Language Literature

My radio player has just stopped dead in its tracks. An abrupt, shuddering, jarring halt, like when you’re learning to drive and you kangaroo bounce the car a few steps before stalling. I was listening to Oasis’ wonderwall and I got a sudden mental image of one of my classmates from ninety four rolling a fist with obligatory smoke in it high in the air and singing at the top of his lungs in the common room. We were very young, and even then I thought that the image was going to capture the time and then become horribly outdated by the time I was in my twenties.
There my friends, you have it. Outdated. I have children now so I’m rather forcibly outdated, but the image is still there. Everything had a Union Jack painted on it, cider was snuck out on to the common to be drunk whilst clutching on to a measly hand rolled fag in some kind of teenage pretensions of rebellion. In effect doing exactly what our parents had done, and doing what kids are doing everywhere today. Perhaps even the fact that I’m writing this ought to be making alarm bells ring like crazy in my head, though the thought is there, niggling.
I’ve always been very aware that what I do, and what I used to do were not really anything new or different, but they were exciting. There was some kind of naïve rush at going out all in black, makeup on, nail varnish shining and the whole world seen through a one pint set of cider goggles (or stella vision as a good friend once called it). I went home in the car with my friend’s grandmother whilst they daringly trekked home from the pub at the regular Friday gig we were hanging round. Then another Friday would see me tramp on to the bus, take up a po-faced legs drawn up position on one of the back seats, and try to look like the perfect conformist rebel.
Today I tried on a pair of extremely tight fitting jeans again for the first time in nearly five years and the rush came back again: the excitement of the gigs, running around free, making what passed for music on a selection of first guitars busily drooling over the Les Paul catalogue dreaming of the day when it would be a reality, not just a hopeless fantasy.
They’re gone now though. I don’t really think I could feasibly push a pram through town in full on going out gear these days: though my daughter would love to get made up with me I’m sure. Everything has a time, and no, I’m not going to give in to temptation and quote psalms or even the Byrds, but they have a point. Added to which, when I look at the diaries I had, the songs I wrote and the old e-mails I have hanging around I remember that there were certainly parts of it that weren’t that great at all. The selective memory we all suffer goes to block out a lot of the angst of asking a girl out, the worry about exams, and the desire to fit in anywhere wherever that may be.
I said once that I’m the same me just with bills, and that’s probably true; I don’t feel any different. Now, though I care much less about what’s expected of me, and much more about those around me, because just like my friend’s roll up, the dance is going to carry on without us one day.

Today I was looking at my diary. Yes; my diary. I do have one despite all the rumors to the contrary, and the very fact of having one and updating it with the new term’s plans made me realise the absolute disaster area that is my personal life insofar as any organization skills are concerned.

We have been in England for nearly three weeks now and I have managed to do nothing, not one jot, not even a half hearted move towards seeing anyone at all, and there is no reason whatsoever for this to happen. We live in a technological age where communication has never been easier, and instead of doing the obvious thing and getting in touch all the time and being available for everyone, I find myself retreating ever more and more into myself. Perhaps the time of writing all these articles will give a hint as to why.

I write, mostly, in the middle of the night, when everyone else have long been in bed and are busy notching up zeds to themselves quietly in their own worlds, floating round in their dreams until the harsh nasal groan of the alarm clock at eight or even earlier. Night time is really the only time I have to do anything these days, as nappies, tantrums, reading stories, feeding children and getting them all into bed take up the rest of the time. This has been what has filled the last three weeks. We’re all out of bed by more or less nine, then, there are all the breakfasts to sort out, bottles to be prepared and children to bathe. Usually by twelve we’re starting to look ready to face the day and can think about where we’re going and what we are actually going to do there. Everyone is piled into the car and then we go out with the picnic prepared and scamper about the place trying to keep a seven month old baby entertained and keep a semi-tangible reign on our toddler.

Once home again at about six or seven we start the whole routine of getting everyone fed again, undressed and ready for bed, then bedtime stories are read, children are coaxed into bed and we finally breathe a sigh of relief that the day is done.
This, my friends, when all this is finished, when Raquel finally shut her eyes, Jacob has finally grumped his way through the last bottle and we are sat on the sofa is when I finally have time to ring: at nearly eleven ‘o clock at night. Most of you aren’t teachers, most of you don’t stay in the UK for your holidays, most of you have to be in bed at a semi sensible hour to get to work the next day, and thus receiving a phone call at eleven, you are probably going to assume that someone has died or that it is an emergency of apocalyptic proportions. “Thus” say I pretentiously, “ I shall phone upon the morrow” and the whole routine starts again.

So here we are at the end of August, term time looming like Lurch with a hangover, holiday nearly over and I have achieved beggar all of what I had planned, seen nearly none of the friends I hold so dear, and have to go back to Spain where I know I shall be staying until at least Christmas.

I miss you all and have been a monumentally crap friend. You are my family, the ones I chose, the people that have put up with, accommodated, helped, loved and looked after me without ever asking for more than the odd laugh or perhaps the odd pint. Please accept this apology and remember that you are always in my thoughts and in my heart and that if I can, I will. Love Ben / Winst / BJ xxx

Once again we find ourselves with holidays stretching out before us and with the opportunity to dedicate some time to writing and to bringing everything up to date again. 

It all starts with the loss of two toenails, a lot of screaming and shouting and then having to write down everything that was said. 

Toledo has the sort of summer weather that gives me some sympathy for the plight of roasted chickens, that sort of heat that wraps itself around you like a snake, constricting everything and leaving you no space whatsoever to breathe. We had been in the house for far too long. Raquel was getting grumpy, Jacob was whimpering in what Nana would have called a ‘tizzy’ and Sonia and myself were half collapsed on the sofa, looking at each other trying to get up the energy to think when the phone rang. There was a flurry of movement as everyone capable of walking (Jacob’s running skills are still lacking somewhat) rushed to get to the phone. Raquel was nearest as she was watching one of her Mickey Mouse episodes “On the computer”. 

In her best Spanish she said, “Digame” and then went silent, and smiled a large grin. 

“Si, estan aqui.” Another pregnant pause and then her little hand very nearly pistol whipped her mother, fortunately only colliding slightly with the end of Sonia’s nose. It was Gonzalo, a very dear friend of ours to invite us out for some cold beer on one of the many terraces on his estate. Now, armed with something to do, we sprung into action. Children were scrubbed, fed, washed and changed and then the grown-ups had a shower each, put on the smellies and out of the front door to go and meet Gonzalo and Pili in the precinct. 

The reaction people have to the sun is a very big clue as to where they are from: indeed it was our first topic of conversation after the introductory smalltalk was over and done with. We had met our friends inside the bar, where the air conditioning was on, the temperature was liveable at least and the smoke and the conversation swirled around us in clouds of misheard sentences and nicotine. Sonia and I were quick to suggest that we sat outside, much to the horror of our hosts. Northerners always seem desperate to take advantage of any speck of sunlight before it runs away and starts to get cold again, whereas those who have to live with intense heat as a part of their lifestyle seem to shy away from it until dusk where a low buzzing cool sets in. Really and truly we should have listened to the locals, as when we walked back outside we were hit by a brick wall of heat, the sort of heat that you can taste as you breathe in quickly in reaction to the sudden change. The south of Spain always smells hot to me, and it really makes me miss the rain, that fresh tangy smell after it rains which you only ever get in colder countries. It has been a real effort for me to get used tot he fact that when it rains in Castilla it doesn’t get any cooler, it just makes the air more humid and sticky. I digress. 

We moved outside and were happily chatting when I suddenly felt cold vapour escaping from a tube over my head and a sort of jolt of cold that made me look sharply upwards. The bar, in keeping with the other bars cafés and restaurants along the road had a sort of piping that surrounded the terrace that shout out cold water vapour at 30 second intervals. It made Raquel jump a lot and felt very nice on such a hot day, and thus an idea was born. After my second pint I felt like the idea was the best one that I had ever had, and I must try it out at all cost, so the plan was set in motion. Off I shot after Raquel who was playing around at running up to the table, shouting “Boo!” and then disappearing behind a privet hedge just next to where we were sitting. Once I had caught her and had her wriggling round with tickles and laughter I lifted her up and put her on my shoulders in the ‘fireman’s lift’ position and shuffled off in my sandals to put her head under the pipe so that she would get a shot of water down her neck. As I approached the pipe at what was now less of a zombie pace and more of an excited octogenarian plod I felt two very sharp cracks and the most pain I have ever been in shooting through my toes. Somehow I managed to put Raquel properly down on the floor before looking down to see what the carnage looked like on my poor tootsies. My right big toe had its nail was at right angles to my foot, and the left one was at forty five degrees more or less and bleeding profusely. Thankfully a very kind lady put a seat under me so that I could sit down, and I went white and shaky as everything went swirly round me. I could hear Sonia shouting, but was absolutely transfixed by my nails. 

My feet looked like something out of a horror film, there was a lot of blood and the nail-beds were going black. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from what had been a rather badly looked after set of toenails and were now a couple of weird looking cocktail sticks poking out of the ends of my feet. I couldn’t really feel any pain, but felt dizzy and a little bit sick. Fortunately the people from the local clinic were quick to arrive and wheel me off in a wheelchair whilst I wibbled on in increasingly bad Spanish. The pain started to kick in and I have to say that I have never felt anything like it and hope not to have to ever again. It must be said at this point that both Gonzalo and the medical staff at the clinic were absolutely wonderful. The paramedic was chatting to me the whole way and was reassuring me with small talk about the weather, where I was from and so on, Gonzalo was making jokes and talking about the latest music he was listening to and Sonia, Pili and the children followed on as quickly as they could. Once settled into the Accident and Emergency bed I heard the words I had been expecting but really hadn’t wanted to hear. ” Esto te va a doler un huevo” which roughly translates as “This is going to hurt like a bastard”. I must say at this point that Gonzalo said to me in very good English not to worry and that he was there for me, at which point the paramedic in a practically perfect RP said “Well if you’d like to swear in English then go ahead, but please write it down for me afterwards.”. So I gripped Gonzalo’s hands very tightly and swore profusely as one of my toenails was taken out undrugged. I felt everything, the slow tearing as it all came out and a sort of ‘plop’ as it fully came out. The pain was incredible, like nothing I have ever felt before, and I must say that I hope never to have to feel again. I always used to think that the term ’screaming’ for pain was a bit overused, but it really is how it felt. I really wouldn’t wish it on anyone, as it is very uncomfortable indeed. 

The next toe was the worse of the two experiences. The paramedic told me that he had to take out everything including the root of the nail. This was going to mean morphine and having to inject me in my recently revealed nail-bed. The first thing he gave me was a syringe full of a pain killer that made me a bit dizzy, and then I was given the first injection, right into the very centre of my toe. It centred all the pain into one place and made me sit bolt upright and grip hold of Gonzalo’s hand as hard as I could. There were then four further injections around the base of the toe and the nail bed. At this point I must say that I hope never to have to take morphine again, but that I can fully understand the people that are addicted to it. I could feel the pain still, but I didn’t care a jot: not a sausage. They could have suggested running a marathon and I could have done it. I was the funniest, greatest person alive and if they had asked me to write in Serbo-Corat I would have only needed half an hour’s lesson and I could have rewritten “War and Peace”. Having said that, I could feel everything that was being done to me, including the slow tearing feeling as what was left of my nail was pulled out with the root close to follow. 

The paramedic had the wit to suggest that it was a shame it had only been my big toenails as my athlete’s foot could have been sorted out in one by removing all of my nails: which even managed to register to my more than fuzzy brain as sarcasm, though it made me bray like a donkey I was laughing so hard. During this whole process I had been swearing like a trooper, and after the bandaging was over I was asked to write down some of the things I had said. So should any of you be near the poligono in Toldeo, then please don’t be too surprised if you hear some quite colourful English swearing coming from the accident and emergency. 

“A minnow a minnow, I have him by the nose” exclaims Jeremy Fisher in Beatrix Potter’s story for children, and I feel that she is saying something really relevant for today too. In fact ‘Settlers’, an old ‘God’ style game where you control the fate of a race that has lost its home also has a very good point too. We are minnows firmly caught by the nose that believe we are gods in control of everything around us. When I started writing this I thought it was going to be a Henry the fifth style pep talk, but then cynicism kicked in and I realized that the human race couldn’t care less about pep talks unless they’re in Disney films.
The fact is that the more I look at the planet around us, the more convinced I am that we are treating it like one of the many management games available on the PC. You are put in control of a group of people, country, planet etc. and then the game gets steadily more and more difficult, throwing different and varied challenges in your direction until ultimately you are totally destroyed. The problem with a lot of the management games available is that people get bored of being good and then start to destroy things: even taking delight in releasing Godzilla or a couple of well placed tornados right in the middle of the heaving metropolis to watch the skyscrapers burn and the people run around like ants with their nest on fire. It would seem that we have got to the stage of boredom where this has happened to humanity. Those in charge have got bored of leading, having power and being responsible: so now it’s all about sex, drugs, rock and roll and making as much money as you can in the least amount of time. In a rather stereotypical cliché, let’s quote Nirvana “It’s better to burn out than to just fade away”.
Let’s face it. We have the technology to make electric cars, we have the means to end world hunger, everyone could live together in peace, but we can’t be bothered. It’s too much like effort. Even the web-pages where you only have to give one click to give some child somewhere food for one day without even filling in any forms get half heartedly clicked once and then totally forgotten. People are far more interested in sending on a chain letter promising them the best sex they’ve ever had rather than feeding someone going hungry. Think about it. How many times in the last month have you sent an e-mail on because it promised you your wish come true, or because apparently AOL or Bill Gates are going to bother to track an e-mail all round the world and mystically pay you a couple of hundred quid without having your bank details or your real name? Sex fairy, wish come true, or…
The other day, parked outside the school I was working in until recently, I had paid for a couple of hours but my student had cancelled the lesson at the last minute. So I went to give my meter ticket to someone else. I wasn’t going to use it, and thought that perhaps someone else could take advantage of it. I don’t think I look particularly like a serial killer, or like I have leprosy, or even like I’m dangerous. In fact I was in a semi suit (without tie admittedly) and had a briefcase and was armed with my most charming of boyish grins. I spoke to three people: one of whom ignored me, another drove off, and the third person took some convincing to make them believe I was being honest. Obviously anyone giving something away must have an ulterior motive, as they couldn’t possibly be genuine. When giving this parking ticket away I was even told off by an elderly woman whose words went along the lines of ‘keep acting like that and you’ll end up stabbed and in a gutter’. For giving away a parking ticket.
I’m waiting for the big cursor in the sky to come down, pluck me up in true Black And White style and offer me as a sacrifice, or to see a big ‘Game Over’ flashing up in the sky one of these days, and the cosmic joke will all be over; If this isn’t a game then the reality of the situation is far, far worse than any games company could ever have believed.

As I once wrote a long time ago, “It’s three am and I’m alone”. Just that this time it’s without the bitter taste of any cheap cigarettes, or any crying females anywhere nearby, though in all possibility the girl that lives next door may start at any minute, but she’s only months old so that’s quite normal in her case.
One good thing about a sleepless night is the ever present beer that it seems to mystically provide, and the chance to one again visit the bits of the brain that aren’t in everyday use.  Though these days the old burnable friend isn’t here to accompany me any more like he used to, filling the room with smoke and letting my mind wander with the wisps and curls he let fly out and embrace me and then wander out into the night. I really miss rummaging round in the top pocket of my shirt, or the inside pocket of my charity shop’s finest jacket to root out the packet of Royals, tap them sharply against my hand, take out a fresh smoke and light up and lose myself in five minutes ‘me time’. Five years and three months ago today I smoked the last pack that had cost me a miniscule amount due to the exchange rate from Sterling to Euros and said goodbye to an old and cherished friend that had helped keep me sane on many an occasion.
My brand of choice was always Royals. In fact it still is if I get the chance for a sneaky cig at a wedding or at New Year then if there are Royals on offer then that’s my poison. They used to come in packs of twelve or twenty four following the imperial measures: sadly these days, having given in to pressure, they come in packs of ten and twenty like any other run of the mill tobacco. I used to love the white packet with the red stripe, seeing the crest on every packet, feeling the weight of the packet as I “packed in the ‘baccy” as a good friend called it, and then tore away the protective paper to smell that fresh tobacco smell. Chris used to call them ‘oily rags’ and asked me why on earth I was smoking ‘Those beefy flavoured things’.
“Why don’t you just smoke an Oxo cube? It’d be cheaper” he told me often: I never changed though.
They were there for my delusions of grandeur, for the moments when I realized they were delusions. They were there for my failures and for my successes and they were even there in songs about both. I’ve never really been one for metaphor, and most of the things you’ll find written around here are based on personal experience. So as the reference at the introduction said, that pack of Royals was there even when all the lights were out and everyone was asleep.
“It’s three am and I’m alone,
With the bitter taste of my cheap cigarettes.
My arms around a crying friend,
God let me take all of her pain away”
I was sat in our front room when that was written. Strumming around on my dad’s twelve string and messing around with chord shapes. I’d been out that night with a girl from college that I really liked, but, as per usual with most of the feminine species, she didn’t really think the same about me. So, yet another boy had treated her abysmally, she was fed up and trying to cope with a lot of things at once and had taken me to the centre of town to sit on the monument of a December night, smoke, talk and, in her case cry. A lot.
The moment we sat down I had fumbled in my top pocket, rooted out a cig and put my arm around an already crying girl to listen to the story. The wind bit in, the words flowed on from both of us, and the night generally moved on not caring whether we lived or died or spontaneously combusted; the image however, stayed.
So my old friend, on a night like tonight I really miss your company, even though my doctor is certainly glad that you’re gone, I miss you.  The song will always have you there, as will some of my other late night musings; it was time to move on.