How to Faff

This man is a faffer.

Faffing is the practise of hoovering time with pointless mini actions just as people are about to leave the house/proceed with a planned activity/board a train/chew gum.

Task oriented progress is the faffer’s enemy. He or she must obstruct it.

Whilst no one who can stick rigidly to guidelines could ever be described as a fully-fledged faffer, the following should provide a useful starting point:


1. Adopt the body language of a faffer.

Subtly speed up your eye movements and generally dance your own internal jitterbug.

Think meerkat lacking biological imperative.

If society sees you as a faffer, it will help you become a faffer

2. Any time you are about to leave the house, do not allow the lack of beard and Alpine romper suit prevent you from performing an intricate Bavarian thigh slapping routine as you search for your money/keys/toothpicks.

The longest journey starts with the first slap.

3. Things should never be at hand.

Embrace multi-compartmented clothing and accessories. These will optimise your scope for faffing as, instead of one easy to reach container for your daily necessities, you will be able to disperse them in as wide an area as possible.

Ladies – purchase capacious, concertina-style handbags to ensure your mobile need never be answered again.

Gents – go for a multi zipped leather jacket in the style of Sid Snot to maximise cash card misplacement.

4. Develop self-questioning about the most mundane and unlikely domestic occurrences.

You should not be able to leave the house without considering the possibility the bathroom has non-colour-coordinated toilet roll.

5. Choice is your faffable friend

Although the Eskimos do not have a ludicrous amount of words for snow, you need to believe they do.

Place yourself in situations, preferably in a group, where, instead of the choice of tea or coffee, you have a variety of herbal flavours and brewing styles. This maximises faffing potential.

Ask the barista questions about milk temperature/Styrofoam rigidity/teaspoon bending to optimise queue-holding time.

Warning!!!

NEVER HAVE YOUR CHANGE READY!!!

This will betray the existence of a mind that still contains task-oriented thoughts. Nothing will more single you out as an amateur.

6. Change your conversational style to reflect your new muddled mindset.

Never give absolute answers and interject plenty of “ers”, “you knows” and general “ums” into your sentences.

Your opening refrain should always be “Well, you see….”

If you don’t think it’s possible to faff in speech, tune into the BBC and watch the joke monologues of Ronnie Corbett or the interviews conducted by Garth Crooks.

These men are legends.

Study them.

7. Stay away from fellow faffers.

Faffing can become competitive and, when surrounded by Alpha-faffers, it is easy to revert to a linear thought process.

In these circumstances, you can find yourself issuing statements of intent and starting sentences with “Look, I think we should….”

Be warned: This is not the way sideways.

8. When selecting a mate, choose one who is organised.

Your goal should be the anti-faffer.

You will need someone who likes wall charts and calendars, not someone who deliberates over a can of beans.

This optimises your sex life.

Trust me.

If you are still not convinced, try to imagine the open Kama Sutra on the bed of Frank Spencer and Mavis Riley.

9. Choose your career and hobbies wisely as not all arenas are conducive to faffing.

Please, please stay away from the world of medicine.

Photo-journalism is another no-no.

Far better is physical labour with its endless potential for arm stretching work avoidance. Or maybe become a librarian and faff about deciding which books to archive and which date-stamp to re-ink.

10. Writing a good activity for a faffer as, in the name of research, you can faff on the internet, stumble across sites such as http://www.wikihow.com/, and then suddenly become distracted from your project and write less important, but probably more self knowing, pieces.

YOU WILL NEED:

Essential:
Patient friends
An over active imagination
A thick skin.

Useful:
Selective hearing.
The love of accessories
The love of God


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We Need a Hero

This month sees the publication of Lord Stevens’ investigation into the death of Princess Diana and the release of Clint Eastwood’s Flags of Our Fathers, a film detailing the stories of the six men who raised the flag at the fall of Iwo Jima, a key point in the latter stages of the Second World War

The photograph of six American soldiers and Diana’s tragic death have, in some quarters, been mythologised. The bright light theory, a suggestion that a single figure beamed a distracting light into the eyes of Diana’s driver and the reluctance of the American public to hear the life stories of the six men illustrate the power of the symbol over the individual.

Like Alvy Singer in Annie Hall, we occasionally use conspiracy theories and unquestioning belief systems to mask problems in our personal lives and to create narratives that are more convenient to our worldview.

When an icon dies, we, the ones distanced from the event, sometimes refuse to accept that driver was over the limit and trying to hold a line impossible for veterans of Grand Prix.

When we see soldiers braving tortuous battlefields we frame the combat arena with our own projections, forgetting that they fight not for flags but for friends.

We create heroes.

Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Carl Jung and The New Testament all tell us that hero shows us how to live. According to Jung, the archetypes in a typical narrative resonate because they are part of the collective subconscious. Myths show the hero embarking on a quest, usually after surviving a difficult, commonly orphaned, childhood, and having the kind of visions lesser, rational mortals associate with tight straps and bite down rubber.

After studying the severely mentally damaged, Paul Broks, a clinical neuropsychologist, believes the human brain is a storytelling machine and the self is a story. If true, that may illuminate why we need heroes.

He also describes himself as a vacant soulless machine, which, at first, seems to contradict the notion the self is a story. However, stories which attempt to portray a heroic journey without the required grasp of what makes for an identifiable talisman, may illustrate the compatibility of Broks’ two comments.

Hideous Kinky, Gilles Mac Kinnon’s 1996 adaptation of a novel by Esther Freud, posits the scenario that Julia, a young mother of two, is in Marrakesh, embarking on a journey. It is not one driven by paradox or conflict but on a desire to seek “the complete annihilation of the ego”.

The drive, formed in the back-story, is akin to watching the opening scene of an early Macaulay Culkin film and seeing his character, diaper deep in Chad Valley plastic, proclaim, “I am the Son of God”

Her call to adventure comes from within. Her obstacles include stanza formation for a tricky poetry anthology and the theft of her laundry, although that is a disturbing scene featuring a small community decked in loud, silky pantaloons, obviously waiting for the coming of Mc Hammer.

The film downs most narrative tools and her journey is not only passive, it threatens the development of her children. It quickly becomes a highly annoying experience.

In terms of identification, there is a danger of gender bias as most cultures define a hero as a warrior figure but, in narratives such as Iris, Jane Eyre and Secrets and Lies, audiences connect and feel in the presence of a hero.

Hideous Kinky depicts a journey to annihilate the ego but simply succeeds in destroying the hero. Were she to die, there would be no subsequent bright light theory.

It is selfish and it is seemingly unnecessary. It is personal, not universal. By omission, it creates audience frustration, and that illustrates the power of narrative. We feel dissatisfied by a poorly executed tale.

In the case of Diana, we create story and myth where none exists. She must be a vacant soulless machine to receive the projections of our hopes but she must not be mortal.

When tragedies, real or fictional, appear pointless, it reminds us of the misery of feeling disconnected and exposed to the chaotic nature of the world, one in which beautiful die horribly, (but not in mysterious circumstances) and soldiers fight so they can live to share a beer with the person on the front line, not so they can become a historic symbol.

Proud Lions Return To The Wild

BAGHDAD, IRAQ - After nearly four weeks of thrilling sporting conflict in the Asian games, Yehya Mehal, the coach of The Lions of Mesopotamia, Iraq's football team, expressed relief that he has returned to the comforts of his own unlit home.

He said “The pressure was too much and referees can be very unpredictable”, adding, as he filled a water bucket, it was disturbing to play in a country that has a monarchy and has not yet made sweeping democratic advances.

Gunshots had been heard throughout Iraq as the unified nation watched the Lions progress to the gold-medal match. They were narrowly beaten 1-0 by hosts Qatar.

The side greatly surpassed expectations. It had been blighted by injury problems such as groin strains, metatarsal fracture and cornea tissue damaged by shards of windscreen.

Preparations were also marred when they lost their Head of Medicine to a kidnapping but worse followed when they lost their Pilates Instructor to Bolton Wanderers.

“I was so incensed I was shaking with anger” said Mehal

When asked how he coped with the setbacks, Mehal shrugged: “The success is purely down to the lads. Usually when I coach, my voice is drowned out by F-16s so I was not used to the atmosphere in Qatar. I simply played on their pride and said - Remember where you are right now. And remember where you will go back to”

After such a stirring tournament, thoughts in some fortified areas are already turning to Guangzhou in 2012 but Mehal is reluctant to engage: “Like any international coach, I might not be able to pick the same players and, also, I may retire. At home, I feel comfortable and triumphant every time I survive the day. Nothing in football matches that”

Hugging? Not in my day!

Last week news broke of trouble in Carlington Community College, a school in Cornwall, which has resonated throughout British society.

The school took swift action after it discovered that pupils were arriving late for lessons due to excessive hugging.

Headteacher Stephen Kenning has, according to pupils, “named and shamed” offenders in assembly and issued detentions, hopefully in solitary confinement.

This is to be applauded as a sterling example that the British stiff upper lip is still firmly in place and the country has not gone to the Oprahs.

It is not acceptable for a history class to be disrupted at the first sight of open palms in the schoolyard as this could cause pupils to dash to the windows braying “Hug! Hug! Hug!”

Moreover, there are concerns that hugging could be a gateway to higher experiences of intimacy that could have devastating repercussions on British society. The known side effects of higher intimacies include boosted self-esteem, strong feelings of affiliation, increased emotional stability and a reduction in alcohol consumption, all of which are detrimental to the British economy.

We are in danger of shaping a generation of wobbly chinned individuals who refuse to answer the phone unless someone gives them a quick tickle. This is an unexploded land mine in the bedrock of our society and we should act now to prevent confident, uninhibited plebeians stomping over the values that made us proud to be British.

Now that the birch is unacceptable, solutions to the problem are not obvious but maybe help could come from abroad.

Earlier this year, at a technology conference in Montreal, scientists from Singapore revealed The Jacket, a device that enables the wearer to feel the sensation of being hugged. A doll is allocated to a member of the family (or even an authority figure) and, provided there is remote internet access, he can touch the model and it will generate the exact same sensation in the wearer.

Trials on silkie bantam chickens, wearing bespoke jackets, were conducted to see if they would prefer the hutch that offered a sensation of being stroked. The silkies, over 28 days, picked the “hugging hutch” 72% of the time.

From chickens to GCSE students, it is clearly the way forward. The jacket could be designed in a variety of fashions, from blazer, to duffel, to hoodie. Likewise, the doll could be moulded into a replica of Simon Cowell and students would be able to experience the debatable benefits of hugging without any of the touchy–feely nonsense.

It is a perfect third way solution and human trials of the jacket could even ape the chicken run to see if it is possible to engineer students into enrolling into unfashionable subjects such as chemistry, physics and eugenics.

It is the perfect way to maintain a sense of Britishness in the future generation and it could be cheaply manufactured in China.

Flashbulb Mammaries*

The following moment is one of many, many reasons to love The Sopranos.

Tony Soprano is at the Bada-Bing, Sil's lap dancing club, when news comes on the tv of the death of Jackie Aprile, the acting mob-boss.

Tony silences the club so he can watch the story unfold.

Tears ensue.

The club is emotional.

One of the dancers, topless, says:

"I'll never forget where I was this day."





*I'm looking for a job writing headlines for The Sun

The Wicker Man

It seemed appropriate to watch “The Wicker Man” over bonfire weekend.

Penned by the scouser Anthony Schaffer, the writer behind “Sleuth”, it has everything you need to fully embrace a cult horror classic:

It was made in the seventies.

Edward Woodward, an actor whose name Noel Coward suggested sounded a like a fart in the bath, was pissed on by a goat during filming.

Britt Ekland, widely credited with inventing striptease in “The Night They Raided Minsky’s”, and allegedly responsible for giving hubby Peter Sellars a wedding night heart attack, used a body double.

The director, Robin Hardy, quit filmmaking in a huff for ten years after perceived studio meddling.

And just when you think your mouth can’t open any further, a thoroughly entertained Christopher Lee looms on the screen, says “shocks are so much better absorbed with the knees bent” and then reappears in a mustard checked kilt.

The whole shebang was obviously conceived with copious amounts of bong water.

The missing child plot begins with PC Woodward’s seaplane landing on a remote Scottish island, only to be told “this is private land” by the kind of local who does not have luminous skin.

Unsettled by the Arran polo necks he turns a corner, discovers a horse ambling down the street and is later served a plate of turquoise broad beans. He, and the viewer, begins to feel particularly buttoned up.

His unease grows. By the time Britt Ekland appears as the landlord’s daughter and exposes her body double, he can hear the locals sing “She’s the baggage we all adore”. With these words he is forced to retire to his pillow-less bed, his body clock far from adjusted to Pagan Standard Time, desperately trying to conjure visions of John Mc Cririck performing tic tac.

The next day, it transpires the community is making its preparations for the imminent May Day festival in a way that revels in environmental pleasures, but not of the kind endorsed by “The Good Life”. It is hard to imagine Richard Briers chuckling as he watches children dance naked or storing pre-owned foreskins in a jar that should be holding chocolate bon-bons.

Sometimes it just has to be Christopher Lee.

Trying to remain undaunted, Eddie is tricked at every turn as he continues his investigation. A combination of well judged pacing and a script that delights in unsettling moment means that Ed’s fear gradually becomes our fear.

The conclusion, whilst predictable, is still stunning, not least because it is preceded by a a highly surreal third act chase sequence – imagine “Don’t look Now” visualised by Beatrix Potter. The singing, animal-headed people celebrating the crowning of the Queen of May is a truly frightening indelible image. It projects an X-Factor audition for the kind of person desperate to wear the twat suit on Rainbow.

As the fate of our hero becomes apparent, there is a highly disturbing display of hand-holding-community-cohesion that is akin to watching the encore of a Val Doonican musical. At this point, no wonder Eddie looks like he has just heard the words “low count” from the attractive nurse at the fertility clinic.

And then it gets worse.

I urge you to watch The Wicker Man.

It’s short, it’s original and it reminds you rituals can be frightening even without morris dancing.

Google Subversion

I was recently introduced to Google Images, an option just above the main search bar that allows users to search for pictures.

The delayed email arrived at 1.30am.

I was in the middle of a losing poker session, on a site that has had a Halloween make over.

The first time I was aware of the new graphics was I when I noticed an avatar wearing what I thought it was a burqa: a bizarre commentary on the veil debate or the site trying to recruit 25% of players from non-gambling communities.

It turned out it was a white sheet, designed for acquisition of M&Ms.

Anyway, I had a large pumpkin on my head and I just lost half my stack to a guy with a hockey mask.

“Give this a go, see who you can find”

It had to be an improvement.

For the first five minutes, whilst still playing poker, I went along predictable lines; wonders of the world, women and old school friends. I then opted for family members and was disappointed to discover no representations. There were people with the same name but no actual images of my four siblings.

I decided to put my name in. I was fairly sure it would be unsuccessful as I have never added an image, nor had I been posted there for work or activities in the criminal community.

It is a very surreal experience looking at images of namesakes; however, the first one that resonated was in a graveyard.

It was my tombstone.

And there were no fresh flowers.

I had to play a hand of poker as I had jacks in late position. I raised to four times the big blind and found myself heads up against the East Anglian Dracula.

Not live, from Norwich, it was the hand of the week.

The flop came jack ten ace and made a bet that placed him all in.

“Call” said the undead.

I watched the chips go into the middle and the next two cards were a blur as the software, keen to keep things moving and the pennies rolling in, smooth deals the turn and the river. The chips were fen bound. He turned over queen king and had flopped Broadway.

The light went out on my pumpkin.

“Would you like to rebuy?

It was two in the morning, there was no one around, it was cold, I was losing money, I had a pumpkin on my head and I was staring at a tombstone with my name on it.

“Fuck it, I’m all in!”

Hell is Other People, 72% Of The Time

I caught five minutes of Damien Omen II on Saturday night. The scene had an authority figure barking examples of human atrocities and the adolescent Crimson King instantly reeled off the dates when they happened.

Pause.

Both parties are horrified.

Damien dashes off for a moment of multi-mirrored scalp scrutiny and discovers the personal branding that obviously escaped the nit-lady.

His pudgy face then contemplates the possibility that mother was a cloven-hoofed goat and not the Avon Lady.

He then sprints out onto an abandoned jetty (the geographical plausibility baffled me but I was a bit pissed) and, while weeping over unsettled waters, looking out at ominous clouds screams “Why me??”

Why me?

I know the feeling.

I too have found myself in far too many conversations that attempt to squeeze human existence into the Dewey Decimal system, stored, labelled and easily shelved.

Whether they be top fives, balance sheets or an over stressing of travel minutiae, as the speaker carries on, and my skin senses the first swish of embalming fluid, I always find myself wishing he had been afflicted by the millennium bug.

No wonder Damien is a fan - he reduces the pleasure of human communication to conversational top trumping, stripped of wit, insight and intimacy and shapes the social arena into the 9th circle.

Next time you find yourself listening to one too many snippets of matchbox wisdom, ask if you can inspect the person’s bonce.

I bet they recoil.

It’s time to wake up and smell the sulphur.

He talks amongst us.

Taxi for Iannucci

http://arts.guardian.co.uk/features/story/0,,1924846,00.html


The above is last week’s lecture by Armando Iannucci at Tate Britain. He discussed the value of comedy in politics and mentioned that often there is not a lot for the gag writer to do.

Four days later, I read that on the eve of the opening of their new £24 million church in the City of London, Janet Laveau, spokesperson and personal auditor for the Religion of Scientology said

“Anti-social types will often try to leech off the success of creative types.”

Armando?

“Writing for a penny a word is ridiculous. If a man really wants to make a million dollars, the best way would be to start his own religion”

L.R.Hubbard

Untitled

I dedicate today’s post to Simon Pope, the artist awarded a grant to exhibit an empty gallery in Cardiff’s Chapter Arts Centre. His aim is to have visitors walk around and discuss memories of other galleries.

So feel free to look at the empty page below and recall other pages you have browsed before. Take some time. Maybe even forward the page after you have reminisced about emailed lawyer jokes, frantic ebay bids or even your first experience of cyber dumping.























Transcripts of the above material will be archived and a limited edition hard copy can be sent in a presentation pack for a small fee.

If you found the experience particularly moving, you might also want to try:http://www.wikihow.com/Do-Nothing.

Partygaming Adopts Pioneering New Approach

As online gaming companies continue their enforced economic introspection, a representative for Partygaming, whose prospectus contained many examples of corporate scoffing at the then existent US legislation and whose directors this year cashed in $17bn, said he could now appreciate that some people may find online poker playing distasteful. He also expressed regret that he may have been personally responsible for ruining lives.

He said “We are now in talks with other companies that are deemed socially responsible in the states and expect to announce a merger with Marlin soon”, adding that not only will the company be deemed legal, there may well be a sudden rush of business as angry Americans discover they can no longer play poker and are desperate for some shoulder- shaking- barrelled-action.

Online Gaming Chaos Continues

Talks announced of a merger between PartyGaming and 888Holdings have tonight been dismissed by both parties. Although both companies are desperate to replace the loss of revenues caused by the US Port security Bill, there is a growing divergence in their approach.

Citing exploitative differences, a representative for Partygaming said, “Although tempted by the economic benefits of a merger with 888, we feel we have to learn the lessons of the last eight months and factor in moral and social considerations. It might be time to re-assess.”

Representatives from 888 refused to comment, although Gavin Grist, an ex employee speaking on condition of celebrity, said “Typical of Party’s arrogance. Their prospectus scoffed at US law and now they are rejecting consolidation. I would be surprised if they didn’t invest in human traffic”

Clamp Down Continues

Spurred on by the recent success of the Port Authority bill and its effect on poker players, Republicans have decided to target more parts of the electorate. They will amend a recent bill designed to protect Americans from the effects of non-domestic climate change and it will now outlaw the sale of firearms to single mothers, homosexuals and theatre critics.

Jackson Stanley, 39, Scottsbluff, NE, expressed great relief at this common sense move - “Jesus Christ, these people are sinners already so why should they share the right to bear arms? If you go to church on Sunday, you should have a piece. And what about these kids of single mothers? How are they going to learn to fire a gun properly without their dad being around?"

What's in a name?

The use of nicknames in no–limit internet poker can lead to some interesting confrontations, made even more perilous with the knowledge that an all too easy mouse click can consign you to doom. Depending on one’s emotional state, it’s a world where everyone is a bogeyman or a sucker, transitional objects between poverty and wealth.

Some give Freudian clues to insecurities – “Superman”, “The Destroyer” or “PushurPooin” – but it is advisable to tread warily around solid, functional names like “redlark”, “Virginia gent” or “Fossilman”.

I used to deploy my real name, but, after a while, I decided to launch into this world of ego projection, believing I could use it to my advantage.

My first attempts at originality were not successful and, after forty-five minutes of forehead- slapping anxiety, the best I could offer was “RandomNoun”. However, I wanted a name that reflected something so, with a nod to the crippling immaturity inherent in a pro player, I settled for “grazedknee”, casting players back to days of kiss chase and off-ground tick.

On the second day, a player typed something in the chat, directed at me. As most online sharks are playing multiple tables, it is rare to see anything in the chat box, unless you take someone’s stack and they provide intimate personal histories. Apparently, my mother was sexually loose with Nebraskan Lasso Man and the other occupants of his farm.

However, this time the entry was so good it nearly caused impromptu sock removal.

“Grazedknee, are you a Native American?”

Fantastical images of my birth and events leading up to my naming ritual distracted me from my deliberations on the best way to play ten jack suited from late position.
Somewhat rattled, I explained, politely, I live in London and my alpha helix is a farrago of English and Irish DNA. He “lol’ed” his question off but the exchange stimulated a hitherto silent character, ominously named Marin68.

“WHAT KIND OF NAME IS GRAZEDKNEE?”

For all I knew he was a teddy-clutching, dummy sucker but the use of capital letters is usually a bad sign. For me, it suggested he had been at My Lai and wanted to syringe my nostrils full of Marmite to a backdrop of James Blunt.

I ignored his question but, a few hands later, I was contesting a pot with him. I folded when he made the kind of raise that makes you feel like a rabbit and he’s holding you by the ears over a bubbling pot. I typed the sporting “nh”, for nice hand. My reward was “WHAT’S YOUR PERSONAL EXPERIENCE OF WAR, HUH?”

Christ, what did he expect? I was a teenager in the eighties and the closest I came to international conflict was playing Risk. Somehow, I suspected Marin68 was not going to sympathise with my battlefield report of the odds-against massacre of my forces at Siam. (There was the slow, craps style tumble, three sixes appeared, my fate was sealed and I still have nightmares when I see blue dice.)

My options were fabrication, desertion, or, after some thought, manipulation. Eric Berne in his book “Games People Play” uses poker as an example of a type of transaction between two people called “Now I Have Got You, You SOB”.

Player A is dealt an unbeatable hand and is too busy cackling over the prospect of inflicting damage to Player’s B stack that he actually plays poor poker. However, unbeatable hands, “the nuts”, are rare at Texas Hold ‘em and becoming someone’s boo-boy can be an advantage, especially if you have position.

“Was ’68 the year you went AWOL or were you court martialled?” That seemed to have the desired effect as a series of ***** appeared in the chat and he started raising every hand. I was now playing against a maniac and although that was what I wanted, I would have to be very careful as he wasn’t going to fold any hands and I didn’t want luck to play a strong part. The trick is patience. Avoid marginal holdings; when the time is right, let them come to you.

Marin was intimidating the rest of the table and had taken the last ten pots by simply hammering people with huge bets on the flop. However, finally, a hand hit me: pocket Kings.

I was first to act. I called the blinds, expecting Marvin to cock the hammer. Everyone folded to him. He was last to act and made a small raise, less than I expected, but it still gave me a chance: I could now re-raise. He would find it impossible to resist the chance to empty my pockets. I made the minimum raise. He came straight back at me. I had him. I put him in for his entire stack.

“HEY KNEE. SOCCER PLAYER OR SCHOOL RIGHT?”

What was he doing?

“GOOD NAME. I’M A HISTORY STUDENT MYSELF”

He called my bet. The site has a moment when both players are all in before it turns the cards over.

I knew I had given him my money.

The cards flipped.

For once, there was no exclamation against bad luck, there was no kipper across the kisser.

I had been outplayed.

He had aces.

The person who I had assumed had the personality of Christopher Walken on a low serotonin day had just got me to put in all my money on a long shot. I was the one playing “Now I’ve got you…”

I had assumed I had his measure, I was deluded by concepts of my own superiority and I had been bewitched by his moniker.

“Sorry Knee – guess you’ll need more T.C.P.”

Aye Aye Captain

Let us take a second to consider the case of Alan McIlwraith. 28, living with his parents on a council estate and being bullied at work.

He is a man of slight build and one day, just walking the streets, he was assaulted and a scaffolding pole was introduced to his head.

From that day on he became captain Sir Alan McIlwraith, CBE, DSO, MC, MiD. Sir Alan graduated top of his class at Sandhurst and became an expert on terrorism. He served time in the hell holes of the world and was injured protecting a lady’s honour from a mob. Forced to take a job in Civvy Street he told his new colleagues of his military background and one of the managers remembered they had trained together at Sandhurst.

Soon Sir Alan was engaged and Lady Shona accompanied him to a charity event. The champagne and the battlefield anecdotes flowed.

But there it peaked.

His appearance in a society magazine popped the bubble – he was recognised, lost his job and Lady Shona posted the engagement ring with no note. When asked about Sir Alan, a rather cruel army spokesman said “He has never been an officer, soldier or army cadet. May I suggest you try the space cadet organisation.”

Alan is now depressed – “I’ve lost everything. I am probably the only man in the country without a secret to tell.

Now, let all that sink in and consider the scale of his achievements. Without the help of so much as a spin-doctor, let alone the resources of the White House administration, he survived for two years on a manufactured personality.

He has said, “I cannot get a job because I am untrustworthy”. That would seem a highly negative view of his skills. His experience is a worthy CV for our times and there are jobs aplenty for a man of his talents.

I’m sure some of the contestants on the X-Factor would benefit from his wisdom and he could run a boot camp for aspirational types who cannot quite shake a nagging sense of reality.

He could build from his life changing moment and offer a course in reinforcement training – a simple mallet to the bonce and trainees could have the life they really deserve.

His opportunities could grow and grow. He could be a role model for the sizable part of the population with a weak sense of self. Living in an environment that posits looking after number one as the essential survival strategy and rewards the ability to adapt to any circumstance with scant regard to long lasting consequences, is going to create more and more Captain Alans. It’s a rat race and if you feel your true self is being overlooked simply create a more desirable one and away you go.

A certain escape into dreams of omnipotence in the workforce or the bedroom is probably healthy but, for the love of God, let’s keep it to our internal lives.

From closing your eyes and wishing the world away to relating sexual tales of questionable physical practicality just remember the possibility of going Captain is only a blow to the head away.

To Blog or Not to Blog

When I was thinking of starting a blog I was adamant that under no circumstances would it contain “today I went to the dentist and blah, blah, blah” – I can leave that to Jeffrey Archer.

However, (and was that the most predictable however you have experienced?) only three days into the life of the blog and the stance had its first real test as yesterday was “the day the washing machine arrived”.

Now, although it caused some slight drama and there were interesting personality clashes, I feel as soon I start posting my Zanussi exploits, it’s a slippery slope to the “day a bird flew into the house” and then, before you know it, we have arrived at “the day we all started popping Zoloft”.

Are we all agreed that it is a somewhat acceptable tale to relate to uncritical, intoxicated friends but, if it ever appears in text, that kind of daily banality should be bodily escorted to the car park?

Accepting the proviso that anything has value if told with wit and originality (and therein lies my decision to not post), most postings would be more engaging if they were reflections on outside events as, let’s face it, most of us are living lives of type written desperation. Clearly some bloggers need reminding that the centre of the universe is a little further away than they may think.

If you are still reading this and the main thought is “What kind of cycle does it recommend for delicates?” maybe I am the mistaken one and I should really, really try those pills, but I would love to believe that is not the case.

Let’s save communications about the bird, the washing machine and the dentist for face time. Let’s move blogging up the hierarchy of converse. If we start from the need for human contact, shimmy up the ladder, spend a few days flirting with social grooming then, before you know it, all our blogs will be at the top of the communication pyramid and we can back slap away on the quality of our insights.

Remember: “if we are not thinking, we have nothing to converse about”

Random voice heard on Radio 4

We have a duty

“The idea of always being at peace, always being blissfully happy is scary. Anyone in a placid state is just going to vegetate.”

Joseph Heller

It is unlikely there are many Catch 22 lovers living in the nation’s Acacia Avenues as an AA commissioned survey has revealed the residents’ definition of happiness as “never moving, never divorcing and never changing jobs”

Members of the creative communities have frequently maintained there are hidden lives amongst the acacias but on the evidence, this appears not the case. These homes are not hiding Charlotte the Harlot, the gnome-infested gardens do not yield severed ears and it is not worth looking closer: life can actually be that bland.

It is a painful philosophy, not because we should crave a world of aspirational consumers displaying their wealth, stimulating street crime and gradually increasing their carbon footprint, but it because strongly conveys that bubble living is enough sustenance for their lives.

The suggestion that happiness occurs through a lifestyle that overvalues continuity and has a structure that smothers is depressing

A follow up survey should be performed by the British Fertility Society, as to live with such a philosophy is to deny evolution. These communities may have signed their own death warrant.

To prevent this dangerous belief spreading, society has to ensure individuals are incapable of reaching adulthood with such a misinformed concept of happiness.

You have a duty.

Do not let the need for stability suffocate our other drives for creativity, originality and stimulation.

Become involved.

Seek out new experiences

Engage with everything you do, on every level, at every opportunity.

Society will benefit.

After all, to paraphrase a famous football manager, “If a person is not interfering with life, what the hell is he doing on the planet?”

Society Needs Mathematicians!

"Society needs mathematicians!"

"Mathematics is of central importance to modern society. It underpins scientific and industrial research and development and is the key to vital areas of the economy such as finance and ICT"

Bill Rammell - Minister for Lifelong Learning

News has just reached us: top mathematicians have devised a formula to predict when a parent will first hear the cry “are we there yet?” while on a long car journey.

It is 1 + the number of activities divided by the number of children squared + the length of time to pack the car.

Q = (1 +x ) / y2 + z

Q is the question, x = number of activities, y = children and z time to pack the car.

Apparently, Skoda commissioned the research.

It’s good to see corporations keeping mathematicians away from the fiscal policy of the government but I think we could make it even more frivolous.

Typhoo could refund research into the time it takes elderly relatives to ask “Who’s for a cup of tea?, lastminute.com could sponsor the calculation of Monday’s open plan “Did you have a good weekend?”, and Relate could have a field day with the equation for “It’s not you, it’s me."

Not with a bang.....

After spending a considerable amount of time faffing around the idea, I decided it was time to get with the program and set up a blog.

I'm a professional poker player and will include stories from the world of deep stacks but I hope to contact fellow bloggers for exchange of wit, ideas and experience.