Friday 11th May

We all have dreams and I suppose we all have “dreams”, though why they are described using the same word I have no idea, they are as different as chalk and cheese.  Dreams are those thing you swim through in your sleep, but have no real control of; those sometimes pleasant, sometimes incredibly annoying and occasionally terrifying but usually intensely real situations and experiences which your mind in its crazy filing system throws up for your delectation during the sleeping hours.  So often I wake in a positive sweat and almost shudder to release myself from their grip.  They often leave me feeling so tired too, as if I have run a marathon instead of peacefully resting my brain for eight hours.  It may well be that my dreams, which seem on waking to have been pursuing me all night have only happened as I surfaced from a much longer and blank nothingness, but the white stretches of nothingness I cannot remember, the turbulent indigo of my dreams are throbbing away in my brain as I rub the sleep out of my eyes and try to shake myself awake.

“Dreams” are really daydreams; those fond imaginings of what might be, or in my case more likely what might have been, those ambitions, love affairs, extra abilities, success and fame that might be achieved if only…

And pleasant as they may be, and of course going on in one’s head, they are hardly involuntary and do not recur with the same intensity as nightly dreams do. I always find it amusing on these reality television shows, from ‘X factor’ to ‘Masterchef’ that the contestants/deluded fools always claim that to win whatever contest they have stupidly entered has been their lifetime ‘dream’.  Poor cretins – have they really spent years thinking about and imagining themselves sitting in Alan Sugar’s boardroom or being berated by Simon Cowell in front of millions.  It reminds me of one of my recurring dreams I had mostly as a child but occasionally as an adult of being exposed naked in my back garden with the head-scarved neighbours all looking over the fence and laughing at my all too obvious inadequacy.

Dream on.

Thursday 10th May

Amidst the noise and bustle of modern life it is harder and harder to grab a quiet moment to one-self.  Everywhere you go you seem to be bombarded by information and the brain simply cannot cope with all this stuff.  From the constantly breaking news (which isn’t breaking at all) of the news channels and the free newspapers which you know you shouldn’t read but are tempted to anyway, and the internet, which  is plagued with adverts, as too is almost all television, even the BBC seem to delight in advertising even more of their programmes you do not want to watch between the ones you actually do want to see.  And even when one switches off everything, unless the windows are hermetically sealed you can still hear the quiet swish of wet tyres tirelessly roaming the streets like ravenous beasts seeking out innocent prey.

So, a quiet moment to oneself is becoming a rarer and rarer commodity, but one it would seem to be valued less and less in today’s busy world.   If one answers the perennial question “And what have you been up to lately?” with the honest answer, ‘Oh, actually nothing at all, I have been trying to do precisely nothing, and to positively stop doing anything, if only for a moment or two every day,’ then you will get some very strange looks indeed.  But I would like to run a small flag (maybe a pennant) up the flagpole for quietude.  There it is, amongst all the loud and crazy bunting flapping around, a small plea for sanity in this mad mad world.

Wednesday 9th May

I must have first heard the Beach Boys in 1962 or 63, at the time they were just another exciting sound coming from America, if someone had said it was surf-music I wouldn’t have even known what the term meant – I didn’t even know what surfing was, I just loved the sound.  “Help me Rhondda” and then “Barbara Ann” and “California Girls” were wonderful songs but just as the Beatles were changing so too were the Beach Boys and they were coming out with songs such as “Wouldn’t it be nice” and “Sloop John B.”  and “God Only Knows” which I didn’t realise at the time were all from an album called ‘Pet Sounds’, which so impressed the Beatles that they wanted to outdo it with ‘Sgt. Pepper’.  Then came the wonderful “Good Vibrations”, a song almost perfect in every way and which I was in love with in my mid-teens, even arguing with my music teacher that it would last as long as Beethoven.  Maybe not.

It was around this time that Brian Wilson, the main songwriter and creative force behind the Beach Boys had some sort of breakdown.  The Beach Boys struggled for a while to find a new direction.  But in the early seventies they came up with two albums that surpassed all their earlier efforts.  The first was “Surf’s Up”, with Feel Flows, Disney Girls, and the title track; songs of pure wonder and beautifully performed.  Brian was still a sort of member of the band, writing but not playing or singing with them anymore.  This was followed by the even more wonderful “Holland”.  Here they excelled even the heights they had scaled before, especially on ‘California Saga’ and ‘Sail on Sailor’.  But both albums are brilliant and can be played over and over without ever sounding boring.

Brian has now split from the remaining Beach Boys, who still tour the old songs; he has had something of a rehabilitation, and is now knocking out albums as a solo artist.  These are all okay, but listening again neither these nor even those early hits come anywhere near to the perfection of “Surfs Up” or “Holland”.

Tuesday 8th May

As well as the elections in Britain last week, there were also elections in Greece and France.  And it seems that the electorate does not like the people and the parties they elected only a few years ago.  In our case that was just two years ago, after about ten successful years Labour came up against a brick wall, and it is easy to say ‘It was the economy- stupid,” but actually most people had been relatively unaffected by the recession of 2008/2009.   The vast majority of people then, as now, were paying record low interest rates on their mortgages, it was only savers who were suffering, and there are a lot fewer of them than the former.  It was the air of incompetence and a lack of confidence in the persona of Gordon Brown that was the real turning point for Labour.  It was always going to be hard to follow Tony Blair, and just as John Major suffered from a lack of dynamism following the divisive but very charismatic figure of Margaret Thatcher, so too did Gordon Brown appear dull and boring in comparison.  David Cameron, and Nick Clegg to a certain degree, appeared attractive and dynamic at first, but one can hardly call their 2010 election results spectacular.  Neither party nor of course Labour seemed to have either the answers or the confidence of the public, so it is no surprise that they should have fallen even further behind in public opinion.  It seems that like the Greeks and the French we do not much like the leaders we have elected only recently.  Perhaps this is because all political parties are rather constrained as to what they can actually do about things, but it is rather more likely that in fact they are not that good.  Sarkozy promised much but in the end delivered little, and as for the Greeks maybe they are a rather special case anyway.  But what of Mr. Cameron; first indications are that they are simply going to batter on regardless and hope that either an economic miracle rescues them or that people will simply not trust Labour with the country’s finances in future.  A bit of a poor message that “Look, we may not be very good, but at least we aren’t as bad as Labour were.  We underestimated the task and the medicine we applied may not have worked so far, but we have every belief that it will eventually.”   The worst possible result will be that we have more or less a re-run of last time with no party winning well enough to govern on their own.  Would the LibDems even dare to go into coalition with Labour if they were the largest party next time?  Nothing would surprise me.

Monday 7th May

One always thinks of oneself as somehow more important than most others, or at least more valid.  Of course one is not Nelson Mandela or Obama, or will even achieve the minor fame of a bestseller author or a well-known face on the television, but in my case at least I have written my book, which will live on after I have gone, at least for a while until the paper deteriorates and it becomes just one more boring artifact from the past.  But here again I am afraid we deceive ourselves, in the grand scheme of things who remembers Alexander the Great, or Charlemagne, or even Bismark and Palmerston; just names in history books I am afraid.  And even my own memories of Harold Wilson or Margaret Thatcher will mean nothing to future generations, they too will simply be names in some History syllabus for those interested in such mundane matters.  And if these famous people count for nothing then what of ordinary folk such as I, or even the no-hopers, the couch potatoes, the losers in life, or those who die in childhood, the starving millions in Africa – what of their lives, were they too for nothing?

Well no, here I beg to offer a different synopsis.  This says that every human life adds to the sum total of humanity, we are all of equal importance.  And I would go further and say that without each and every one of us humanity would be diminished.  Even the Stalins and Chairman Maos, even the Fred Wests and child rapists and the ugly and obnoxious – they all add to humanity.  And that is why it is important for each and every one of us to do the best we can and do as little harm as possible, so that the sum total of humanity is improved by our presence and not impoverished by it.

Sunday 6th May

Turn on your radio, not to radio 1, but maybe Capital or Heart or Magic and before long you will probably hear one of these three songs.  The first one is Brown-eyed Girl by Van Morrison.  A catchy tune, but I wouldn’t have said it was the best song ever written, or even the best that Van Morrison has written either.  My favourite of his is Madame George, but there you go.  There is something infectious though about Brown-eyed girl, especially the chorus, with its Sha-la-la-la-la, di-la-di-da, in case you forget the words.  This is also one of those songs which have been covered by all and sundry, including a charming version by The Senators, an East London mid-eighties duo, who wrote great little songs but recorded this for I think their eponymous debut.

Another song which just won’t go away is Stuck in the Middle with You, by Stealers Wheel featuring the late departed Gerry Rafferty.  It came off their first album which was a classic and was filled with any number of hit singles which could have been chosen instead of this one.   The band recorded one other album and then spilt up with Gerry going on to record the almost as classic Baker Street.  The sentiment of the song which is quite downbeat belies the upbeat tempo and happy sound of the record, which may be a clue to its longevity, there isn’t much else quite like it.

The other song I keep bumping into is Make me Smile (come up and see me) by Steve Harley and Cockney Rebel.  I was bowled over by Cockney rebel when they first burst onto the scene, around the same time as Bowie and T Rex were happening, and loved their first album with Sebastian, Death Trip and What Ruthy Said.  Their second was a bit heavier and rockier but still great.  After that the band broke up, or Steve sacked them all (depends which story you believe).  Steve quickly formed a new band and recorded his third ‘The best years of our lives’, and this was on it.  In some ways it is the weakest song on the album, and certainly not one of my favourites, but it is so popular and you hear it all the time that whenever it comes on it does makes you smile.

And I wonder just why it is that these three, and there are probably a few more like them, are perennial radio favourites peppering the airwaves with their familiar and joyful sounds.  Who knows what it is about certain songs that mean they just keep getting played year after year, and just will not go away.  Not that I particularly want them to, which is probably the answer to the question.

Saturday 5th May

Of course we do expect our politicians to always paint themselves in the best light possible, but I always think that one of the most amusing aspects of election nights is listening to the politicians trying desperately to explain that actually it wasn’t that bad.  Thursday night was typical; not only were the Tories saying that it was simply mid-term disillusionment with the Government, and had nothing to do with their policies, but also declaring that unless Labour won at least one thousand councilors from them it was a bad result for Labour.  As I write this the votes are still being counted but it does look like a very good result for Labour winning back cities like Birmingham and Norwich, and look on course to win over 700 new councilors.  By raising the bar of achievement for another party it is as if you are saying – yes, you won, but really given how hopeless we are, you should have done much better.   Labour almost attempted this after the 2010 General Election, but hardly had the heart after their own disastrous result.

The saddest faces of the night (apart from Ken in London, which I suspect he will lose despite a good vote for Labour in the London Assembly) were reserved for the LibDems.  They really had no answer for why they did so badly, except that they couldn’t accept the bleeding obvious.  The public expected the Tories to be nasty, even if some of them still voted for them, but the LibDems have always seemed so reasonable and, well, honest – compared to the other two.  Then at the first chance they jump into bed with their idealogical enemy and ditch almost everything they ever stood for.  They are rightly perceived as letting the Tories get away with right wing policies when only a third of the country voted for that.  Watching Danny Alexander twist and turn, saying that the public understood that hard choices had to be made, and somehow that was why they voted against the Libdems.  It was incredible, oh, and highly enjoyable too.

Thursday 4th May

Is it the chilly weather or perhaps the realization that if this is Summer it doesn’t feel any different from Winter, but I cannot quite shake off these Summer Winter blues.   And everywhere I look; glum faces.  Maybe I need a holiday.  I know, I have only just returned from the Dordogne, but we hardly saw the sun on that trip at all.  Maybe I need a real exotic holiday in some tropical paradise, with a white sun-drenched beach, palm trees leaning out over the sea, on a lounger with a straw parasol and a tall cool glass of pina-colada or a mint julep on a small table beside me, a collection of glossy magazines and the latest bestseller grabbed in haste at the airport.

But I am afraid that that has never been me at all.  Firstly although I do love the warmth of the sun, being fair-skinned I do not tan well and consequently not only smother myself in the highest factor sun-screen I can find, but positively avoid sitting in the direct sunlight.   No, what I want is that gorgeous warm-but-not-too-hot English summer weather that I seem to remember from my childhood, those languid days laying on a blanket on the freshly mown lawn half in and half out of the shade of a large plane tree, reading Jane Eyre and with a glass of Corona Cherryade and a few Rich Tea biscuits for refreshment.  A simple enough pleasure one would have thought, but as I look out on another dreary overcast rain-threatened day it seems as far away as those memories.

Wednesday 23rd May

You see them everywhere, and though some are undoubtedly male I still call them moo-cows.  I do not know, but strongly suspect that it is the case, if they inhabit other cities, but London is full of them, they are simply everywhere.  They wander around aimlessly chewing the cud, looking up from their grazing occasionally at all the busy people rushing around, as if these scurrying creatures were in fact from another planet altogether.  Despite it being the extended rush hour which London seems to need they seem not to be bothered by financial or in fact any other considerations at all.  You see them sitting in Starbucks staring into the middle distance, a hand occasionally mechanically raising the green-logoed cardboard cup to their lips, their gaze never faltering.  Or they may be spotted vaguely browsing their i-phones, an index finger occasionally brushing the screen as images flicker by; one wonders if they recognize any, as they never show any emotion on their moo-cow faces.   What sort of lives do they lead, these strange sedentary beasts who never hurry, but amble along, occasionally glancing at a Metro, but you suspect that they scorn any real news and content themselves with the celebrity fodder on offer.  And the female moo-cow faces are blank and all made up to look exactly the same, as if any sign of individuality would mark them out as being possibly interesting.  You never get a reaction from a moo-cow, or even a smile.  They are impassive and will not let slip the mask they have so carefully created.  Even when moo-cows meet each other, there is barely a whisper of recognition; after all who talks to a moo-cow.

But scorn them not, for they may in fact be the future of the human race – a new sub species that will eventually dominate and destroy all of us thinking busy people.  Maybe they are just watching and waiting, planning our eventual overthrow.  So beware – the day of the moo-cow may soon be upon us.

Thursday 3rd May

And I don’t mean Rupert Bear, a real childhood friend; unbeknown to me at the time a different Rupert was weaving his insidious web and building on the legacy he inherited from his father along with a ruthlessness and determination almost unparalleled in the business world.  So, who really is this Rupert, is he truly the malignant meddler in politics, the grand puppet master and decider of elections or has he merely given us, the public exactly what we wanted, page 3 girls and five hundred channels of dross on the TV.  The truth as always may lay somewhere in-between.  Like those great newspaper magnates who went before him, Beaverbrook and Northcliffe, he undoubtedly knew the power of the popular press, and like Robert Maxwell he courted political leaders and tried to push his own political agenda to the fore.  However it was when he discovered such a like-minded individual as Margaret Thatcher that things turned really ugly; there is no doubting that they made an unholy pact, she would let him take over the Times and expand his empire without restraint and he would crush the print unions.  And both got what they wanted.  But then things get a bit murkier, Murdoch decided that Blair would be a better bet than John Major, and then that Cameron and Osborne would suit him better than Gordon Brown.  How much was ever really discussed or promised we will probably never know, it was much more a case of politicians being only too aware of the importance of keeping Rupert on-side, as Neil Kinnock discovered to his cost.  But in his defence it has always been so, the political influence of the Mail and the Express were always insidious and undemocratic.  It was in the marrying of his business and his political machinations that we reached the lowest point of all.  In fact the phone-hacking scandal in itself wasn’t that awful; journalists have used underhand and illegal methods for years – it was just that nobody had the balls to go after them.  So, what do we think of Rupert now, his reputation has certainly been tarnished, but he will undoubtedly survive, and make more and more money until the day he dies, which may not be that far off.  And for a while there will be more regulation of the press, and politicians will be more careful about who they are seen with, and who they e-mail.  But sooner or later another Rupert will emerge, maybe in Cyberspace, maybe in Telecoms, who knows, except that it will happen.  As Lincoln said ‘The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.’  We just have to have the balls to stop the next Rupert before it gets to this sorry state.