroyd he discovered that he was to go to Peckham, and deliver, as he often did, a cloud.
Jeanette, was inevitably slightly out of breath when she arrived and Jean Paul made every effort to make her comfortable, especially after such an arduous journey across the British isles. Affectionately, he stroked her delicate little frame, before gently removing the cloud bottle from her tired body. He then carefully placed her into an elegant, yet significantly rusty, antique, Victorian Bird Cage for some much needed respite.
Jean Paul would make his journey to Peckham entirely by foot. He wore his trademark, long black trench coat, a diminutive, poorly knitted woolly hat, from his now dead Parisian grandmother. Accompanying him on this journey was his cello. Everywhere the tall, miserable Frenchman went, so did his cello, and, not forgetting his portable stool. Well he needed somewhere to sit, when playing his cello.
Peckham like the Frenchman had many historic and cultural layers. It had been Roman Peckham, Medieval Peckham, Stuart Peckham, Georgian Peckham, Victorian Peckham (and, no that’s not the one married to the footballer) and now the regenerated Peckham, with aspects of cosmopolitan Peckham. This is a diverse place, a place where they speak over forty-six different African languages. A place where enigmatic, black gospel preachers spread the word of the Lord and the Arc Angel Gabriel, whilst their predominately, white, middle class neighbours congregate at the Farmers Market, sipping on their avocado smoothies, as they purchase their aesthetically dirty organic, carrots.
Through these now, partially, rejuvenated streets of Peckham, the lone Frenchman travelled, until, finally, after three and a bit hours on foot he had reached the architect’s flat; a converted Georgian House, now made into several cosmopolitan apartments. Knocking confidently on the door, Jean Paul stepped back and waited for the architect to answer.
In contrast to Jean Paul, the architect was a vibrant and attractive man, with boundless enthusiasm for his subject, and life. He had recently been catapulted onto a stratospheric architectural playing field. Everyone wanted a piece of him, and the work was coming in fast and furious. Sleep, unfortunately, for the architect had become something of a luxury, and often, two hours was all that he would get. This was wholly inadequate, and he needed a natural fix to help sustain his energy levels.
The friendly architect answered the door.
"Hello … have you come about the cloud?" enquired the slightly apprehensive architect
The Frenchman did not speak, he couldn’t converse with another human, as he considered it dangerous instead he stared. Intimidation was something his eyes were naturally very good at. He passed the hand written instructions to the architect. They read:
1) Open all of the windows in your house.
2) Sit on the most comfortable chair, ideally a sofa.
3) Never shake the bottle before use.
4) When consuming the cloud, or, sometimes clouds, depending on the prescription and client’s needs, don’t sip, swallow in one big fat gulp.
5) Enjoy.
The architect had heard about Dr Mackaroyd’s cloud remedies by eves dropping, in a private cellar shaped members club, exclusively for architects, one evening. Attentively his ears listened into a conversation by a group of elderly architects. In-between chomping on their lavish Cuban cigars, they discussed the health benefits of such a fix.
"It helps give you an extra kick", chomped one, extremely frail architect.
"Adds vitality to the soul. Gives you the energy of a man, half your age", another said with a knowing smile and wink of the eye.
It was this conversation that prompted the young architect to take action. This, he felt, was the only way for him to replenish his tired
and overworked body.
"Yes", he thought.
"Cloud consumption is the only way", this idea really put him at his ease. With that thought in mind, the more self-assured architect took the bottle from Jean Paul.
After clearing his nostrils of toxic fungal spores, by that I mean, after blowing his nose - Jean Paul proceeded to lovingly remove his cello from the safety of its case. Placing his hands carefully around her cool frame, he then sat down, on his portable stool, across the road from the architect’s flat. This was all part of the transformation and healing process. The architect, meanwhile, eagerly opened all of the windows. Attention to detail was always at the heart of everything the architect did, scanning the list of instructions, one more time, to ensure that he hadn’t missed anything out, he then threw himself backwards, onto the most comfortable chair he could find.
Jean Paul’s eyes were firmly shut tight which allowed him to enter another world, the world of music, a melodic ‘scape‘. His escape, from the discordant notes being played out in his own life. He smiled as he indulged in the alluring, climatic music being performed in his mind. He smiled, as he knew he was the only and soul beneficiary of such a place. Guided by the power of the music, his wandering hands sensitively followed the curves of his voluptuous cello, until, at last, Jean Paul found her strings and with effortless ease he carefully placed his bow upon them. This is where he would make his music - Vivaldi!
With panicky fingers and high-speed pulsating heart, the architect unscrewed the lid of the bottle, then, tossing his head back, swallowing the entire contents, in one big fat gulp. He consumed the cloud. Immediately, nothing happened, and for an awful moment he thought he had been had, but he was wrong.
As Jean Paul’s music increased in intensity and volume the effects of the cloud remedy took hold of the young, Peckham based architect. With the progression of the music the architect began to experience the most excruciating pins and needles in his feet, which rapidly travelled upwards through every vein and artery in his body, crashing through the walls of each and every one of his vital organs, causing his face to become distorted, and his body to violently convulse. His entire being flexing, and twisting, and turning, and when this terrible pain hit his heart Jean Paul’s concerto reached the eventual surge, the triumphant crescendo, and with this climatic moment came the most magnificent and peaceful sensation, which filled the architect’s entire being. Such euphoria coupled with such relief, he felt. The young architect was convinced he would die, and that sadly he had taken an allergic reaction to the cloud.
Closing his eyes to be more attuned to this wild and untamed feeling. A smile filled the architect’s face, as he had never felt such warmth before. It was like he had entered a new consciousness, a different sensory and spiritual zone. A place most religions aspire to reach. Soon he found himself galloping over the marshlands of the Camargue on one of the ‘horses of the sea’ and enjoying the sight of glittering blue bays, far away in the distance, but clearly visible to the naked eye. This landscape was filled with everything the architect loved. He’d spent a summer in Provence, many years ago, sketching historic Arlésien monasteries. It was the historically rich architecture of Arles that had so inspired him as a youth. It was this passion that had become slightly frayed at the edges in recent years, he desperately wanted to re-ignite it again, but age, like the life experiences we all encounter had damaged that. And, now, at last, he had found it again. It was a miracle, brought on by the power of digesting a solitary cloud - amazing!
"Amazing", Jean Paul muttered, under his breath, as he made his way home, past the black preachers of Peckham, and the white middle classes fluttering around the Farmers Market. The miracle of the clouds was something Jean Paul continued to be fascinated by. He picked up the pace as he remembered there was a bottled storm cloud waiting for him to consume when he got home.
At forty-nine years old the Peckham based architect had found passion again, and he knew he was ready to return back, back to his life journey, one which had already taken him to many varied and beautiful places, he was lucky in that respect. Looking up at the sky and thanking the world of clouds for their assistance in this matter, fifty thousand pink Camargue Flamingos dispersed and ascended upwards towards the sun, making the once blue sky now pink, just like the architect’s passion. And, with this an inspired architecturally relevant thought entered the architect’s head …
"There just aren’t enough pink buildings in the world. This was it!" He thought. "The pretentious and masculine world of architecture simply does not have enough pink buildings. Yes …" he concluded, as the effects of the cloud began to gently leave him and float back, gracefully, back to somewhere near the stratosphere where it originated from. The architect’s thoughts turned to creating pink, ecologically, friendly concrete, accompanying these thoughts was the idea of creating the first Flamingo pink skyscrapers. All of these thoughts resonated comfortably through the young, Peckham based architect’s mind. Is that possible? Pink, ecologically, friendly concrete? Contemplated the mystified author as she shutdown her laptop. I don’t think such a thing exists. Oh well, it doesn’t matter, because this is a piece of fiction anyway.
Okay guys, before you start, I know I am no writer, but I love telling stories.
A short story by the Darker Side of Bridget Jones, dedicated to that beautiful woman - Maggie Noach, I met you at Westminster, last summer. Thank you for your kind words – I will never forget you.
On a microscopic, windswept and remote Hebridean island with a population of one, lived a Doctor Mackaroyd, a now retired meteorologist. This island was so small in fact that it did not exist on any maps. In fact the ‘British Land Registry’ had quite forgotten about this insignificant blot. However, Doctor Mackaroyd was not entirely isolated here, in the only remaining white washed croft left on the island, he shared this with his loyal albino golden retriever, named Lucy. And, to the rear of the croft was a precariously built, rickety old shed, which housed a multitude of well loved, well travelled and hardworking racing pigeons.
Doctor Mackaroyd’s appearance was a comical sight. He was a short, stout man, with a belly so enormous you could easily rest a plate full of food on top, which, of course, the doctor frequently did. And, vaguely visible to the naked eye were heather coloured stitches, exposed at the seams, of his tight Harris Tweed trousers - evidence of the strain of supporting Doctor Mackaroyd’s generously proportioned figure. Doctor Mackaroyd was particularly proud, although, some might say, a ‘wee bit vain’, about his white locks of hair, as they resembled several hundreds, of thousands, of swirling pallid cloud formations and clouds for the doctor were his only passion, in life.
Today, his bespectacled, cherubic face was deeply thoughtful. He was considering ways of how to best serve the needs of his newest client; a Peckham based architect. Occupying every wall from floor to ceiling were shelves filled with immaculate and lovingly positioned bottles. On each and every one was a meticulously handwritten label, which offered a description of their contents, in Latin. These were no ordinary bottles. What these bottles represented was an accumulation of forty years hard work by the doctor. For forty years Doctor Mackaroyd had battled with all kinds of treacherous weather conditions so that he could catch definitive examples of particular cloud configurations.
He knew not to take risks anymore, 1972 had taught him that. This had been a particularly bad year for the doctor. He had gone out in gale force winds one day and had been swept away, off the island and into the Atlantic Sea. If it wasn’t for the generous help of two seals he would have never have reached dry land, as they both tossed him backwards, and forwards with their noses, until they got him close to land. The bigger of the two, managed to give him one last, big toss, causing him to bounce back, safely onto one of the many white sandy beaches, that surround this tiny world.
Today, the doctor always took precautions. On his door was a checklist of garments he needed to put on before venturing out into the hazardous weather conditions: Life Jacket - check, Barbour wax boots - check, Barbour wax jacket - check, Marks and Sparks cashmere socks - check, grandma MacDougall’s woolly red mittens - check, motorbike crash helmet - check and the list went on - check.
The doctor’s pursuit of clouds, were his life, he was totally absorbed by them. When he was not chasing them across the Highlands in his Land Rover, he was eating them. Yes, that’s right, he was eating them. He simply loved the taste, and, in particular the sensation of those fine drops of dew condensing in his mouth, and then trickling down the back of his throat.
Some Mackaroyd sympathises say that he is a misunderstood man, especially by women. His three failed marriages are testimony to that. Whilst making love to his last wife, Susannah, he yelled out "Cumulus Nimbus!!" At the point of climax. He often compared parts of their anatomy to his favourite cloud formations. At first all of his wives thought this was an endearing sweet quality and frequently laughed about it, but, when they realised the doctor was being serious, they packed their bags and promptly left.
"How dare you!" One roared, as she threw an expensive pair of his binoculars across the room, aiming it at his head. "I am not a cloud. I am a woman, a complex being. Look at me Mackaroyd! Do I honestly resemble a Nimbus to you?" Her hysterical and confrontational outburst made the doctor extremely nervous. Susannah’s physique like her temper, were huge. Mackaroyd knew that she had outgrown him, in so many ways and his tiny croft home could no longer accommodate a woman of this size and magnitude. It simply was not big enough for the two of them. Stumbling fearfully over his words, he said, "No, no, no you don’t my darling. I would have said more like a ….. like a …. a …. Swelling Cumulus". He gulped hard, lips trembling.
It was after he had said goodbye to Susannah that he realised that no human woman, yes, that’s right, no human woman could ever live up to any cloud.
Going back to the dreaded 1972, he was even kept at Her Majesty’s pleasure that year. He tries hard to forget about that particular experience. It had something to do with trespassing on the ‘Balmoral Estate‘, one summers afternoon. I believe the Queen had spotted him halfway up a tree, which, unfortunately for the doctor, directly faced her bedroom. Apparently, she was horrified by the sight, of this rather peculiar short, stout man. He had been cloud watching with binoculars. The very same pair that his last wife had thrown at his head.
Poor Doctor Mackaroyd had an unsympathetic judge, who accused him of being, "The worst type of peeping Tom there is",
The judge made it clear to the dithering Doctor Mackaroyd, that he had to make an example of him. The judge expressed a fear that there could be copycat incidents elsewhere in the Highlands. The judge did not want this on his conscience, as he would be retiring next month. The doctor tried in vain to explain to the judge that he had been following a rather attractive cloud across Scotland. The judge shook his head in disbelief and then delivered a weighty seven-month prison sentence.
Doctor Mackaroyd was nervous today as he had just been sent a commission, for a cloud remedy by a young and upcoming architect from London - a Peckham based architect. He’d never worked for an architect before and he was petrified that he might choose the wrong one.
He read over his frantically scrawled down notes. Objective: to help replenish energy after an exhausting, three-month project. "What was the project?" Mackaroyd enquired. Further down in his notes, he read on; to make a derelict synagogue in Brick Lane more of a multifunctional space, which serves the needs of the diverse communities in and around the surrounding areas.
"This could be a tricky one", he exhaled, looking down at Lucy for some support.
"He obviously needs a cloud that will revitalise his energy levels. The question is: Which would be the most effective one for this young man?"
His fingers and eyes wandered across the assembly of bottles.
"A storm cloud perhaps? With elements of lightning perhaps? No, no that’s too severe! This is the one!"
He seized a bottle. Lucy sat up, to observe the doctor’s next move.
"Well what do you think Lucy?"
He knelt down (with considerable difficulty, due to the restraints of having such a huge belly and not forgetting an extremely tight pair of, bursting at the seams, Harris Tweed trousers on) and presented the bottle to his albino friend. After a good sniff, she yelped. This, the doctor knew was Lucy’s code for ‘you’ve chosen wisely doctor’.
Doctor Mackaroyd was excited now, as he had been given Lucy’s doggy seal of approval and she was always right. Like a giddy teenager, he jumped up, which surprised Lucy (and the author). He didn’t have much time left. He had to work quickly. The architect was expecting this tomorrow morning, in London, in Peckham, in fact, at nine o’clock, to be exact.
Throwing on his life jacket, check, his Barbour wax wellies - check - grandma MacDougall’s woolly red mittens - check, motorbike crash helmet - check and the list went on - check, and grabbing a torchlight check, because it was the dead of night, check. He raced outside, and into the precarious built pigeon shed, he went - check. And, can we please stop saying ‘check’.
He knew immediately which bird to use.
"Jeannette!" He said enthusiastically, and with an exclamation mark.
Jeannette had travelled to London before. All of these birds were exceptional creatures, all specifically bred for one purpose - bottled cloud delivery. Doctor Mackaroyd had carefully implanted microchips into their tiny brains. Using a barcode machine, which was attached to a rather dated IBM computer, he scanned it over the bird’s head. This contained details of the architect’s address in Peckham. Then, he did it again, just on the off chance the bird hadn’t received this vital information. All of the birds wore, specially, a customised harnesses, on their tiny backs, which could easily accommodate Mackaroyd’s bottles. Once clipped into place, he then covered the bottle with a sufficiently sized piece of Barbour wax jacket - check. Now the bird was ready, ready for it’s long journey down to London. Before he could release it, it was Mackaroyd’s custom to whisper into the bird’s beak some old Gaelic proverb.
"Cha dèan cat miotagach sealg", he gently and soothingly whispered into Jeannette’s beak.
Sadly, the doctor’s knowledge of Gaelic was a little rusty, to say the least, frequently he got things mixed up. Jeannette was always too polite to tell him that he had made a mistake. Anyway, she was keen, to start her journey as swiftly as possible. Unbeknown to the silly old doctor, what he had actually said was: "A cat in mittens won’t catch mice".
Now, it was time to release her. Kicking open the door with one of his green Barbour wax boots, and holding her high, above his head he let Jeannette - go.
Jean Paul lived in Hampstead, in a claustrophobic, cube shaped bed-sit. The conditions were grim, as it was dark, damp, cramped, cluttered and the most offensive thing of all - it was a shrine to seventies décor. This was a miserable place for any living creature to inhabit. Within this compact and condensed world it housed various opportunistic fungal communities. These unwanted guests mushroomed abundantly in wild and uncontrollable masses, and
sprouted freely from the grimy, floral wallpaper of Jean Paul’s dubious home.
These conditions had inevitably taken their toll on the health of the tall, miserable, Frenchman. Poor old Jean Paul. He had already suffered immunological damage as result of their poisonous and dangerously toxic fungal spores. Consequently, Jean Paul was a man who was constantly sniffling, or blowing his nose. His respiratory tract had also been badly affected, which caused him to have regular bouts of wheezing, coughing, and even spluttering fits. It is was hardly surprising then, that Jean Paul had decided to lead a solitary life.
His strong Roman features looked as though they had been clumsily chizzled out by an unsympathetic sculptor and the two prominent dark rings circling each of his eyes were evidence of his frequent, long spells of insomnia. He was a sorry soul. And, despite being in the alleged ‘prime of his life‘, Jean Paul had never celebrated life, not even in his youth, instead, he had always, merely, existed.
Surprisingly, there were three things, which kept this isolated characters pulse beating, one was his cello and love of Vivaldi’s concertos, and the other was his insatiable appetite for clouds. In French he would known as ‘un porteur de nuages’, which in English means; Cloud Carrier, and this is exactly what Jean Paul was. He was Doctor Mackaroyd’s Cloud Carrier.
Jean Paul’s south facing wall was unique in that it had not, miciracously, been visited or affected by any fungal communities. This wall had not even a hint of damp on it. As result of this he had dedicated it to his favourite classical composers. When he wasn’t acting as ‘un porteur de nuages’ he was applying, in black ink, scores upon scores, of musical annotation of great classical symphonies to the wall. There were now no spaces left as he had covered it with the music of Bach, Vivaldi, Mozart and Brittain.
In Jean Paul’s free time he would indulge in his second most favourite activity, which would be standing for hours on end, running, his tactile finger tips across the bars and the notes of music. And, with his eyes firmly shut tight, this experience would transport him, far away from the miserable confines of his dreary bed sit, and catapult him, to, of all places - The Royal Albert Hall, where these great symphonies would be played out in front of him. Sharing this experience with Jean Paul would be a packed auditorium of society ladies and gents, suitably clad in their evening attire, whilst Jean Paul sat amongst these dignitaries - naked. Well, almost naked - dressed, in nothing more than his t-stained underpants, and a small tartan blanket which Mackaroyd had sent him (a gift from the highlands), covering his bony, pale shoulders. So engrossed was he by the enigmatic music that he was totally unaware of the precariously placed cigarette, dangerously positioned on the edge of his bottom lip. But, sadly, like almost all things in Jean Paul’s life this was an illusion, one that came to an abrupt end when the Frenchman’s uncontrollable coughing and spluttering attacks started.
Jean Paul couldn’t sleep. It was mid June and the humid air made him feel even more uncomfortable than usual. Sitting on the edge of his bed, as he habitually did, by the open bay window, as he often did, when he couldn‘t sleep. He heard the unmistakable flapping sound, of a bird’s wings. "Jeanette". He murmured with his deep, rustic French accent.
He knew it was time to work. In anticipation of her prompt arrival he filled a small tub of water, pouring it from an Evian bottle and then working quickly to put out her favourite KP peanuts. He liked this bird. He had worked with her several times before. She was a reliable and good bird, and he admired that, in a bird.
Jean Paul ensured that the infra-red beam, which stretched across the entire length of his only window, was switched on. This was an extremely valuable device, as it scanned vital information held in the bird’s micro chipped brains. This data would automatically be
sent directly to Jean Paul’s laptop. When a bird flew in, the infra-red beam would collate the data stored in their micro chipped brains and then transmit details of cloud type, or, in some cases cloud types, depending on the severity of the client, or, clients’ condition, directly to Jean Paul’s laptop. Both Jean Paul and Doctor Mackaroyd referred to this all-important information as - ‘the knowledge’. Reading the emailed instructions from Dr Mackaroyd he discovered that he was to go to Peckham, and deliver, as he often did, a cloud.
Jeanette, was inevitably slightly out of breath when she arrived and Jean Paul made every effort to make her comfortable, especially after such an arduous journey across the British isles. Affectionately, he stroked her delicate little frame, before gently removing the cloud bottle from her tired body. He then carefully placed her into an elegant, yet significantly rusty, antique, Victorian Bird Cage for some much needed respite.
Jean Paul would make his journey to Peckham entirely by foot. He wore his trademark, long black trench coat, a diminutive, poorly knitted woolly hat, from his now dead Parisian grandmother. Accompanying him on this journey was his cello. Everywhere the tall, miserable Frenchman went, so did his cello, and, not forgetting his portable stool. Well he needed somewhere to sit, when playing his cello.
Peckham like the Frenchman had many historic and cultural layers. It had been Roman Peckham, Medieval Peckham, Stuart Peckham, Georgian Peckham, Victorian Peckham (and, no that’s not the one married to the footballer) and now the regenerated Peckham, with aspects of cosmopolitan Peckham. This is a diverse place, a place where they speak over forty-six different African languages. A place where enigmatic, black gospel preachers spread the word of the Lord and the Arc Angel Gabriel, whilst their predominately, white, middle class neighbours congregate at the Farmers Market, sipping on their avocado smoothies, as they purchase their aesthetically dirty organic, carrots.
Through these now, partially, rejuvenated streets of Peckham, the lone Frenchman travelled, until, finally, after three and a bit hours on foot he had reached the architect’s flat; a converted Georgian House, now made into several cosmopolitan apartments. Knocking confidently on the door, Jean Paul stepped back and waited for the architect to answer.
In contrast to Jean Paul, the architect was a vibrant and attractive man, with boundless enthusiasm for his subject, and life. He had recently been catapulted onto a stratospheric architectural playing field. Everyone wanted a piece of him, and the work was coming in fast and furious. Sleep, unfortunately, for the architect had become something of a luxury, and often, two hours was all that he would get. This was wholly inadequate, and he needed a natural fix to help sustain his energy levels.
The friendly architect answered the door.
"Hello … have you come about the cloud?" enquired the slightly apprehensive architect
The Frenchman did not speak, he couldn’t converse with another human, as he considered it dangerous instead he stared. Intimidation was something his eyes were naturally very good at. He passed the hand written instructions to the architect. They read:
1) Open all of the windows in your house.
2) Sit on the most comfortable chair, ideally a sofa.
3) Never shake the bottle before use.
4) When consuming the cloud, or, sometimes clouds, depending on the prescription and client’s needs, don’t sip, swallow in one big fat gulp.
5) Enjoy.
The architect had heard about Dr Mackaroyd’s cloud remedies by eves dropping, in a private cellar shaped members club, exclusively for architects, one evening. Attentively his ears listened into a conversation by a group of elderly architects. In-between chomping on their lavish Cuban cigars, they discussed the health benefits of such a fix.
"It helps give you an extra kick", chomped one, extremely frail architect.
"Adds vitality to the soul. Gives you the energy of a man, half your age", another said with a knowing smile and wink of the eye.
It was this conversation that prompted the young architect to take action. This, he felt, was the only way for him to replenish his tired
and overworked body.
"Yes", he thought.
"Cloud consumption is the only way", this idea really put him at his ease. With that thought in mind, the more self-assured architect took the bottle from Jean Paul.
After clearing his nostrils of toxic fungal spores, by that I mean, after blowing his nose - Jean Paul proceeded to lovingly remove his cello from the safety of its case. Placing his hands carefully around her cool frame, he then sat down, on his portable stool, across the road from the architect’s flat. This was all part of the transformation and healing process. The architect, meanwhile, eagerly opened all of the windows. Attention to detail was always at the heart of everything the architect did, scanning the list of instructions, one more time, to ensure that he hadn’t missed anything out, he then threw himself backwards, onto the most comfortable chair he could find.
Jean Paul’s eyes were firmly shut tight which allowed him to enter another world, the world of music, a melodic ‘scape‘. His escape, from the discordant notes being played out in his own life. He smiled as he indulged in the alluring, climatic music being performed in his mind. He smiled, as he knew he was the only and soul beneficiary of such a place. Guided by the power of the music, his wandering hands sensitively followed the curves of his voluptuous cello, until, at last, Jean Paul found her strings and with effortless ease he carefully placed his bow upon them. This is where he would make his music - Vivaldi!
With panicky fingers and high-speed pulsating heart, the architect unscrewed the lid of the bottle, then, tossing his head back, swallowing the entire contents, in one big fat gulp. He consumed the cloud. Immediately, nothing happened, and for an awful moment he thought he had been had, but he was wrong.
As Jean Paul’s music increased in intensity and volume the effects of the cloud remedy took hold of the young, Peckham based architect. With the progression of the music the architect began to experience the most excruciating pins and needles in his feet, which rapidly travelled upwards through every vein and artery in his body, crashing through the walls of each and every one of his vital organs, causing his face to become distorted, and his body to violently convulse. His entire being flexing, and twisting, and turning, and when this terrible pain hit his heart Jean Paul’s concerto reached the eventual surge, the triumphant crescendo, and with this climatic moment came the most magnificent and peaceful sensation, which filled the architect’s entire being. Such euphoria coupled with such relief, he felt. The young architect was convinced he would die, and that sadly he had taken an allergic reaction to the cloud.
Closing his eyes to be more attuned to this wild and untamed feeling. A smile filled the architect’s face, as he had never felt such warmth before. It was like he had entered a new consciousness, a different sensory and spiritual zone. A place most religions aspire to reach. Soon he found himself galloping over the marshlands of the Camargue on one of the ‘horses of the sea’ and enjoying the sight of glittering blue bays, far away in the distance, but clearly visible to the naked eye. This landscape was filled with everything the architect loved. He’d spent a summer in Provence, many years ago, sketching historic Arlésien monasteries. It was the historically rich architecture of Arles that had so inspired him as a youth. It was this passion that had become slightly frayed at the edges in recent years, he desperately wanted to re-ignite it again, but age, like the life experiences we all encounter had damaged that. And, now, at last, he had found it again. It was a miracle, brought on by the power of digesting a solitary cloud - amazing!
"Amazing", Jean Paul muttered, under his breath, as he made his way home, past the black preachers of Peckham, and the white middle classes fluttering around the Farmers Market. The miracle of the clouds was something Jean Paul continued to be fascinated by. He picked up the pace as he remembered there was a bottled storm cloud waiting for him to consume when he got home.
At forty-nine years old the Peckham based architect had found passion again, and he knew he was ready to return back, back to his life journey, one which had already taken him to many varied and beautiful places, he was lucky in that respect. Looking up at the sky and thanking the world of clouds for their assistance in this matter, fifty thousand pink Camargue Flamingos dispersed and ascended upwards towards the sun, making the once blue sky now pink, just like the architect’s passion. And, with this an inspired architecturally relevant thought entered the architect’s head …
"There just aren’t enough pink buildings in the world. This was it!" He thought. "The pretentious and masculine world of architecture simply does not have enough pink buildings. Yes …" he concluded, as the effects of the cloud began to gently leave him and float back, gracefully, back to somewhere near the stratosphere where it originated from. The architect’s thoughts turned to creating pink, ecologically, friendly concrete, accompanying these thoughts was the idea of creating the first Flamingo pink skyscrapers. All of these thoughts resonated comfortably through the young, Peckham based architect’s mind. Is that possible? Pink, ecologically, friendly concrete? Contemplated the mystified author as she shutdown her laptop. I don’t think such a thing exists. Oh well, it doesn’t matter, because this is a piece of fiction anyway.
Okay guys, before you start, I know I am no writer, but I love telling stories.
Coming Soon - The Truth About Me, My Liver and Luke Howard.
In 2002 - I did meet a man. He was the late, great Luke Howard, a eighteenth/nineteenth century amateur meteorologist. At the time I was at my lowest - I'd hit the bottle really badly - 'Domestos'. I just couldn't stop cleaning my flat, in Salford. Well, the truth was, it was absolutely filthy. I had let things go (I wasn't well), even my facial hair was out of control. I had become so obsessed with cleaning that I got through six pairs of marigolds, during that lonely half-term break.
At first I thought this must be a hallucination because I had obviously been exposed to high levels of fumes from the bleach. But, I was wrong, it was the man himself - risen from the dead. A distinguished man of the clouds. He took me by the hand and then led away.... To the Trafford Centre, we went shopping together. That glorious afternoon we indulged in amusing anecdotes about our mutual fascination with the clouds.
It was so romantic, he spent much of the day gently whispering in my ear the following ….
“Cirrus, Cirrocumulus, Cirrostratus, Altostratus, Nimbostratus, Stratus, Stratocumulus, Cumulonimbus…..”
Then back to the bed-sit we went where we spent the rest of the afternoon making clouds together. I still have the evidence, bottled away nicely, at the end of my bed.
Okay, Fuller - You've Won The First Round - Ibn Battuta - The Forgotten Traveller
Okay. Mr T.P. Fuller (full of his smug superior intellectual self, and if he’s not careful his face will end up looking like my liver. And, that’s not a pretty sight. My Liver - as above - hot of the press this morning)
I admit defeat this time. You're obviously an incredibly smart cookie. I've never heard of this great historical Muslim travelling bloke before. But, all I was trying to say was that there is a wave of Muslim extremism which is a direct threat to our freedom and liberty.
Who knows I might even write a scheme of work about him, for my kids.
Here' s a tribute to your mate (taken from the website address below):
Ibn Battuta - The Forgotten Traveller
"Ibn Battuta's sea voyages and references to shipping reveal that the Muslims completely dominated the maritime activity of the Red Sea, the Arabian Sea, the Indian Ocean, and the Chinese waters. Also it is seen that though the Christian traders were subject to certain restrictions, most of the economic negotiations were transacted on the basis of equality and mutual respect.
Ibn Battuta, one of the most remarkable travellers of all time, visited China sixty years after Marco Polo and in fact travelled 75,000 miles, much more than Marco Polo. Yet Battuta is never mentioned in geography books used in Muslim countries, let alone those in the West. Ibn Battuta's contribution to geography is unquestionably as great as that of any geographer yet the accounts of his travels are not easily accessible except to the specialist. The omission of reference to Ibn Battuta's contribution in geography books is not an isolated example. All great Musiims whether historians, doctors, astronomers, scientists or chemists suffer the same fate. One can understand why these great Muslims are ignored by the West. But the indifference of the Muslim governments is incomprehensible. In order to combat the inferiority complex that plagues the Muslim Ummah, we must rediscover the contributions of Muslims in fields such as science, medicine, engineering, architecture and astronomy. This will encourage contemporary young Muslims to strive in these fields and not think that major success is beyond their reach".
http://www.ummah.net/history/scholars/ibn_battuta/
What's your take on the Iran issue?
Tuesday 20 February 2007
Will Britain Ever Become an Islamic State?
With the emergence of this strong Islamic awareness is Britain on the verge of beocming an Islamic State? What we're experiencing now are increasing numbers of Islamo-Fascists, chiefly those funded by Al-Qaeda, preaching hatred and jihad in mosques all over the world. We must consider how to stop them from further radicalizing young British Muslim men. These extremists are declaring that there can be no negotiation with Islam. What they are striving for is the absolute inevitable – a state controlled by Shari'ah law.
The truth about the veil.
“While women have always worshipped at the holy mosques at Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem, around 60% of British Mosques totally exclude women. And only a handful allow women a real say in decision-making. Never before has a Muslim group openly challenged this situation and demanded that the example of the Prophet (PBUH), giving women full access to the mosques, must be followed in 21st Century Britain”.
Channel 4 dispatches “Women Only Jihad". Saturday, 28th October 2006
http://www.channel4.com/player/v2/player.jsp?showId=2590
There's something wrong with this bloody blog. I had loads of photos and can't upload them, the server has crashed. Hitchen has cursed my blogspot - Bastard! I'll win the next round anyway - Just you wait, you truck load of Bourgeoisie Bullies! I am already talking to the little people about you, yes, it's my friends the squirrels again. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha Hackney ha ha ha!!!
God Bless.
A Formal Declaration Of Cyber War has been issued today, at 2000 hours, from Hackney.
A Formal Declaration Of Cyber War has been issued today, at 2000 hours, from Hackney, Against ‘The Hitchen’ and all Foreign Bloggers who hold Right Wing Fascist Views.
Right Wing Fascism is the firebrand to war. It is considered an act of aggression to post anything which is right wing and Fascist in its nature on this blog, and there will be severe consequences.
Remember I have friends in high places (squirrels mostly).
http://uk.video.yahoo.com/video/play?p=squirrels&ei=UTF-8&b=3&oid=8bbeb9c0a6ac9f00&rurl=www.rodenator.com&vdone=http%3A%2F%2Fuk.video.yahoo.com%2Fvideo%2Fsearch%3Fp%3Dsquirrels%26ei%3DUTF-8
Valerie Solanas, author of the Militant Feminist Manifesto - S.C.U.M.
Born: 9th April 1936 - Died: 26th April 1988. May you rest in peace sweet sister.
"The male is completely egocentric, trapped inside himself, incapable of empathizing or identifying with others, or love, friendship, affection of tenderness. He is a completely isolated unit, incapable of rapport with anyone. His responses are entirely visceral, not cerebral; his intelligence is a mere tool in the services of his drives and needs; he is incapable of mental passion, mental interaction; he can't relate to anything other than his own physical sensations. He is a half-dead, unresponsive lump, incapable of giving or receiving pleasure or happiness; consequently, he is at best an utter bore, an inoffensive blob, since only those capable of absorption in others can be charming. He is trapped in a twilight zone halfway between humans and apes, and is far worse off than the apes because, unlike the apes, he is capable of a large array of negative feelings -- hate, jealousy, contempt, disgust, guilt, shame, doubt -- and moreover, he is aware of what he is and what he isn't".
Valerie Solanas, 1967 S.C.U.M.
Monday 19 February 2007
Stop Being so Bloody Nasty!
I think that I am just not getting the irony of some of these blogspots, or perhaps there’s no irony at all, perhaps these people really are Fascist bigots. Well I am sorry I do not tolerate things like this. I can’t being doing with it. It just does my tiny Northern head in. So, all you right wing Fascist bloggers I am putting you all in a detention. Have some compassion. Stop being so bloody nasty!
In fact it's this kind of arrogant public school boy nonsense that gives the Tory Party a bad name, and alienates people. So, STOP IT!
In fact it's this kind of arrogant public school boy nonsense that gives the Tory Party a bad name, and alienates people. So, STOP IT!
Sunday 18 February 2007
Violence In schools
From the Moaning Drama Teacher
On Friday night fifty teachers hit the Globe pub in Hackney. To our astonishment about twenty of our kids were loitering outside, standing by the windows staring at us. They just would not go home. Maybe home isn’t where the heart is for these kids. Maybe school is about the only decent and normal thing in their lives.
Anyway, after two glasses of white wine I found the school governor and questioned him about the role of the senior management team. There are a lot of really great things about my school: It is incredibly well organised and the resources and facilities are excellent. However, what I have great difficulty with is the lack of support for the teachers, from the senior management team. We are subjected to a great deal of abuse and at times extremely challenging and difficult behaviour.
A few weeks ago now the police informed the school that there had been a number of significant complaints from the local community, about the way our kids are behaving, on their way home, and if it continues the kids will be arrested. So, in the community they can get arrested but in school their unacceptable behaviour is tolerated.
There was a vicious fight on Thursday with a group of about six year 10 and year 11 boys, and these kids are about six feet tall as they are wide. One female teacher was punched in the chest another was pushed to the ground. Surely, this is a police matter. At the end of the day we are educators, not mental health professionals or police officers. What the teachers have to deal with is above and beyond their role as teachers. There needs to be a stronger police presence in the school and kids need to be informed that violence is unacceptable.
Education is such a powerful mechanism which has the ability to dramatically change an individual’s quality of life, yet these kids just don’t get it. They have absolutely no interest in academic attainment. Very few of them are brave enough to break the stereotype of a Hackney youth.
What really grates me is that it is very difficult to permanently exclude a child, even if they have been violent, and when they do eventually get excluded they are sent to the next school within the local authority. We need to take a harder line on violence in schools and parents need to be informed that if your son/daughter is violent they will no longer be educated in a mainstream school.
Do ya get me blud?
On Friday night fifty teachers hit the Globe pub in Hackney. To our astonishment about twenty of our kids were loitering outside, standing by the windows staring at us. They just would not go home. Maybe home isn’t where the heart is for these kids. Maybe school is about the only decent and normal thing in their lives.
Anyway, after two glasses of white wine I found the school governor and questioned him about the role of the senior management team. There are a lot of really great things about my school: It is incredibly well organised and the resources and facilities are excellent. However, what I have great difficulty with is the lack of support for the teachers, from the senior management team. We are subjected to a great deal of abuse and at times extremely challenging and difficult behaviour.
A few weeks ago now the police informed the school that there had been a number of significant complaints from the local community, about the way our kids are behaving, on their way home, and if it continues the kids will be arrested. So, in the community they can get arrested but in school their unacceptable behaviour is tolerated.
There was a vicious fight on Thursday with a group of about six year 10 and year 11 boys, and these kids are about six feet tall as they are wide. One female teacher was punched in the chest another was pushed to the ground. Surely, this is a police matter. At the end of the day we are educators, not mental health professionals or police officers. What the teachers have to deal with is above and beyond their role as teachers. There needs to be a stronger police presence in the school and kids need to be informed that violence is unacceptable.
Education is such a powerful mechanism which has the ability to dramatically change an individual’s quality of life, yet these kids just don’t get it. They have absolutely no interest in academic attainment. Very few of them are brave enough to break the stereotype of a Hackney youth.
What really grates me is that it is very difficult to permanently exclude a child, even if they have been violent, and when they do eventually get excluded they are sent to the next school within the local authority. We need to take a harder line on violence in schools and parents need to be informed that if your son/daughter is violent they will no longer be educated in a mainstream school.
Do ya get me blud?
The Daily Mail and Sausages
Shoot out in Hackney.
It’s been an eventful weekend so far in Hackney. Five minutes away from where I live, on Homerton High Street there was a shoot out between gangs, which resulted in a twenty eight old man being shot dead. This occurred in the wee small hours of Saturday morning. A significant amount of Homerton High Street remained cordoned off for much of yesterday.
One of my students is what we refer to in the office as a proper ‘G’ – gangster. He wears a knife vest. One day two hooded teenagers turned up and waited for him, outside the main entrance of the school. They were both brandishing knives and hammers. This is fact, not fiction.
Jools Pipe cheated Hackney Kids.
Last year I worked at the only boys’ school in Hackney which Jools Pipe had the audacity to close down. The school itself is a prime piece of real estate and could make the council a cool 50 million. The way the Learning Trust (that’s the private company that run the local education authority) treated the parents is disgusting. Firstly, there was never any proper consultation with parents. The Learning Trust told the feeder primary schools that Homerton was no longer viable option, as it was due to close, when in fact the decision to close the school had not even been agreed. During lessons boys would be asked to leave their desks and made to have an interview with an advisor from the Learning Trust, who would then tell them that the school will be closing, and that they would have to find an alternative school. These interviews had a major impact on the boys' behaviour and attainment.
On top of this there were four sets of senior management teams, in four years. Two of the sets of senior management teams were consultants from the Learning Trust, employed specifically to close the school down. They did many other manipulative things and it would just take too long to list them all, basically they were bullies. I did manage to confront Jools Pipe about it at a Town Hall function last summer. I was invited by a Conservative councillor as a way of saying thank you for all of the canvassing I had done. My conversation with Jools Pipe began politely and then he just got really stroppy, so I just called him a liar, and then in the end he told me to ‘F-Off!’ Nice work Jools. I reminded him that I am a member of the public and that it was totally inappropriate for him to speak to me like this.
Okay, the exam results were poor, but there was so much instability perpetuated by the Learning Trust that it was inevitable that this would affect student and staff morale. I am very upset that they closed this school down and what really makes me mad is the underhand tactics they used to achieve their goal. It could have been a really, really successful school.
Ironically, there is a shortage of school places in Hackney, and all of the boys from my previous school were sent out of the borough, to schools in Tower Hamlets. There was article, last summer about it in the Hackney Gazette, stating that the Homerton boys were being threatened with knives and knuckle dusters in the playground. Basically, kids in the East End are territorial and if you’re from a different borough you’re in deep trouble. The teachers told the Learning Trust that this would happen, but they did not care. Surely, the local education authority has a statutory duty to educate these kids. If I was a millionaires I would take Jools Pipe to court, but I am not. I did however take this issue to Westminster where I met a very helpful Conservative MP, who I am not going to name. He was supportive and sympathetic but that was about it. Basically, by that stage it was too late.
‘Lock Up the Homeless’ by John Bird
I had breakfast this morning in Café Bohemia in Hackney. The sausages were a bit off, but I’ve got a strong stomach. Obviously, I only had one mouthful. I should really have spat it out, but I didn’t. I didn’t make it to Stoke Newington, as I usually do on a Sunday. Anyway, I bought the Daily Mail (which is a TABLOID – BROADSHEETS ARE TOO BIG AND I HAVE SMALL HANDS). I found a very interesting article written by John Bird the founder of ‘The Big Issue’, and I have to say I agree entirely with what he is saying. It’s no good patching these people up and giving them houses. What they need is treatment for their addictions because most of the British Homeless are in fact addicts (sorry stating the obvious). He also states that addiction is not covered under the remit of the 1983 Mental Health Act. So, basically it’s not recognised as being a mental health issue which of course it is. It really is worth reading as he states that millions of pounds are wasted every year on just patching these people up. They need treatment first and foremost.
A close friend of mine is a chronic alcoholic; he is a nurse who has recently been suspended from nursing (thank God). His drinking has become so extreme that I just didn’t know what to do with him. So, the first thing I did was contact his parents and I was shocked to find out that their son has been drinking heavily since he was a teenager. At one point he was homeless and contracted pneumonia. When they found him he was so ill in fact that he had to be given a heart transplant. His parents’ attitude towards me was one of apathy. They have basically given up on him and could offer me no support or advice. His health and his behaviour have recently been spiralling out of control. I won’t go into specifics. I then decided to seek advice from the Mental Health Team at Homerton Hospital. They could offer him no treatment at all, unless he admits that he has a problem, and states that he wants help. It astonishes me but my friend is in complete denial about his problem. And, when I try and talk to him about it, he becomes abusive. The reality is he’s just going to drink himself to death. The only other advice they gave me was to call the police and they could section him. I am sorry but I just don’t feel comfortable phoning the police. It’s an ethical dilemma; by calling the police does this criminalise him? I don’t know. So, what can I do? I feed him and I check up on him daily, and that’s the extent of it.
Anyway, it’s half-term now, but I am still going to go in as I have a mountain of paperwork to climb.
God Bless.
It’s been an eventful weekend so far in Hackney. Five minutes away from where I live, on Homerton High Street there was a shoot out between gangs, which resulted in a twenty eight old man being shot dead. This occurred in the wee small hours of Saturday morning. A significant amount of Homerton High Street remained cordoned off for much of yesterday.
One of my students is what we refer to in the office as a proper ‘G’ – gangster. He wears a knife vest. One day two hooded teenagers turned up and waited for him, outside the main entrance of the school. They were both brandishing knives and hammers. This is fact, not fiction.
Jools Pipe cheated Hackney Kids.
Last year I worked at the only boys’ school in Hackney which Jools Pipe had the audacity to close down. The school itself is a prime piece of real estate and could make the council a cool 50 million. The way the Learning Trust (that’s the private company that run the local education authority) treated the parents is disgusting. Firstly, there was never any proper consultation with parents. The Learning Trust told the feeder primary schools that Homerton was no longer viable option, as it was due to close, when in fact the decision to close the school had not even been agreed. During lessons boys would be asked to leave their desks and made to have an interview with an advisor from the Learning Trust, who would then tell them that the school will be closing, and that they would have to find an alternative school. These interviews had a major impact on the boys' behaviour and attainment.
On top of this there were four sets of senior management teams, in four years. Two of the sets of senior management teams were consultants from the Learning Trust, employed specifically to close the school down. They did many other manipulative things and it would just take too long to list them all, basically they were bullies. I did manage to confront Jools Pipe about it at a Town Hall function last summer. I was invited by a Conservative councillor as a way of saying thank you for all of the canvassing I had done. My conversation with Jools Pipe began politely and then he just got really stroppy, so I just called him a liar, and then in the end he told me to ‘F-Off!’ Nice work Jools. I reminded him that I am a member of the public and that it was totally inappropriate for him to speak to me like this.
Okay, the exam results were poor, but there was so much instability perpetuated by the Learning Trust that it was inevitable that this would affect student and staff morale. I am very upset that they closed this school down and what really makes me mad is the underhand tactics they used to achieve their goal. It could have been a really, really successful school.
Ironically, there is a shortage of school places in Hackney, and all of the boys from my previous school were sent out of the borough, to schools in Tower Hamlets. There was article, last summer about it in the Hackney Gazette, stating that the Homerton boys were being threatened with knives and knuckle dusters in the playground. Basically, kids in the East End are territorial and if you’re from a different borough you’re in deep trouble. The teachers told the Learning Trust that this would happen, but they did not care. Surely, the local education authority has a statutory duty to educate these kids. If I was a millionaires I would take Jools Pipe to court, but I am not. I did however take this issue to Westminster where I met a very helpful Conservative MP, who I am not going to name. He was supportive and sympathetic but that was about it. Basically, by that stage it was too late.
‘Lock Up the Homeless’ by John Bird
I had breakfast this morning in Café Bohemia in Hackney. The sausages were a bit off, but I’ve got a strong stomach. Obviously, I only had one mouthful. I should really have spat it out, but I didn’t. I didn’t make it to Stoke Newington, as I usually do on a Sunday. Anyway, I bought the Daily Mail (which is a TABLOID – BROADSHEETS ARE TOO BIG AND I HAVE SMALL HANDS). I found a very interesting article written by John Bird the founder of ‘The Big Issue’, and I have to say I agree entirely with what he is saying. It’s no good patching these people up and giving them houses. What they need is treatment for their addictions because most of the British Homeless are in fact addicts (sorry stating the obvious). He also states that addiction is not covered under the remit of the 1983 Mental Health Act. So, basically it’s not recognised as being a mental health issue which of course it is. It really is worth reading as he states that millions of pounds are wasted every year on just patching these people up. They need treatment first and foremost.
A close friend of mine is a chronic alcoholic; he is a nurse who has recently been suspended from nursing (thank God). His drinking has become so extreme that I just didn’t know what to do with him. So, the first thing I did was contact his parents and I was shocked to find out that their son has been drinking heavily since he was a teenager. At one point he was homeless and contracted pneumonia. When they found him he was so ill in fact that he had to be given a heart transplant. His parents’ attitude towards me was one of apathy. They have basically given up on him and could offer me no support or advice. His health and his behaviour have recently been spiralling out of control. I won’t go into specifics. I then decided to seek advice from the Mental Health Team at Homerton Hospital. They could offer him no treatment at all, unless he admits that he has a problem, and states that he wants help. It astonishes me but my friend is in complete denial about his problem. And, when I try and talk to him about it, he becomes abusive. The reality is he’s just going to drink himself to death. The only other advice they gave me was to call the police and they could section him. I am sorry but I just don’t feel comfortable phoning the police. It’s an ethical dilemma; by calling the police does this criminalise him? I don’t know. So, what can I do? I feed him and I check up on him daily, and that’s the extent of it.
Anyway, it’s half-term now, but I am still going to go in as I have a mountain of paperwork to climb.
God Bless.
Sunday 11 February 2007
The Metropolitan Elite
I am a Conservative Activist, living in Hackney. I am not your stereo typical Conservative and I am definitely not part of metropolitan elite. I teach dysfunctional kids drama, but I love it. I have a northern accent and I am not, as I recently discovered as well informed about politics as perhaps I should be. On Friday night I appeared on Vox Politix which is a programme aired from 18 Doughty Street, the show was hosted by Andre Walker. Sat either side of me in a studio that resembled the Richard and Judy show, were two very eloquently spoken, well informed, articulate, sophisticated and pushy women. By the end of the evening I was absolutely exhausted I just could not compete with them intellectually and I felt as though I was drowning in a sea of sophisticated language and terminology. I realise that from now on I need to read a lot more Broadsheets. The tabloids are for the chop! It's the Daily Telegraph from now on! The reality is I'll never be a classy Tory bird I mean I shop at Prime Mark for Gods sake.
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