You Might As Well Live!

Today I have been on a Suicide and Self-Harming Course called Razor's Edge.

Not so much a 'How To' but more a 'What To Do When You Encounter It' crash course in delivering a mental Heimlich manoeuvre to distressed students. The course was presented by an energetic and erudite glinty-eyed psychiatrist who dressed like an undertaker and evidently regarded the outer extremes of human behaviour with something akin to the relish of a dangerous sports enthusiast, seeming a little disappointed not to have come across a patient with multiple personality disorder in his wide experience yet!

But for all that and a healthy dollop of black humour, Dr Bourne proved practical, compassionate and endlessly imaginative in the means he devised to postpone would-be suicidal practitioners until they'd had time to think it over and consider other solutions to their problems, and convince self-harmers there were safer means of obtaining that endorphin high or psychological relief achieved by cutting themselves.

During the course of the day he came through the door dressed in several guises, adopting the narrative, mannerisms and accents of several 'patients' for us to offer assistance to in the course of our day jobs. He then changed and came back to dissect each case, the advice we had given and the advice we might like to consider giving if it were to happen in real life. All the cases were based on real life cases so he was also able to tell us the real life outcome of each one.
We also learned some fascinating facts such as;

• Vets are the profession of highest suicide risk. Social isolation posted in small towns and villages where they might take a long time to be accepted into the community plus they have the means and they are trained to kill (ie put animals down)
• Hose pipe through the car window suicides have radically dropped in popularity in the last ten years owing to catalytic converters. Most modern cars would require you to sit in them for hours or even days to die, by which time you would have been discovered by interfering dog walkers many times over!
• The majority of suicides do it on impulse and are more likely to do it if they have the means to hand - therefore pharmacists and hospital doctors have a high suicide rate as they know exactly what to do for a quick, painless and certain end and have easy access to the means. GPs less so as few surgeries keep their own drugs on the premises and most must write out prescriptions for their patients to pick up at the pharmacy (providing the pharmacist is still alive!)
• When talking someone suicidal out of it, or at least into postponing it, do not underestimate their embarrassment. If they feel too foolish for backing down, particularly in a public place where crowds may have gathered and the emergency services may have arrived they may suddenly pluck up the resolve to kill themselves purely because they feel they could not live with the embarrassment of climbing down, literally, and this has become as pertinent to them as the original problem or set of problems which sent them to the top of the high building in the first place.
• Many suicides are still not recorded as such for various reasons but labelled 'misadventure' or 'accident' to spare family feelings. In addition it is impossible to be sure re many drug overdoses so it is likely that actual rates of suicide may be several times higher than officially recorded.

He also taught us how to protect ourselves both mentally and physically and how imperative it is to do this first in order to be of best use to the person at risk. But that if the worst still went ahead, it would not be a failure on our part, more our misfortune to encounter a particularly determined individual bent on killing themselves no matter what.

You could tell Dr Bourne was an enthusiast about his work as in an unwitting moment of humour and without a hint of irony he recommended 'Night Falls Fast:Understanding Suicide' by Kay Redfield Jamison as a good holiday read.

It may sound strange but I would recommend the Suicide and Self-Harming Course to anyone who deals with people in their day job. It is a kind of equivalent to First Aid but for the mind and was surprisingly uplifting in many ways taking the fear out of being confronted by such a situation, despite some of the exercises being pretty scary and a certain amount of stepping out of comfort zones required.

And it was of course impossible not to recall Dorothy Parker's famous verse on the subject.

Résumé

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

I've often thought that if I'm ever famous enough to pen an autobiography it might be called 'If Things Don't Get Any Better In Six Months, THEN I'll Kill Myself', the joke of it being it would be a rolling six months which would eventually take me up to the end of my natural span by default!

Who Will Expose This Evil In Our Midst?

A lot has been said about the facist evils of the BNP, but what about the SNP (Scottish National Party)? It seems to me that with their insidious 'Tartan is Right!' chant and blatant agenda to force every man, woman and child in the UK to become Scottish, this party is getting off any cricitism Scot-free!

Now I'm as liberal as the next person and some of my best friends are Scottish, but I'll be damned if anyone forces me to speak in a funny accent, use funny money and eat fried mars bars. And their plan to convert all British church bells to the bagpipes is outrageous!

And frankly who needs better schools, more caring hospitals and fairer justice in the Courts system, not to mention an end to gazumping in the property market and Rabbie Burns day? Not me.













As for putting a stop to the further climb of the BNP's Nick Griffin. Easy peasy. Aside from the impossibility of taking a man who looks like Humpty Dumpty seriously, one could easily complete the look and ensure he never reaches higher office by swapping his shampoo for hair removing cream (history demonstrates that the electorate seldom votes in the bald guy - even if they actually give a toss about the politics).

Post-Feminist

According to Lily Allen's latest hit '22', if a female reaches 29 and hasn't yet found the man of her dreams to define her, 'society says her life is already over'.

You can download this cheerful ditty (full lyrics below) as a ringtone too.

Personally, as a female slightly over 29 who never tried the romantic tactic of piling it high to sell it cheap (aka did the one-night stand thing), but who still never got whisked off to a castle in the air by a straight Prince Charming before her 29-year shelf life elapsed, I'm just off to jump off a cliff...

Ms Allen is 24 years old (only another 5 years to go then. Shame really. Think how much more evolved her lyrics might have had to become as a thirtysomething.)

I know... miaow! But what is life without a little celeb-baiting? Hare coursing is now banned.

When she was 22 the future looked bright
But she's nearly 30 now and she's out every night
I see that look in her face she's got that look in her eye
She's thinking how did I get here and wondering why

It's sad but it's true how society says
Her life is already over
There's nothing to do and there's nothing to say
Til the man of her dreams comes along picks her up and puts her over his shoulder
It seems so unlikely in this day and age

She's got an alright job but it's not a career
Wherever she thinks about it, it brings her to tears
Cause all she wants is a boyfriend
She gets one-night stands
She's thinking how did I get here
I'm doing all that I can

It's sad but it's true how society says
Her life is already over
There's nothing to do and there's nothing to say
Til the man of her dreams comes along picks her up and puts her over his shoulder
It seems so unlikely in this day and age

It's sad but it's true how society says
Her life is already over
There's nothing to do and there's nothing to say
Til the man of her dreams comes along picks her up and puts her over his shoulder
It seems so unlikely in this day and age

[Copyright Lily Allen. Lyrics from www.songlyrics.com]

Roadkill

Conscientious driver that I am, twice this week have I been forced to slam on the anchors to avoid mowing down a couple of wheat ears among the latest crop of students who specialise in stepping off the pavement straight in front of moving vehicles without looking - relying on that infallible immortality of theirs - the second without even an iPod glued to its ears as excuse.

Whether or not all the 'Drink Yourself To Death For A Fiver!' leaflets the Freshers are bombarded with by local bars the moment they come up had anything to do with either incident, it struck me that just as more and more youngsters are apparently starting primary school without being toilet-trained or able to speak more than a handful of baby words, an increasing number of students are turning up at University without the ability to even cross the road, much though you learn to expect (in my line of work) many won't be able to make toast without activating the fire alarm or use the washing machine without an engineer being required to mop up the aftermath.

I then mused whether Society is in effect, going backwards, possibly trailing evolution not far behind in its wake.

My thoughts turned to the poor and dare I say, increasingly haggard-looking, parents re-mortgaging their homes in order to afford to send their offspring to University, particularly in a recession, only to risk their investment being run over and all that money wasted for want of a Green Cross Code man.

Perhaps Freshers' Week needs to become 'Basic Lifeskills' week rather than an orgy of mindless drinking and pointless dungeon and dragon societies.

If this makes me a killjoy, how much less fun if joy ends up on a slab because it isn't capable of assuming even the slightest young adult responsiblity for itself, whether through 'whatever' lackadaisical nature or a negligent lack of parental nuture.

If only history were still taught, more youngsters might realise how hard many of their predecessors once fought to be educated and then to vote and how the powers that be were terrified of the idea of educated voting peasantry and working classes, contriving accordingly to keep them ignorant and therefore controllable for as long as possible.

They would then also know that religion and cheap drink were historically employed as opiates for the masses, where bread and circuses proved insufficient. Now religion has lost it hold, bread and circuses are passe and drink has become even cheaper and available 24/7, to be joined by drug highs for less than the cost of a cappucino. Worse still, acting dumbly and bragging about it has become fashionable, and even aspirational behaviour.

How reassuring it would be to see a 'Wake Up And Smell The Coffee Dudes! Society' at next year's Freshers' Fair.

Meanwhile I might look into whether there is such a thing as a 'student chaser' available to bolt onto the front of the car. Or invent one, if there isn't.

Save the Human!

This is the sort of town I would like to live in.






Sadly far more towns look something like this..




Sometimes I wonder if housing is built by people for people at all. Or if people can only dream of being listened to when it comes to their own housing.

I guess it's called 'progress'

Let's stand in the way everyone. Let's say a big fat 'No!' to Brutalism. And battery cage homes for humans, with anything but the space and light we all claim to want, let alone room to get our furniture in. Let's demand that all 'progress' be in a forwardly direction, and preferably with posterity attached to help our era mean something.

Slow Down Unless You're A Banker (in which case honk!)

Last week saw the start of a new half-cocked (undemocratically elected) scheme to grind Oxford's traffic to a fume-farting halt by imposing a 20 mph speed limit on various sections of the city centre and residential streets.
Now narrow residential streets with cars parked on both sides with their multitude of hazards such as possible small boys running across the road in-between parked cars I understand, but MAIN roads which already have a plethora of crossings, traffic islands, lights and speed cameras to slow the motorist down? Where is the logic in reducing these to 20?
It feels as if we sensible drivers (and whatever my green sympathies, I am required to drive around the city quite a lot as part of my new job) are being penalised for the drink and drug-addled minority who commit the moronic acts such as cutting up or overtaking on a 30mph stretch and swinging out of corners at high speed minus signals - offences they continue to commit if not more so under the new more-restrictive regime, surprise surprise. Now if the REAL dangerous drivers such as these, not forgetting the latest breed who TWEET about how clever and badass they are to post to Twitter whilst driving faced stiffer penalties such as losing their licence for 10 years if caught, rather than a slap on the wrist, a life ban if they killed or mained anyone, THAT would be be more sensible and effective than this ridiculous money squandering scheme where it is 30 miles an hour one minute and 20 the next with no particular rhyme or reason attached to which section of road is which, bar the obvious side streets. And don't get me started on dangerous cyclists or lemming pedestrians who seem to rate listening to their iPods above looking before they pull out or cross! Don't they deserve a penalty or two? Or doesn't the Highway Code apply to them?
Cars are not going to go away after all. Though perhaps they might be drastically reduced at least if truly radical schemes such as the reintroduction of trams or the provision of continuous cycle lanes were considered, so what is the point of deliberately creating obstacles for cars, thereby promoting the mass pollution of idling engines?

Meanwhile on Radio 4's Today programme this week, a city finance chief was challenged about the fact that huge bonuses continue to be paid to bankers, despite the recession, and performance regardless - even in the cases where banks have been bailed out by the government via our taxpayer's money to stay afloat.

His reply was that they had to continue to pay large bonuses as our banking talent would otherwise be lost abroad.

What a brilliant strategical tactic, I thought! Kill the bonuses so they go abroad and destabilise somone else's economy with foolish risk taking whilst our own country has a chance to recover and fight back.

And do they leave us any alternative when no financial institution will seemingly hear of bonuses being performance-related, or at the very least, paid after tax, and after profit margins have been factored in? It now even emerges that a handful of cheeky bankers are suing for not receiving the obscene bonuses they expected.

Let Them Eat Leaves

The Hungry Caterpillar

Fourteen days from larvae to caterpillar
Then I ate and I ate 'til I was a fatterpillar
I ate and I ate 'til I began to pupate
Becoming a butterfly would be worth the wait
Not to mention save a fortune in fur and Jimmy Choos
I was ready for my time in the sun, ready to hit the news
But first, I was trapped in a chrysalis!
Waiting for my supermodel miracle catalyst
Suppose my shell refused to shed
Suppose a sparrow ate me for a mcsnack instead
Or I became a mutant ninja caterpillar with a caterpillar track
How could I take the cat(erpillar) walk by storm with that?
Luckily I emerged and my wings unfurled to reveal…a Red Admirable
The Royalty of the flutterby world
So it's rose petal red carpets all the way
Heading the butterfly parade at the break of each day
The sweetest nectar, the most potent pollen
I almost binged 'til I was swollen
Before remembering I was the supermodel of stick-insect kind
And snorting sherbet instead.

©LS King 2009

This was my contribution to an open air reading with Back Room Poets in Oxford's Botanic Gardens today on the theme of The Hungry Caterpillar. As you can see I am a poet in crysalis. Who knows what I will hatch into. If only I hadn't ate all that cake instead of boring leaves...

Pride and Progress

This is Caversham Court in Reading, a former Rectory to nearby St Peter's Church and one of the second grandest houses in the Parish dating back to the early 1800s.

In 1933 it was razed to the ground by Reading Council to make way for a road which was never built.

Thanks to the tireless endeavours of several local citizen's action groups and charities, Caversham Court is now somewhat redeemed as a newly-restored riverside public park, and you can walk around the outline of where the grand house used to stand.

















Below is
Christchurch Meadow in Oxford, surely one of the most stunning vistas to be found in England and the stuff of Brideshead Revisited with the rivers Thames (aka Isis) and Cherwell bordering two sides of it and Oxford Colleges, the third, not to mention the Botanic Gardens invading a corner, and steeped in about as much history as it's possible to find, including early balloon landings and mediaeval settlements. In the 1950s a city councillor thought it would be a great idea to build a road straight through it. Luckily he didn't get away with it as doughty Oxford citizens fought back.

Makes you wonder what we have lost elsewhere though. What other country is as short-sighted as England so often is about carving up its towns and cities in the name of 'Progress' (but more often mere sacrifice to the greater glory of the combustion engine and its continued sales and movement). And I speak as the possessor of a driving licence who happily uses alternative transport wherever it exists.

Artistic Yearnings

I have always wished I could paint but it is amazing the effects you can get with a cheap out-of-focus digital camera. This was Port Meadow in Oxford this morning doing a good job of pretending to be 1909.





















Don't you just love the way the animals are all lined up like those Britains plastic farm animals?




















You never know. This could be a latter-day Haywain. Which reminds me I must get back to penning my forthcoming best-seller 'The Constable Code' solving the mystery of why so many thousands of people bought that print to hang above the mantelpiece on their living room walls. I am sure there must be some complicated mathematical equation behind it all. Not to mention Opus Dei.





A strange bird I found in my garden. I think it might be related to the Magpie family.






I haven't been able to afford a holiday this year, but these are some snaps I took on a weekend in Brighton for a family reunion in May to celebrate my mother's 70th.

Things to Do in Oxfordshire Before You're Dead

Quite a random piecemeal posting from me this week I'm afraid.

You've just got to love our local newspaper where the traditional and highbrow vie with the lurid.'Didcot Man Cuts Off Own Penis' was a particularly memorable recent headline, as if the town and the gesture were somehow interconnected. Foolish man I thought, to cut off one of his only sources of entertainment in that godforsaken outpost with only bingo, a power station, Didcot Parkway and alcoholism to offer. As for The Oxford Times Letters pages, they must count as among the only in the country where arguments about bus routes and theosophical debates about the existence of God rage side by side. One thing that startles when you read it for any length of time though are the high volume of both kiddie fiddlers and suicides we appear to have in Oxfordshire. And cancer. Not to mention opera. Only recently tabloidised, it retains its pretentious dinosaur food critic (if he didn't exist, you would have to invent him) but has funked itself up with wonderful photography and maintains high production values with a real bias towards the Arts and few 'Shed Fire!''s creeping in. Friends of mine appear in it and its magazines with worrying regularity with their latest artistic or green triumphs. And it still carries proper Obituary columns to aspire to at lifes' end.







The Sue Ryder charity shop in Abingdon specialises in dolls houses and furniture.








Nice touch in the Cornish Pasty shop of smuggler decor. Someone had smuggled all the flavour out of the pasties though.










Inedible crisps.
















You don't say. If they're free, I'm having a dozen!













They've had the feedback forms from Future Generations and it's official - Future Generations want a state-of-the art modern museum that gets down with da kids man. None of this musty antiquated stuff. Except for the Mummy obviously. No museum is complete without a Mummy.












Cherwell Valley Service Station - Every essential for the modern motorist...



















Unauthorised golf - a growing menace in Oxford parks...













Actually toddlers are often better parkers than their parents.

Stay in Oxford and See the World!

Well it's that time of the year where you can hardly move for the tourist melee in the centre of Oxford.

Each year it becomes more of a battle to negotiate the narrow mediaeval pavements with large tourist groups steaming along or stopping en mass suddenly in front of you and spilling out onto the road, seemingly oblivious to the buses thundering towards them down The High. TEFL students are particularly lemming-like and street unwise and I am amazed we do not see more serious injuries and fatalities to mar their overseas trips as they walk both in the road and across the road without looking.

Now don't get me wrong - Oxford is very definitely a special place that ought to be shared and many of our foreign visitors are charming and lovely, (not to mention much needed economically). However I can't help wishing there were some means by which they could be taught a bit of road sense and general cultural etiquette before disembarking from coaches and being let loose by language schools. Walking along in an orderly 'crocodile' of not more than 2-3 abreast with one chaperone per 20, particularly for our younger visitors would be a great start, short of pedestrian lights, mirrors and indicators! And some cultural pointers such as 'How to queue', when to say 'Please' and 'Thank you' and how not to talk at the top of their voices all the time, bounce balls off shop windows and to turn their mobiles off in libraries and museums would also greatly enhance their experience of Oxford and Oxford's experience of them.

Though of course it is hard to instill British cultural values into visitors when they are bound to observe our own locals showing complete disrespect/disregard/ignorance of same!

Narrow streets aside, Oxford does suffer some serious drawbacks in catering for such large groups of people, no matter that it should be a past master at such.

1. Very few restaurants/cafes/pubs are equipped to cope with groups of more than 10 without prior booking so you invariably see groups of aimless and disappointed overseas visitors traipsing from one to another in the evenings trying to find a space where they can all sit, eat and share their day together.
2. There is no decent large open space in the city centre where they can be dropped off by coaches to mill around and wait for tour guides with plenty of seats, loos and other useful facilities.
3. There is no left luggage facility for the day visitor (which I find extraordinary, considering at least 50% of visitors are day visitors).
4. Our public toilets (bar those in the Town Hall only open when the Town Hall is) are squalid and a disgrace for a city of international repute.

So many international cities have addressed these basics, I shudder to think what visitors must make of Oxford. And don't get me started on the hideous architecture they have to behold in the midst of the beautiful dreaming spire stuff they have really come to see. And to think Hitler purposefully didn't bomb Oxford in WWII as he loved historic buildings so much. Sadly our 1960/70s planners proved far more ruthless in this regard.

Whatever the disadvantages of so much life teeming through our streets every summer though, tourists certainly bring vibrancy, buzz and colour to the city and I doubt we would have two fabulous 24 hr coach London services and exotic eateries springing up all over the place were it were not for their influence.

When asked about my own travels, I often reply; 'well there's really no need to, sooner or later the world comes to Oxford to save me the job!' And I do have a pet theory that at least 80% of the world's population-with-passports will probably pass through this cosmopolitan mecca at some point in their lives.

Some people take the fear that other cultures might 'take over' a little too far though...

Who will buy my luvverly useless mobile?

I saw this on a noticeboard the other day and was immediately suspicious when I recalled the advice given to me by 3 (ie if your phone does not work, why not sell the rest of your contract to a friend or relation?). I can imagine this desperate 3 mobile owner will be rapidly disowned by all, in addition to evidently having been dis-phoned by 3! Distressingly I realised I do not possess one single friend or relation I hate enough to sell my contract to and the only selling points I can think of to tempt anyone else to invest in a phone that cuts out at every opportunity if it rings at all is 'reduces mobile bills - and brain tumours'
Amusingly the uselessness of 3 coverage even cropped up as a comedy topic on the Alan Carr show the other day! Talking of which do please sign my online petition No coverage? No contract! against mobile phone companies committing this superhighway robbery of making customers pay for their entire contract length despite getting no signal! And outrageously this practice is currently entirely legal. I've also been lobbying BBC's Watchdog into an anti mobile-phone company abuse campaign too. What other company is allowed to charge for a service they cannot provide, after all?

Other news: My local radio station is currently running a series of 'Happy Scrappy!' ads on how if your car is over 10 years old and you have owned it for over a year, you can trade it in for scrap against a £3k discount on a new car. How green, I thought, appalled, giving my little 11 year old racing red Felicia a reassuring tap. Googling the scheme, apparently it is all about boosting the flaccid car industry rather than the Government honouring its own hollow green rhetoric, but whose car industry, since the vast majority of cars are no longer British-made?

Oh, and I have a new job, hence have been away from the blogosphere for a while, learning the ropes. Things going ok so far and my new colleagues seem nice. It is certainly a relief to have got something to pay the bills in the middle of a recession anyway (albeit after a great deal of trying). It's still in the educational sector, but since this blog is not meant to be about work...

Creative things have kind of been on the back burner a bit lately anyway, not to mention blogging, although I did enjoy a most congenial evening with my fellow Oxford writers at Mostly Books where we led a round table discussion on how we achieved our short story book success and options for new authors generally, to a packed house. Furthermore we seemed to have inspired the birth of a new writer's group in Abingdon, which is nice! Mark was the sort of friendly, enthusiastic, switched-on independent bookshop owner who gladdens the heart and really ought to be cloned. He had thought of everything, not least choosing suitably shaped premises in which to host events in the first place. Anyone who despairs of the future of independent bookselling ought to go and see what he is trying to achieve at his fine establishment, not to mention all his 'outreach work' organising author and reader events at festivals and schools as well as in his shop.

On a visit to Peterborough at the weekend, I was surprised at how seriously they seem to be taking the swine flu outbreak











And how blatantly they celebrate their medieaval scandals...
















En route to Peterborough we witnessed a smouldering burned out lorry and several burned out mangled lumps of metal which only hours before had presumably been cars on the closed opposite lane of the A14 attended by a plethora of emergency vehicles. Not a sausage on the news that night though, or to be found on the internet. Has anyone else noticed this disturbing trend of unreported major happenings? A couple of years ago my former line manager witnessed a young boy run out to be killed by a car on the ringroad from the bus he was travelling in, but it too never reached the news that night or the newspapers next day.

And on that cheerful note, I look forward to catching up with you all in the next few days. It seems a long time.

Michael Jackson's Killer

Michael Jackson's last album was in 2005 and it flopped.
His last live performance was in 2002.
He was in financial ruin after defending himself against child molestation allegations in 2005 (he won his innocence but lost his fortune) and forays into business and real estate were not amounting to much.

His management had just admitted to him that his forthcoming final curtain tour would involve 50 dates and not the 10 he had previously agreed to.
He was addicted to painkillers.
He had a dodgy cardiologist living on his premises who seemingly did not realise the dangers of heart drugs or drug combining. Or perhaps he just couldn't say no to a patient clearly panicking about a massive tour he was highly unlikely to be up to after a 7 year break from performing and all the emotional angst of having to defend himself against another set of parents happy to 'pimp' their young son out to his companionship, doubtless in hope of a massive payout, regardless of the innocence of their child's encounter with the star (and frankly I find it more likely that Mr Jackson was verging on the asexual than a bona fide kiddie fiddler).

I recently met someone who spent much of their professional life working as close personal bodyguard for one famous rock star and actress after another. He told me that they grow entirely dependent on their management whom it often suits to have them believe they can trust no one in the world except them, and then go on to begin controlling every aspect of the star's life, to the extent of even persuading them to marry a fellow star if they think it will be beneficial to their career. If the star is not intellectually very bright, or has a drug dependancy problem, they will often encourage this to further keep them under the thumb/their own parasitic gravy train going. Not that it is Michael Jackson's fault he was not intellectually gifted - being a child star from the age of 5, he had scarcely received an education.

But musical genius aside, I think it is highly likely Michael Jackson would have been classed as a 'vulnerable adult' in the real world and been offered the appropriate help. Of course the one thing his Management couldn't control was his mental instability and liability to blurt out naive ill-considered comments in public which might reflect badly on him, despite the beatific smile.

'Colonel Parker' apparently had a hand in Elvis' slow demise. Dylan Thomas was aided to his own premature death. Now Michael Jackson. Have 'they' accidentally killed their golden goose yet again?

RIP Mr Jackson. At least no one can torment you any more. And thanks for all the memories (though I think we all wish you hadn't gone to such pains to look like the love child of Elizabeth Taylor and Kirk Douglas, probably even you eventually, when it led to such cosmetic problems for you. I therefore attach some photos of you looking magnificant just the way you were - and the way most of us treasured you most.)

Advantages of the Recession

1. We all become greener-by-default as we economise to save money. And grounded too, now we can't afford flights!
2. The renaissance of the Dunkirk Spirit as adversity brings out the best in everyone and they lend each other cups of sugar and sing 'Knees Up Mother Brown' in the street round the old Joanna.
3. The resurgence of more spiritual values as we realise materialism isn't everything (now that we can't afford it)

Perhaps you can think of a few more while I cheer myself by fantasising about what manner of pad I'd like when I'm wealthy enough. Yes, I have decided to allow my name to be put forward for the directorship of a failing bank. I reckon for £609m I can offer real VfM by throwing in a free Poet-in-Residence role too. And funnily enough I did used to work for Royal Bank of Scotland many moons ago. For £3.69 an hour. Though to be fair we were issued with free teabags and a bright blue and green tartan uniform which glowed in the dark. I wonder if they will make their new appointee wear one. I do hope so.

Quick, Have A Baby While Stocks Last!

Every time I switch on the TV or open a newspaper lately, it seems that some patronising medical 'expert' (usually male) is still harping on about how women under 35 should hurry up and have children.

Why does this smack of some subversive government 'programme' to re-stock the nation's cannon fodder? Are they planning another war in 19 years or so? And excuse me, but isn't this supposed to be an overcrowded planet which can scarcely sustain the population it already has? What's with all this drive for more childbearing? And if there is some population shortfall, aren't our under-age teens lying back and thinking of England enough to fill it?

I thank my lucky stars to have been free of hormonal (and particularly) patronising expert bullying as to what I should do with my body, when, and to have realised that it is perfectly possible to live a happy and fulfilling life minus the pitter patter of tiny Kickers. I mean make no mistake, I adore any child over the age of two who doesn't bear an uncanny resemblence to the Devil's spawn (and over on More4 last night Supernanny was contending with a 3 year old who thought that spitting in his mother's face and laughing was hilarious. Or perhaps he was just conforming to the thuggish number 2 haircut and matching baby-thug outfit she had inflicted on him), but it is sure is nice to hand them back at the end of the afternoon or evening.

Anyway if I'm meant to have one, doubtless someone will leave me one in a carrier bag on the doorstep and then I'll know it's meant to be.

Meanwhile above are some paper cut-out-and-keep children. Polite, planet-friendly, no school or University fees, a credit to you, don't answer back, keep their rooms tidy - who could ask for more?

Squirrel Wars

Rumour has it that the grey squirrel has decided there are too many Royals and that it is about time there was a cull of the less useful, one might say parasitic, variety.

Seriously though, regular readers of this blog will know how partial I am to this little critter and may even recall my previous posting on its ethnic cleansing

Of course the Red is cute too, but is it really necessary to kill the Grey rather than simply providing it with birth control? What a bloodthirsty nation we seem worryingly eager to be when there might be more humane solutions, befitting our British conceit about ourselves as a civilised society.

Or perhaps the Red Squirrel loves a foodstuff that the Grey Squirrel hates - marmite - for example, which could liberally be spread about our parks to incentivise and encourage the Red, but discourage and deter the Grey. Nature is normally pretty good at self-regulating after all, so perhaps it just needs a little nudge here and there, rather than full-scale genocide.

On the other hand if the problem is really that the Grey Squirrel is so much hardier and fecund than the Red, perhaps they could lend the Red a gene or two!

The Walcott-Padel Affair

Just don't start any rumours, ok?

But Oxford's Professor of Poetry chair has certainly been hotly contested to the point of hitting the national headlines.

Derek Walcott was all set to walk it when rumours of his hitting on a couple of his female students with inappropriate comments and behaviour in the US many years ago suddenly surfaced. Not major-league stuff, and probably no worse than what many another famous male poet gets up to in his attempts to sexually coerce his less-enamoured female students into sharing a bed with him, but suddenly the whole thing blew up.

Mr Walcott duly bowed out, not wishing the post to be brought into disrepute. So almost by default, rival poet Ruth Padel got elected. However turns out that Ms Padel had sent a few 'innocent' e-mails to journalist friends detailing some aspects of Mr Walcott's alleged past. Stranger still, turns out that 200 letters containing 'strikingly similar' phrasing to Ms Padel's had been dispatched on the same day from the same London sorting office to key Oxford academics in the literary world.

The pressure was mounting and Ruth Padel herself stepped down.

Mysteriouser and Mysteriouser.

Thus the Oxford Professorship of Poetry remains unclaimed and awaiting a new selection process. For myself, I can promise not to descend into a dirty tricks campaign to get elected or slag any of my rivals off. My strategy will consist of a perfectly open and honest attempt at stating my case to the selection committee with the aid of a Powerpoint presentation. And an AK47.

Commensurate to the values of the world in which I live I shall demand to be elected on a 'poetic futures' basis - ie if I am elected they will be freeing me up to devote all my time to writing the poetry to end all poetry. The poetry that sinks a 1000 haiku's and launches 1000 sestina's. And not least being as I am still under 40 and a late blossomer, I do feel the best is yet to come for me artistically, so I'd represent a good risk and potential return for their investment in me.

Poetry fun and games aside, the other news story which caught my attention recently was that of a gentleman I share a housing trust committee with. For four years Andrew Wood has, without a word to the rest of us, been battling against the Metropolitan Police to have photographs they took of him without his consent at an Arms Trade AGM in a London hotel destroyed. And quite so. Why should anyone attending a perfectly legal meeting or protest (of whatever kind) be criminalised in this way, not least when the public are no longer to be allowed to photograph the Police in return, even when the Police are themselves acting illegally!

At last Big Brother Britain has received a well-deserved bloody nose for its pains, with hopefully many more (metaphorical) bloody noses to come as the innocent subject fights back (peacefully of course) against the Police State our once-proud nation seems to be turning into with the law-abiding singled out and persecuted at every turn. The irony of this case though is that Andrew genuinely is the most peace-loving, eco-friendly, community-minded, ethical individual the Police could have picked on. So why on earth it should be assumed that this least-hypocritical of human beings would suddenly wish to become the very ilk of threat to peace that he so abhors and protests against beggers belief.

Life And Other Battles...

Well I have almost caught up with all the Quincey episodes I missed owing to being only five or so when they were first screened, but apart from that, unemployment is a tough old game.

If you are not applying for jobs, you are looking for openings, sending speculative applications to possible openings, trying to keep up to speed with various knowledge and training in your field and signing on at agencies, the whole caboodle - aware of the growing competition all the time for each post as more and more people come onto the jobs market.

Then there are all the annoying side-issues to deal with such as battling the council and DSS just to prove you are who you say you are and entitled to the entitlements you have paid your taxes to receive (the council have now had two copies of my bank statements and two copies of my rent book/documentation, yet are still finding excuses to delay my claim).

And yes, I have considered becoming an MP for an easier life, free of having to justify myself all the time! I found it most interesting to read that Mr Brown amended the 2003 Income Tax (Earnings & Pensions) Act to exempt MP's expenses and allowances from tax! Nice work if you can get it indeed, though hopefully things are set to change for the more honourable following the current scandal.

Another battle is with my mobile phone company who are refusing to let me out of my 18 month contract after 6 months without massive penalties, despite having such a pants signal that I am scarcely able to use it and many complaints to their Indian call centre since I've had it, the staff of whom are perfectly polite and helpful within their strictly limited scripts, but evidently living in terror at losing their jobs by 'allowing' me to cancel my contract, even with the penalty they insist I would have to pay. Apparently the poor b*****ds are all on 7 week contracts! Finally at their request I returned my handset to the Glasgow repair centre to be checked, which I did via the Oxford 3 shop rather than risk it in the post. Two days later the repair centre e-mailed me with a picture of a broken screen saying that my contract did not cover repairs! So someone has either accidentally or deliberately damaged my handset. Luckily it was personally checked by the Manager of the 3 shop for physical damage and forms signed on both sides before they sent it away, so I doubt they have a leg to stand on in claiming I sent it in that state.

Separately to this I ordered an item from a printing company some 4 months ago which never arrived, despite the company insisting they dispatched it twice. Now they are asking me to send me their bank details by e-mail??!! I don't think so.

It is said that life is sent to try us. I have often joked that if ever I pen an autobiography it will be entitled; 'If Things Don't Get Any Better In Six Months, Then, I'll Kill Myself', the joke of it being that it's a rolling six months, and by the time I got round to killing myself, I'd be 95 anyway!

But I realise there are people worse off than me, and that if I stand on one leg with my neck craned at 45 degrees in a certain room of my house I actually get a perfect signal on my mobile and it only cuts out occasionally!

My Mother Kept These 'Just In Case...'

'Just in case' of what, she never elaborated. Certainly they weren't even fashionable when I was a size 0 (-6 months).



This is the sort of humilation a baby could expect to be subjected to in the early 1970s. Only worse. If only I could locate the snaps of my infant self dressed in my grandmother's bobble-hatted nightmares and cruelties-by-crochet (honestly, you'd call the NSPCC retrospectively!)

Unsurprisingly these days I have developed a real chip on my shoulder when I see infants wearing better clothes than I can afford.



Death by designer cuteness makes me sick.



I mean a baby 'surf suit' for heaven's sake!



Even their buggies look more like Formula 1 racing cars and bear macho names such as 'V6 Explorer'. My sister and I were ensconced in a no-frills stripey fold-up pushchair of the most basic kind. Not a hint of padding for our darling baby bottoms. Even a hole or two through which we could see the tarmac passing beneath us.














But hey, the mittens-sewn-onto-sleeves and bobble hats may have been awful but they were character-building. What chance have the spoiled little Emperor brats of today got of escaping a bland and bored existence with nothing to rebel against? And every parent who succumbs to the temptations of Mini Boden (or if they're really rich, Baby Bateau), is making a rod for their own backs on the pester power front for the rest of their lives.

Something else these kids miss out on is the chance to revisit knitting in later life (ok, so my therapist made me) and discover it's not all bad...

Renaissance of The Victorian Internet...?

Many Victorians enjoyed three postal deliveries a day - Breakfast, lunch and teatime. In most towns and cities it was possible to post a letter in the morning and receive a reply by teatime, or even return of post! Although telegrams caused a stir when they arrived, they were prohibitively expensive for all but emergency or overseas communiques. It was the Royal Mail's Post Office which offered the real Victorian 'internet' for the masses with its famous nationwide Penny Black stamp for all letters.

Over a century later, I was a huge devotee of letter writing and really enjoyed both sending and receiving them - until the rot of e-mail came along and infected me too, reducing my postal output to Christmas cards and the odd scribbled postcard.

Now, thanks in part to my thoughtlessness, our Post Office is at risk with branches closing weekly, many sorting offices closed or inefficiently amalgamated between cities and towns many miles from each other, and the Post Office struggles to deliver post to our homes even once a day, often long after the occupants have left for work and given up waiting for that important letter or cheque to be delivered.

Yet I have found from recent job applications that I receive far greater response from 'snail mail' applications than electronic ones. Has it really become so unusual to receive land mail and so common to be deluged by e-mail that more notice is now paid once more to the three-dimensional variety? And while I am always careful to type a relevant subject heading in any e-mail heading box, I can imagine that an awful lot of e-mails end up in people's Junk boxes, though of course there are those who conveniently pretend they have never received a message.

When not extolling the benefits of snail mail to my fellow unemployed, I have just seen another and greater glimmer of hope for the future of our Post Office. Namely that when all e-mails and mobile phone calls are intercepted (ok, stored for use) by our government, people will revert to writing letters in their droves as the only private means of communicating over distance. Certainly this move to spy on us all (just in case we develop some bizarre yen to take up a new career as terrorists) is bound to provoke a mass public reaction, and this would be the obvious one.

I have also, spurred by economic necessity, reverted to using my local Library a great deal more lately rather than buying books (another public service under increasing threat). 'Use it or lose it', as they say.

Ironic though that the Victorians had a better postal service than us. And a more extensive and reliable rail network. Not to mention nicer architecture. Some 'progress' would appear to be going in a backwards direction...

Pretending To Be Scottish

Last night I performed at a rather fun gig at Whitechapel Art Gallery, presided over by bitingly satirical Scottish poet friend Elvis McGonagall, (now a regular on Radio 4's Saturday Live).

The theme was Kilts, Caravans & Cookery and we all had to wear something tartan. Some very strange approximations abounded and a good-natured Clash of the Tartans ensued!

Which reminded me of the strange phenomenon that happens whenever one goes to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, and which inspired me to pen the following poetic monologue (print version beneath podcast for those without speakers).




Pretending to be Scottish

It starts innocuously enough, usually on day three of the Edinburgh Fringe
You're traipsing down the rain-reflective cobbles of the Royal Mile
For a traditional Scottish lunch of
vegetarian haggis, neeps and tatties at World's End
And you pass a knitwear shop
Selling jumpers five sheep thick
And suddenly you want one
No matter that the weather in England
Is never quite that polar and it's £200 quid
Then you see bolts of clan tartan for sale
And it looks quite nice
A piper on a corner pumps up a mournful dirge
And rather than flee the bag of cats being strangled
You are assailed by a wave of emotion, strangely nostalgic
For your adopted homeland
All normal thoughts of violence translated into a donation of 50p.
Day four. An unexpected obsession with Rabbie Burns
Prompts a lingering visit to your idol's museum
And a rash investment in his entire works, never opened.
You nearly buy a ticket for the Edinburgh Military Tattoo, but wait until the feeling passes, usually 10 minutes along the mile long queue.
By day five, the cod Edinburgh accent has manifested
The locals are staring, the drunks no longer tapping you up and shirtless performers cease thrusting endless flyers in your hand.
Or could it be that you're carrying that caber in your sporran the wrong way round?
Och aye the noo, it's time to go home.

© LS King 2009

The Book Channel

This week sees the timely launch of new British digital TV channel
The Book Channel

Timely, as it comes just as Richard and Judy are contemplating retirement from our screens, along with their hit television Book Club based on Oprah Winfrey's original model in the US, an idea which in turn led to multitudes of private Book Groups being set up among friends and neighbours up and down the country to either link in with Richard and Judy's or read their own choices. We even had a hit sit com on the subject!

Those of us with published books know how tough the market is out there. Plus publishers give so much money to their celebrity 'author' list in bidding wars or to stop them seeking more elsewhere, they have increasingly little left to offer the real authors on their list. Gone are the days when even a previously successful author could count on another book deal, or even on more than diminishing returns for any subsequently accepted book. It is shocking to realise how many seemingly successful authors, far from living JK Rowling lifestyles are actually struggling to make their mortgage payments each month! But then publishers themselves are also struggling and going to the wall by the week. Though JK Rowling was one of the lucky ones who managed to attain both celebrity status AND successful author status!

It is great therefore to see the rise and rise of that 'novel' innovation The Book Festival in the last ten years, bringing authors and readers together and books alive in a new way. Now almost every town and city has one and authors have nationwide tours much like pop stars, only without the riches! Here's a couple of pictures from The Oxford Literary Festival (one of the original book festivals) last month. In fact such has it mushroomed, last year it spawned the also mushrooming OxFringe arts festival too!











I do hope The Book Channel will similarly blossom for authors and readers alike. It certainly has the increasing paucity of quality content on other digital channels in its favour! So many times I have sat in front of the screen and found absolutely nothing I wished to watch, despite countless channels to choose from. A 'Jackanory' and 'The Book Tower' for adults would be good - I might apply to present!

The Red Shoes etc

I like red. It always cheers me up to look out of the window and see my little red car.

These are my red shoes. They are not the most toe-cleavage exposing, but they always seem to cause a tremendous stir when I wear them.

One academic of my acquaintance waxed lyrically about them and when I said I was thinking of getting rid of them as they didn't go with anything, begged me not to.
They are early M&S 'footgloves' circa 1995 and I once had them in black and navy too, but the sensible colours have long since worn out. It is amazing how many people - women as well - ask me where I got them though. I reckon M&S would do a roaring trade if they reintroduced them. Perhaps everyone is as sick as me of rubbish-designed shoes with hardly any uppers to hold them on and heels that cripple. Microfibre is also wonderful stuff, looking as good as new at the dab of a damp cloth. I only tend to wear them for poetry readings now, usually with a jokey Dorothy T-shirt from The Wizard of Oz.

I also own a pair of red ankle wellies which are quite funky, if not terribly well made.
















However I feel in need of an extra boost lately. Perhaps I should try some of this(and I thought they exaggerated on female cosmetics!)

Nearest Fabric Shop Nine Miles Away

Going to buy a new zip for a pair of jeans this week, I was shocked to find Oxford's only remaining fabric and haberdashery shop had closed down owing to rent increases (according to the sign on the door) after many years of apparently successful trading. Even more surprising in that King's occupied some pretty unprepossessing upstairs premises which you could hardly imagine would command either enormous rent hikes or rival businesses vying for.

This is not the only independent trader to disappear from the Oxford street scene lately after many years, and I can't help wondering why there aren't blanket rent and rate freezes in this recession, as how can it more advantageous to end up with empty units and buildings generating no income at all and causing gaps in the street scene like missing teeth, than landlords supporting tenants through these tricky times? Is it not bad enough that the banks have pretty well frozen loan support to small businesses, without the government and local councils joining in the kicking?

Take Oxford's historic Covered Market for example. Despite being a prime tourist attraction for decades, it has also been under threat for years through exhorbitant rents imposed on the tenants, rents out of all proportion to inflation, and sometimes sadly, to takings.

But it's the Covered Market. What else could go there? What would the vision be for it if all the tenants were forced out?

Then there's the obvious knock-on effect that the more businesses which fail, the greater the number of unemployed, which surely helps no one, least of all the government and economy. And with the demise of our once proud manufacturing base and the much publicised brain drain, if we Brits are now reduced to a nation of shopkeepers and shoppers, support for commerce is needed now more than ever, or what is left?

It seems like a vicious circle. At least in the US, some of the greedy bankers have come forward and apologised for their short-termism and even given their bonuses back. What public atonement and restitution have we seen from any of ours yet, let alone an emergency government economic rescue plan, except for bailing out a few of our more foolhardy, bad bet banks?








Perhaps as one innovative trader has it, the problem with this country is footwear.










Or perhaps we will have to resort to this solution to restore the economy if supply of employees is outstripping demand.



Incidentally I found out why it was a bad idea of Mr Brown's to print more money the other day when a homeless man joked '£30 for a cup of tea, miss?'

Heart FM Comes to Town!

Put up the bunting, get out the flags, don those pom poms folks, for we have a new radio station in town. Yes, Heart FM has extended its romantic remit of mass audience seduction beyond the Midlands at last!

And guess what? They are seeking someone innovative with a brain that can think around corners and outside of boxes for events and marketing!

Needless to say this New Romantic is submitting her CV and working on her podcast jingle ideas as we speak!

That really would be a dream job promoting lurve, romance and music! Easier than trying to sell overpriced underperforming mortgages anyway (one of my previous lives). And unlike most markets the lurve market can never be saturated - if anything demand will always, sadly, outstrip supply! It's also a station big on community and knitting commuties together in these increasingly fragmented times, which is an issue close to my own heart.

Wish me luck. No further responses from any of the other 25 or so jobs I have applied for anyway, though I am trying not to let my motivation flag.

I'll be round to visit y'all soonest dear blogging brethren.

Meanwhile, I will leave you with one of my fave romantic tracks from the 1980s. Although Billy Idol was way too scary for me to fancy as a timid young adolescent of sheltered upbringing (hard to believe, I know!), Mr Idol is at his snarling finest in this heartfelt rendering of his hit 'Sweet 16', and watching it now, I find myself in awe at how he balances such cheesiness with such soulfulness. Around the same time I remember stealing downstairs after my bedtime curfew/parents' bedtime one night to discover the incredibly haunting film Badlands with Martin Sheen at his brooding best as the troubled young James Dean lookalike who goes badly off the rails in a pan-state killing spree with his naive teen girlfriend, and find that Sweet 16 always acts as the additional soundtrack that never was in my head whenever I think of the film.



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FGxwaYyjfUU

A Sprinkling of Spring

(TO RE-ACTIVATE SLIDESHOW, PLEASE CLICK ON POST TITLE)

Britain's First Divorce Fair

(with apologies to my lovely former colleagues who tied the knot last weekend & about whose marriage I harbour no cynicism whatsoever, despite the following - mainly written last year from when the Fair was originally postponed).

This weekend Brighton plays host to Britain's first Divorce Fair.

After I'd finished choking on my cornflakes, my mind went into comedy overdrive as it imagined the stalls on offer;

Win Custody of The Kids - hoopla
The Sloughed Spouse Slave Auction - to re-match divorcees,
Pet Palimony lawyers - to futureproof the pets (the hidden victims of break-ups apparently)
A boxing ring in which sparring spouses can settle what solicitors cannot.
Defrocked vicars finding new careers in undoing marriages-gone-wrong with unfrocked blasé blessing, after which rings could be exchanged back again and wedding dress and grooms' outfit whipped off and ceremonially shredded, revealing the new single-again makeovers underneath. Finally splicees-turned-splitees could enjoy their last dance together (literally) before waving each other off with their share of the proceeds and a piece of cake and going away!
A stall selling large saws to saw those disputed possessions in half.
A stall for the vengeful who lack the imagination to sew their own rotting prawns into the marital curtains, valances or car seats.
DIY divorce kits for those who are prepared to be amicable for the sake of £20 rather than making solicitors rich and ending up with considerably reduced settlements.
Then there's the 'Divorce Me Quick' hats and 'I Went To Brighton And All I Got Was This Lousy Divorce' T-shirts
Not forgetting the Fairground barker's immortal cry of; 'Roll up, Roll Up - All the fun of the affair!'

Of course in real life it's rather more blandly entitled The Starting Over Show

Sad, but inevitable I suppose. Divorce is not about to go away, and for every marriage that throws in the towel without really trying (the vast majority being among the under-30s) is doubtless to be found another where physical or emotional abuse has degenerated into an everyday fact of married life. Or perhaps the couple concerned have simply grown apart to the degree they will never be happy together again. No one's fault - it just happens sometimes that something can start out being right at the time, but not remain that way, no matter the hope in the hearts of that once happy couple as they walked up the aisle. Certainly I am now of a maturity to appreciate that not everyone of my grandparents' generation was happily married, whatever impressive anniversary they were photographed celebrating and face value I took them at as an impressionable teenager. Some of them were indeed as lonely as any singleton in those days of put up and shut up or 'you've made your bed so you must lie in it'. Economic necessity too played no small part aside from misplaced shame, and doubtless continues to do so in these uncertain times.

Which brings me to my pet theory, recently stolen by John Cleese, though if the Fair had not been postponed from last year my view would have been blogged first - namely that barring the legal age of marriage being raised to 30, perhaps in this reductive climate it would be more practical to reduce marriage contracts to only five years duration say, (with the possibility of mutual re-election for another five years when renewal time came up - an 18 year contract if kids came along). Then couples would not have time to lapse into complacency and would be forced to work harder at their marriages if they wanted them to last. Conversely the pressures of panic over the words 'til death do us part' would be lifted, possibly giving the marriage better odds of survival ironically.

In the old days when people had every chance of losing a spouse to the Grim Reaper relatively young, and subsequently being free to re-marry, it was probably not such a big deal to plight your troth for life to the first or second mildly attractive prospect who asked, and mean it (for latter-day example sic Jack Tweed's selfless act of love and bold commitment in marrying the terminally-ill Jade Goody). Fortunately most of us can now expect to live a great deal longer than poor Ms Goody and have many more experiences in life to shape us, such as better access to education, travel and opportunities. We are only too well aware that there is a whole wide world out there and not just the boy or girl in the next village. Gone too are the limited horizons, knowing our place in society and constancy that our grandparents knew, whether this is 'for better or worse.'

Not that I wish to see the candy-bar mentality prevail of the 'well I quite like this chocolate bar, but I won't commit myself to it just in case I meet another chocolate bar I like even better' variety. There must surely be a happy medium between unrealistic expectations of a soulmate-for-everyone and not valuing others as human beings of equal validity, sentiency and worth. There seems something patently wrong in condemning someone as 'second best' for example, just because they are not right for us personally. The wrong match for us might be a-dream-come-true for someone else who is a closer emotional and otherwise match for them (though fair enough condemn that ex if they have truly acted like a jerk, rather than been civil in their handling of the situation, or behaved as a 'deadbeat' mum or dad to any children resulting from the broken relationship).

However to see our media seesaw wildly between featuring the unashamed antics of those who change sexual partners as often as their socks v the coquettish born-again virgin brigade who've pledged themselves to celibacy until Mr/Ms 'Right One' comes along (with neither doing a good job of sounding balanced), you wouldn’t think that there might be any such middle path known as common sense, paved with the gold of a certain amount of sexual continence and self-respect.

Just call me a pragmatic romantic!

Despatches

My first week of unemployment and my feet haven't touched the ground, what with computer courses, applying for jobs and all the other life admin I seem to be swamped with.

So much for all the blogging and creative time I thought I would suddenly have!

In contemplative moments I have found myself listening to this from the film 'Leon'



Cheery things this week were a colleague's wonderful wedding yesterday and being introduced to this surprise poetic YouTube hit by Oliver over at Oliver's Poetry Garret



Which in turn led me to discover this splendid fellow.



Nice to know there's still a few things left to make one proud to be British!

Remembering the Victorians

Before anyone gets me under the 'Goods Descriptions Act' (aka the 're-cycled Victorian' reference in this blog description) I thought it was about time I shared probably my favourite book in the world about Victorian times; an autobiography so vivid you are almost there; better still in relative middle-class comfort rather than as some Dickensian street sweeper or one of Mayhew's baby farmers.

A London Child of the 1870s is the entertaining and detailed chronicle of a young girl growing up with the benefit of four adoring elder brothers, detailing their everyday lives, the games they played, the dreams they dreamed and the harsh reality that often impinged, even on a family where good fortune shone rather than not. It is written by Molly Hughes, who went on to write the equally riveting 'A London Girl in the 1880s', 'A London Home in the 1890's' 'A London Family Between the Wars' as well as the semi-fictionalised 'Vivians' - the tragic mid-Victorian melodrama of her Cornish Aunt's doomed love affair with a Nordic sea captain - as dramatic as anything Daphne Du Maurier subsequently came up with. Molly Hughes herself was an early female University graduate and went on to become one of the first female school inspectors. One of Molly's observations was how; heroine or villain alike; most protagonists had to die at the end of a Victorian children's story to satisfy some Christian moral or other, and how she and her brothers would place bets on the outcome. Here is Molly's description of a typical Victorian children's story;

The Last Shop

A little girl who had a very rich mamma behaved herself so well one day that her kind parent said. 'Rosy dear, we will go for a walk down the street where the shops are, and you shall buy whatever you like, because you have been so good.' Skipping for joy little Rosy began to think of all the things she had been longing for. But mamma made one condition - that Rosy must buy something out of each shop. That seemed very easy, and the walk began well. A doll's perambulator in the first shop, some expensive lollipops in the next, some tarts at the confectioners, a pair of crimson slippers, some fancy coloured note-paper, a whole pineapple, and a real writing desk with some secret drawers in it. In each case the purchase was ordered to be 'sent' and Rosy soon became anxious to go home in order to be ready to receive them. But Mamma's face grew solemn.
'Have you quite finished, my child?'
'Oh, yes, thank you, dear mamma, pray let us return home'
'I fear, my child, that there is one shop that you have omitted.'
So saying, she led Rosy to the undertaker's, and had her measured for a coffin. In this way, my dear young readers, little Rosy was early led to realise that death was the necessary end to all her pleasures.

Talking of 'A London Child in the 1870s' reminds me of my other favourite autobiography, this time set in Edwardian times, 'People Who Say Goodbye' is the account of a precocious and cynical tomboy growing up in London's Wandsworth Common, the product of surprisingly liberal, progressive and loving parents. What is particularly striking is the bold humour and candour of this book - PY Betts had everyone around her weighed up it seems, and a startling ability to conjure the long-dead back to vivid life. Here is a passage from it;

'There was a big boy of eighteen, a young man really, ten years older than me, who lived in one of the houses on the other side of the Field. He had younger brothers and sisters, all older than me, whom I knew only slightly. His name was Tom. He was an art student but for how long I do not know. He was there in the glade and then later on he was not there any more, so very likely he went to the War and was killed. We would lie down in the bushes and he would cuddle me. He would look at me a long time and then ask if he could kiss me. I was not keen on being kissed so he took a Wolff's Lightning Eraser out of his pocket and said he would give it to me if I would kiss him. Being a stationery fetishist I found the India rubber irresistible and let him kiss me. The kiss did not affect me emotionally, all my desires were focussed on the rubber. We met in the hazel coppice several times. Each time he would cuddle me and ask to kiss me. I began to hold out for brand new Wolff's Lighting Erasers, spotless white ones with geometrically sharp corners. He never did anything but cuddle me, look at me, kiss me gently and hand out quantities of new India rubbers, wonderful for swapping at school or keeping and gloating over. It all ended without my noticing. Perhaps the art school got suspicious about the run on erasers, or perhaps Tom was called up and got killed, I did not notice when it ended. I had enough rubbers to be going on with. Their smell was so alluring, so satisfying.'
Both books are now sadly out of print, though probably available from second hand outlets.

To hark back for a moment to Victorian times though, the other weekend I treated myself to our greatest Victorian engineer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel for £1.20 from Coventry museum - a man whose parents evidently didn't expect much when they christened him! He stands neatly in the palm of my hand. I wonder what he'd make of himself if he could see himself now embodied in miniature effigy form.

I wonder what he would make of modern engineering and how the progress of our railways in particular has gone backwards since his time. I might play with him later.

Press to Print

Next week I have been invited to do a poetry reading at an art gallery on the theme of the history of communication. This piece came to mind as a possible.




Hostile Correspondence

My grandmother's bingo pal was easy to frighten
Possessing an absolute fear of anything type-written.
Only officialdom typed letters and they was never good news.
The powers-that-be, authority, they all had control over Dilys.
From the Gas Board with their cut-offs to them that ran things
And she'd never forget those three wartime telegrams
Even if Dilys had read better, understood more than the gist of each letter
Handwritten meant friendly, usually family. Type-written just upset her.
Sometimes she stared for days before opening at arm's length,
Dropping typeface to the floor to read from a safe distance.
Test results from the doctor went unopened for ten months
Resulting in more typeface in local paper announcements.
Now there's Times New Roman italic on her headstone
And my grandmother goes to bingo alone.

© LS King

Crime & Corporate Punishment

Behold - my first Poet Laura-eate podcast (with a bit of movie-software cheating thrown in!) Every embeddable MP3 player seemed to come with its own multi-media content pre-installed. By someone else. Or didn't allow an image, or turned its nose up at Blogger. Amazing how much of your life you can waste trying to get to grips with these things and finding yourself up one dead-end alley after another. To think I had delusional visions of setting up my own blog radio station with broadcasts each week to try out short stories, interviews and comedy etc. However that might have to wait for reincarnation...well certainly until I find a new job anyway (the other saga that is taking up most of my headspace).



When not trying to learn podcasting/applying for jobs, I've been indulging in a documentary-watching phase, notably 'Enron - The Smartest Guys in The Room', 'Wal-Mart' The High Cost of Low Price and my favourite 'The Corporation' - the extraordinary story of the birth and rise of the Corporation, an entity which shares the same rights in law as a human being, but apparently the same psychological profile as a psychopath! Here is a promo clip. The film itself is nearly 3 hours long but is one of those films you come away evangelising that everyone and their dog should watch.



In the Wal-Mart DVD there is a chilling scene where a former regional manager in charge of expansion relates how he used to drive through small towns betting to himself 'six months', 'four months', 'a year at the outside' as he drove past the often family-run for decades high street retailers, psyching out the town in readiness for the next grand Wal-Mart opening. So obvious really, yet it seems to me we Brits have been remarkably slow to catch on to the fact that the more we shop at the large out-of-town hypermarkets the more our towns and cities will implode, and even that there might be a deliberate corporate plan to destroy our towns and cities, eventually making us wholly reliant on the likes of Wal-Mart and internet shopping (something I personally only resort to if I cannot buy what I seek locally). In Oxford this week I treated myself to a discounted bracelet at one of our few remaining independent boutiques, only to have him confide in me that he might be closing down after 25 years. How did we let things come to this? At the end of the Enron film, a scandal I never quite understood at the time; but can scarcely believe the scale of after watching the film; this Tom Waits track played out to the closing credits. Ten years old now, yet a song not only for our times but strangely apt for the crash of 1929 too.

The Battle of The Museum of Oxford

What town or city in its right mind closes down the museum of its OWN civic history?

That little backwater known as 'Oxford' it would seem.

Despite the fact that the Museum of Oxford costs a mere £200,000 per year to run, and the only other source of local (town and gown) history 'The Oxford Story' - a hugely popular Disneyfied rollercoaster through Oxford's history on moving school desks has (oddly) closed down - the City Council in its wisdom is wielding an axe to this unprepossessing little museum nestled next to the Town Hall in the name of 'cost cutting', and without we taxpayers' consent.

Fair enough the MoO hasn't been modernised in years, but that's exactly why some of us like it. Too much refurbishment and interactive display can RUIN a museum. A couple of years ago I finally got round to visiting the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich, only to find that it had become SO interactive and child-centred, there was virtually nothing left for grown-ups to look at. I came away feeling it a poor tribute to our once-proud seafaring nation.

Ironically enough two of Oxford's other museums, The Ashmolean (art and archeology) and the Pitt Rivers (anthropological history) are currently closed for multi-million pound refurbishments. Doubtless funded by donors, but ironic how bucketfuls of money can be spent on those, doubtless to their architectural detriment, but not a few pennies on the Museum of Oxford, no siree, not even for an ADVERTISING budget! Is it any wonder that it is not getting the footfall it deserves when it is almost being deliberately run into the ground, and granted no sensible and obvious connecting corridor to the next door Town Hall with its gallery, cafe and public conveniences either?

Following local press interest and the intervention of Oxford Civic Society with volunteer help, the Museum of Oxford has won a temporary reprieve for one year, but will still lose the majority of its staff, and its only hope of survival after that will be the formation of a Charitable Trust in time, to take it off the council's hands entirely. Which will in turn no doubt require an admission charge to subsidise, making it the city's only charging museum. As for new interactive exhibits presumably there was a job lot of these going when 'The Oxford Story' closed down.

Meanwhile I hear an expensive Czar of Culture has been hired by the Council to oversee its shrinking culture. Spot the obvious Council cost-saving, anyone?

The Man Who Put The Heart Into Art

I hadn't intended to write another posting on the theme of TV nostalgia so soon, but I couldn't let this week pass without paying homage to the late, great TV presenter Tony Hart - a fixture of my childhood and the childhoods of just about every Briton under 60. The man was a giant of children's television for an unbelieveable 50 years, only retiring when ill health prevented him from carrying on in 2001. The favourite uncle that every child dreamed of - kind, patient, encouraging, and with utter belief that you could create anything that he could, given practice and a few mistakes along the way. He also had a sense of fun, with various assistants, characters and animations popping up over the years, but never at the expense of the art. Unusually for TV presenters, Tony Hart displayed no ego - nor did he try and pretend he was seven himself - it was all about the art and that's why we children loved him and found him such a comforting and constant staple in our lives. Like Blue Peter, Tony Hart strove to be all-inclusive so that even children from the poorest families could join in and he would often utilise items that most families had in their cupboards, creating pictures using materials such as dried macaroni and lentils.
At the end of each programme Tony would introduce The Gallery, where viewers' pictures were displayed to the soothing tones of 'Leftbank' (and at the height of his programmes' popularity, 20,000 pictures a week would be submitted!) Needless to say my pathetic rocket ship never made it, but the programme remained compulsory viewing every afternoon when I got in from school.
As if Tony Hart wasn't impressive enough, I now find that he served as a Gurkha in WWII and devised nearly all the ideas himself for each show. He even designed the famous Blue Peter Badge! The one innovation he didn't come up with was his clay friend 'Morph' who lived in a pencil box in his studio and got up to mischief every time Tony's back was turned, eventually to be joined by sparring partner Chas who was even naughtier! Tony Hart received two Bafta's and a Lifetime Achievement award for his services to television, but shamefully, no knighthood, though I see there is a rather touching Facebook campaign to award him a posthumous one! Occasionally you come across someone who seems as if they have been born to do what they do and Tony Hart was a prime example of the perfect person in the perfect career - even down to his neat surname! Certainly when he lost his ability to draw through a stroke four years ago he described it as 'the greatest cross I have had to bear.' RIP Tony - we shall not see your like again.

Fun With Dick, George & Mildred

While The Two Ronnies, Morcambe & Wise and Benny Hill are endlessly repeated, you will seldom see a repeat of either The Dick Emery Show or sitcom George & Mildred, yet in their day they were just as big, winning massive ratings for their channels.

I don't know why either Dick Emery or George and Mildred should have left such an indelible impression on a young child but they did. Perhaps because they contained such colourful characters and Dick Emery and Yootha Joyce (aka Mildred) had such wonderfully mischievous smiles with matching glints in their eye.

For a while it was impossible to obtain even tribute videos/DVDs, though these are at last available.

Watching them now it is easy to see why Dick Emery has fallen out of favour as his shows lampooning the little-Hitlerdom of railway station masters (oh where have they gone now we need them?), his man-eating females, insincere vicars and outrageously cliched homosexuals have dated badly, cutting-edge though they may have been when he first rose to stardom in the late 1950s. On the other hand they are also uproariously un-PC, and to be fair to Mr Emery, he always wanted to be more adventurous and develop his comedy more innovatively but a staid BBC refused to let him take risks with one of their biggest hit shows, insisting he carry on churning out comedy for mass consumption, forever employing his cast of tried and trusted characters. However Harry Enfield has more than once generously credited Dick Emery as his greatest inspiration, and when you watch Mr Enfield's shows you can see the comedy lineage. Here is a clip of 'Hettie' unselfishly thinking of others.







George and Mildred was a spin-off from hit-com Robin's Nest and G&M were originally cameo characters who played the neighbours of man-about-town Robin who rather daringly (for the 1970s) shared a flat with two hot chicks, albeit neither of whom actually fancied him, much though he tried to pretend otherwise to the world.

Mildred was the undisputed Queen of Brentford Nylon, childless and sexually frustrated and forever trying to seduce her hapless, sexually-terrified and underachieving husband George, whose job it was to try and dodge her amorous advances. A loveable monster, Mildred was a curious hybrid of traditional and liberated woman who aspired to better things but could never quite escape the 'you've made your bed so you must lie in it' doctrine of her parents' generation and admit that she'd married the wrong man. However she did break free when it came to fashion, wearing the most extraordinary clashes with her equally-loud floral wallpaper and wafting about in aforementioned glamorous negligee's of the nylon persuasion, teamed with colourful plastic earrings and occasionally macs as she led a life of loud-but-quiet desperation. George too managed to be so much more than a foil and was funny in his own right, and secretly caring and loyal too, despite living in fear of his overbearing wife. They had equally memorable neighbours in the 'perfect' middle-class Fourmile family who seemed to have everything Mildred had ever aspired to, including an absurdly precocious son Tristram, and to whom Mildred alternately sucked up and was green with envy towards. Here's a cute YouTube clip of George & Mildred babysitting, posted by the young actor featured.

Economy, Exercise & Literature

'Mummy, why don't they print more money so that there's no poor people?' was a question oft-asked in my tenderest years. And while I watched a mother scarcely more conversant in the mysterious ways of economics than my six year old self struggle to explain why this was not possible and would throw the whole banking world out of kilter, I experienced an odd sort of satisfaction that she had no satisfactory answer, therefore I was onto something. This week I know for sure that I was - they are actually doing it! Let's Print More Money (if only to bail out the economy itself rather than the actual poor).
My mother answered my other most often-asked question, prompted by a 'If you lived in the Third Word, you'd be glad of that' regarding my uneaten greens upon the plate and my generous offer of 'Why don't we send them to them then?' with an eloquent clip round the ear.

Every so often it crosses my mind that I would like to get fit before the body of a gazelle I have always enjoyed and taken for granted shape-shifts into more of a moose. Normally I deal with this idea by having a little lie down until the idea goes away again as I am just not a self-starter on the exercise front, and in the absence of a daily presence in my life to nag/egg me on, I do find it inordinately hard. However you will be pleased to hear I have made a bit of a start and clicked the mouse button two whole times to discover the following dizzying array of local exercise classes available during the coming week via our wonderful local website - every town should have one - Daily Information. Sorry about all the scrolling (well you need a bit of exercise too, admit it!) but I felt impelled to include the details as well as the headings so that you could see that I am not making it up - these are all REAL classes!
*By the way, there's an extra bit of this posting at the end of the list.

Saturday 10th January - Sports and Fitness Listings

Astanga Yoga (Primary Series)
Re-align & detoxify your body & with this ancient practice. All levels welcome.
email: darrylastanga@hotmail.com / Tel. Darryl on 07788 743181
5.30 - 7.00pm, £7.50 (£6)
Yoga Garden, Behind Cibo's (on the right), South Parade, Summertown.

Oxford Martial Arts Academy
Muay Thai, Boxing, Brazilain Jiu Jitsu, M.M.A , Brazilian Vale Tudo
www.OMAA.org.uk / email: info@omaa.org.uk / Tel. 07906628444 OR 01865 774 998.
6pm - 9.30pm £4.10
381 Cowley Rd

Winter Yoga Workshop Sue Pennington
Harmonise your practice with the season, and recharge your batteries.
email: suepennington@yahoo.com / Tel. 01865 776759
10am - 4pm, £40 / £35 / £30
Thrangu House, 42 Magdalen Road.

Amateur Boxing Oxford Brookes ABC
Train at one of the best University Clubs in the country!
email: oxfordboxing@googlemail.com / Tel. 01993 774407
6.00-7.30p.m
Oxford Brookes University Sport Centre, Cheney Lane, Oxford

Sun 11th Jan — Sports and Fitness Listings

Womens Football Headington Athletic WFC
Headington Athletic WFC welcome new experienced players
www.freewebs.com/headingtonathleticwfc / email: womensfootball@hotmail.co.uk / Tel. 07727277080
Matches 2 or 3pm ko - £3.50 or £1.75 (In full time education or not in work)
The Lord Nuffield Club, William Morris Close, Cowley., OX4 2JX

Jericho Ultimate Frisbee
Fun, fast-paced team game for all ages. ALL abilities welcome!
Tel. 01865 512634
3-5pm - free.
Aristotle Lane rec ground (go up Kingston Road, turn left at the Anchor pub towards Portmeadow, over humpbacked bridge, it's on the left)

Morning Astanga Yoga Classes Bella Galt and Emanuele Rossi
Mysore-style yoga, beginners welcome! Starts on 5th January 2009.
www.astangavinyasaoxford.net / email: yasmin@astangavinyasaoxford.net / Tel. 07967 674 029
6:30 - 9:00 AM
Yoga Garden, Behind Cibo's (on the right), South Parade, Summertown.

Antenatal Pilates Ivana Starkova
The best way to prepare your body for the delivery of the baby and improve posture.
www.ispilates.co.uk / email: enquiries@ispilates.co.uk / Tel. 07818 062351
10-11am, £15, £70 for 6
Summertown Church Hall, Corner of Banbury & Portland Rds, Summertown, OX2 7EZ.

Antenatal Pilates Ivana Starkova
2nd & 3rd trimester - strengthen postural and pelvic floor muscles, ease back pain
www.ispilates.co.uk / email: enquiries@ispilates.co.uk / Tel. 0781 806 2351
10-11am, £15, £70 for 6
Summertown Church Hall, Corner of Banbury & Portland Rds, Summertown, OX2 7EZ.

Post-natal Pilates Ivana Starkova
Exercises designed to strenghten abdominals & pelvic floor muscles, babies welcome
www.ispilates.co.uk / email: enquiries@ispilates.co.uk / Tel. 07818062351
11.15 - 12.15pm, £70 for 6
Summertown Church Hall, Corner of Banbury & Portland Rds, Summertown, OX2 7EZ.

Walk Oxon 20s 30s Walkers
6 mile walk around Badbury Hill, Coleshill & Faringdon area. Bring packed lunch.
www.oxon2030walkers.org / email: publicity@oxon2030walkers.org / Tel. 07787840342
10am
National trust car park at Badbury Hill, off the B4019 between Faringdon & Coleshill. Grid ref SU263946

Walk Oxon Weekend Walkers
8.5 mile walk around Blewbury area. Bring packed lunch.
www.oxon2030walkers.org / email: publicity@oxon2030walkers.org / Tel. 01235 525529
10.30am
Meet in Blewbury, on A417 near war memorial (western end of village). Please park considerately in village. Grid ref SU527856

Tiger Kung Fu Classes Classic Tiger Kung Fu Club
Classic Chinese Martial Arts: friendly classes suitable for all levels
www.classictigerkungfu.co.uk
2-3:30pm; £3 students; £6 non-students
Centre for Sport, Brookes University, Headington

Mon 12th Jan — Sports and Fitness Listings

Jazzercise In Oxford Join now!
60 min excercise class with the latest music and dances
www.witneyfitness.co.uk / email: helen2weller@hotmail.com
7pm / £6 a session or £16/m
Botley Primary School, Elms Road, West Oxford

Pilates ...with Tiago
45 min to mobilise, strengthen and stretch the back and the whole body.
www.functional-pilates.com / email: tiago.instructor@gmail.com / Tel. 07760444416
13:15-14:00, £8 drop-in, £39 for 6 classes
Jericho Community Centre, 33a Canal Street.

Pilates ...withTiago
60 min to mobilise, strengthen and stretch the back and the whole body.
http://functional-pilates.com / email: tiago.instructor@gmail.com / Tel. 07760444416
18:15-19:15, £7 (£6) drop-in
West Oxford Community Centre, Botley Road, OX2 0BT.

Oxford Martial Arts Academy
Muay Thai, Boxing, Brazilain Jiu Jitsu, M.M.A , Brazilian Vale Tudo
www.OMAA.org.uk / email: info@omaa.org.uk / Tel. 07906628444 OR 01865 774 998.
6pm - 9.30pm £4.10
381 Cowley Rd

Intermediate & Advanced Qigong Oxford Internal Arts
Head tutors to UK's largest college of Chinese Medicine
www.oxinar.com / email: oxfordinternalarts@googlemail.com / Tel. 07986 621112
6.30-7.30pm
Jericho Community Centre, 33a Canal Street.

Intermediate Tai Chi Oxford Internal Arts
Head tutors to UK's largest college of Chinese Medicine
www.oxinar.com / email: oxfordinternalarts@googlemail.com / Tel. 07986 621112
7.30-9.00pm
Jericho Community Centre, 33a Canal Street.

Ashtanga Yoga
Mixed ability, led classes. Strong, dynamic, energising yoga. Beginners welcome.
www.sashanorton.co.uk / email: sasha.norton@yahoo.com / Tel. 07710 237162
6.15 - 7.15pm.
Ozone Health & Fitness, nr Kassam Football Stadium (01865) 335300

Pilates Matwork Ivana Starkova
Stott instructor. Improve posture, strengthen lower back & abs,ease back pain. Beginner / intermediate level.
www.ispilates.co.uk / email: enquiries@ispilates.co.uk / Tel. 07818062351
7:15-8:15pm / £11, £54 for 6
Summertown Church Hall, Corner of Banbury & Portland Rds, Summertown, OX2 7EZ.

Antenatal Pilates Ivana Starkova
2nd & 3rd trimester, work postural & pelvic floor muscles, ease back pain
www.ispilates.co.uk / email: enquiries@ispilates.co.uk / Tel. 07818062351
6-7pm, £15 / £70 for 6 weeks
Summertown Church Hall, Corner of Banbury & Portland Rds, Summertown, OX2 7EZ.

Kung Fu Fujian White Crane Oxford Club
Traditional Chinese Martial Art. Beginners welcome.
www.fwckungfu.com / email: stefanw@fwckungfu.com / Tel. 07957 198 698
7.30-8.30pm
East Oxford Community Centre, 44b Princes Street (corner of Cowley Rd), OX4 1DD.

Flamenco Dance Course Oxford Flamenco Academy
Flamenco Classes - Intermediate 7.30pm - 9.00pm, Beginners 8.30pm - 10.00pm
www.oxfordflamencoacademy.co.uk / email: info@oxfordflamencoacademy.co.uk / Tel. 01865 553234 / 07904 260636
North Wall Arts Centre , South Parade, Oxford OX2 7NN; Email: sarahlacey@thenorthwall.com; Tel. 01865 319450.

Cotswold Slimming Club
Help losing weight. No queues. Limited membership. A new choice in Oxford!
www.cotswoldslimmingclubs.co.uk / email: val.collins@cotswoldslimmingclubs.co.uk / Tel. 07528486875
£7.50 register- £5.00 pw 12.30pm
Oxford Playhouse , Beaumont Street; Tel. 305305; Fax: 793748.

Morning Astanga Yoga Classes Bella Galt and Emanuele Rossi
Mysore-style yoga, beginners welcome! Starts on 5th January 2009.
www.astangavinyasaoxford.net / email: yasmin@astangavinyasaoxford.net / Tel. 07967 674 029
6:30 - 9:00 AM
Yoga Garden, Behind Cibo's (on the right), South Parade, Summertown.

Yoga Anita Lewis. Restarts 12th Jan
For beginner/experienced students wanting gentle yoga with inner focus.
www.anitalewisyoga.com / email: anita@anitalewisyoga.com / Tel. 07726 841815
6-7.30pm £8/£7 drop-in
South Oxford Community Centre, Lake Street, off Abingdon Rd.

Lunchtime Pilates Class Ivana Starkova
Strengthen abs & lower back, improve posture, ease back pain, intermediate.
www.ispilates.co.uk / email: enquiries@ispilates.co.uk / Tel. 07818062351
12.15 - 1pm, £8, £3 for 6
Jericho Community Centre, 33a Canal Street.

Pilates Lessons
email: charleyfp@googlemail.com / Tel. 07515770136
6pm-7pm £7 per lesson
South Oxford Community Centre, Lake Street, off Abingdon Rd.

Ananda Yoga
Tibetan yoga.
Tel. Emilia, 07776092373
Beginners and mixed ability. 7pm - 8pm, £65/term or £7 (£5) drop in
Methodist Church Hall (East Oxford), Corner of Cowley Road and Jeune Street.

Ladies Only Kung Fu Class FWC Oxford Club
Ladies Only Martial Arts class - great introduction for beginners.
www.fwckungfu.com / email: stefanw@fwckungfu.com / Tel. 07957 198698
7.30-8.30pm
Headington Community Centre, Gladstone Road, OX3 8LL.

Womens Boxercise Oxford Womens Boxercise
Get Fit, Burn Fat, Relieve Stress.
email: faz1@fsmail.net / Tel. 01993 774407
6.15-7.15 p.m
Headington Community Centre, Gladstone Road, OX3 8LL.

Tue 13th Jan — Sports and Fitness Listings
Oxford Martial Arts Academy

Muay Thai, Boxing, Brazilain Jiu Jitsu, M.M.A , Brazilian Vale Tudo
www.OMAA.org.uk / email: info@omaa.org.uk / Tel. 07906628444 OR 01865 774 998.
6pm - 9.30pm £4.10
381 Cowley Rd

Taoist Breathing & Meditation Oxford Internal Arts
Head tutors to UK's largest college of Chinese Medicine
www.oxinar.com / email: oxfordinternalarts@googlemail.com / Tel. 07986 621112
6.00-6.45pm
Jericho Community Centre, 33a Canal Street.

Tai Chi & Qigong Complete Foundation Oxford Internal Arts
Head tutors to UK's largest college of Chinese Medicine
www.oxinar.com / email: oxfordinternalarts@googlemail.com / Tel. 07986 621112
6.00-7.30pm
Jericho Community Centre, 33a Canal Street.

Tai Chi & Qigong Student Class Oxford Internal Arts
Head tutors to UK's largest college of Chinese Medicine
www.oxinar.com / email: oxfordinternalarts@googlemail.com / Tel. 07986 621112
7.30-9.00pm
Jericho Community Centre, 33a Canal Street.

Ashtanga Yoga
Mixed ability, led classes. Strong, dynamic, energising yoga. Beginners welcome.
www.sashanorton.co.uk / email: sasha.norton@yahoo.com / Tel. 07710 237162
6pm - 7.15pm, £7 (£5.60)
Yoga Garden, Behind Cibo's (on the right), South Parade, Summertown.

Pilates Beginners: Level 1 Wolff Fitness
Stott Pilates. Get a flat stomach, strengthen your back and improve posture.
email: pilates@wolfffitness.co.uk / Tel. 07771 923318
7.30pm, £35 for 5 sessions
Parish Church Hall, Avenue Rd, Kennington

Pilates Beginners: Level 1 Wolff Fitness

Stott Pilates. Get a flat stomach, strengthen your back and improve posture.
email: pilates@wolfffitness.co.uk / Tel. 07771 923318
10am, £40 for 5 sessions
Yoga Garden, Behind Cibo's (on the right), South Parade, Summertown.

Suang Yang Fujian White Crane Oxford Club
Soft and gentle martial art famed for its health benefits. Beginners welcome.
www.fwckungfu.com / email: stefanw@fwckungfu.com / Tel. 07957 198 698
6.30-7.30pm
Summertown Church Hall, Corner of Banbury & Portland Rds, Summertown, OX2 7EZ.

Kung Fu Fujian White Crane Oxford Club
Traditional Chinese Martial Art. Beginners welcome.
www.fwckungfu.com / email: stefanw@fwckungfu.com / Tel. 07957 198 698
7.30-8.30pm
Summertown Church Hall, Corner of Banbury & Portland Rds, Summertown, OX2 7EZ.

Korfball: Mixed Sex Team Sport Didcot Dragons Korfball Club
A mixed sex team game which is like both netball + basketball. Beginners welcome.
www.geocities.com/didcotkorfball/ / email: didcotkorfball@hotmail.co.uk / Tel. 07796 388776
7:30-9pm, £5 per week
Willowbrook Leisure Centre, Didcot

Pilates Matwork For Beginners Ivana Starkova
Progression from post-natal Pilates class, improve posture, babies welcome.
www.ispilates.co.uk / email: enquiries@ispilates.co.uk / Tel. 07818062351
11.45am-12.45pm, £11, £54 for 6
West Oxford Community Centre, Botley Road, OX2 0BT.

Intermediate Yoga Class Sue Pennington
Deepen your practice. Asana/pranayama/relaxation.
email: suepennington@yahoo.com / Tel. 01865 776759
6 - 8pm, £10/£9/£8
Asian Cultural Centre, Manzil Way, OX4 1GH.

Morning Astanga Yoga Classes Bella Galt and Emanuele Rossi
Mysore-style yoga, beginners welcome! Starts on 5th January 2009.
www.astangavinyasaoxford.net / email: yasmin@astangavinyasaoxford.net / Tel. 07967 674 029
6:30 - 9:00 AM
Yoga Garden, Behind Cibo's (on the right), South Parade, Summertown.

Hatha Yoga Anita Lewis
For beginners /experienced students wanting gentle yoga with inner focus.
www.anitalewisyoga.com / email: anita@anitalewisyoga.com / Tel. 07726 841815
6-7.15pm £8/£7 (£42/6 weeks)
St. Albans Hall, Charles St

Yoga Anita Lewis
Meditative postures and breath focusing on inner awareness.
www.anitalewisyoga.com / email: anita@anitalewisyoga.com / Tel. 07726 841815
7.30-9pm, 6 weeks £45
St. Albans Hall, Charles St, OX4

Classical Tai Chi And Chi Kung Oxford T'ai Chi Ch'uan Assoc.
Learn classical Yang Family Style Tai Chi and Chi Kung for health and wellbeing.
www.iffleyacupunctureclinic.co.uk / email: moonrise@globalnet.co.uk / Tel. 01865 778448
7.00-9.00pm £80/10 week term
Cowley Road Methodist Church

Active Body and Mind
Yoga for over 50s.
Tel. Emilia, 07776092373
£1.50 (inc. drink and sandwich), 10 - 11am
The Clock House, Nightingale Avenue, Greater Leys

Korfball: Mixed Sex Team Sport Oxford Isis Korfball Club
Fun, sociable team sport, like Handball/Basketball but better! Beginners welcome.
http://oxfordisis.co.uk / email: info@oxfordisis.co.uk
7 - 8.30 pm, try for free!
Matthew Arnold School, Arnolds Way, Oxford OX2 9JE

Womens Boxercise
Get Fit, Burn Fat, Relieve Stress.
email: faz1@fsmail.net / Tel. 01993 774407
7.00 - 8.00 pm
Windrush Leisure Centre, Witney

Tai Chi Chuan Oxford Tai Chi
Martial Arts training inc Push Hands and San Shou, Fitness Health and have fun!
www.oxfordtaichi / email: davetaichi@gmail / Tel. 01865724669
7.30-9.30pm £7/£5
East Oxford Community Centre, 44b Princes Street (corner of Cowley Rd), OX4 1DD.

Oxford Tai Chi Oxford Tai Chi Cuan
Taichi chuan martial art training inc push hands and san shou plus hand form
www.oxfordtaichi.com / email: davetaichi@gmail.com / Tel. 01865724669
7.30-9.30pm £7(£5)
East Oxford Community Centre, 44b Princes Street (corner of Cowley Rd), OX4 1DD.

Wed 14th Jan — Sports and Fitness Listings

Oxford Martial Arts Academy
Muay Thai, Boxing, Brazilain Jiu Jitsu, M.M.A , Brazilian Vale Tudo
www.OMAA.org.uk / email: info@omaa.org.uk / Tel. 07906628444 OR 01865 774 998.
6pm - 9.30pm £4.10
381 Cowley Rd

Tai Chi & Qigong Complete Foundation Oxford Internal Arts
Head tutors to UK's largest college of Chinese Medicine
www.oxinar.com / email: oxfordinternalarts@googlemail.com / Tel. 07986 621112
6.00-7.30pm
Jericho Community Centre, 33a Canal Street.

Taoist Breathing & Meditation Oxford Internal Arts
Head tutors to UK's largest college of Chinese Medicine
www.oxinar.com / email: oxfordinternalarts@googlemail.com / Tel. 07986 621112
6.00-6.45pm
Jericho Community Centre, 33a Canal Street.

Intermediate Taoist Meditation Oxford Internal Arts
Head tutors to UK's largest college of Chinese Medicine
www.oxinar.com / email: oxfordinternalarts@googlemail.com / Tel. 07986 621112
7.30-9.00pm
Jericho Community Centre, 33a Canal Street.

Bicycle Polo
The sport of kings, played on bikes.
email: oxfordbikepolo@gmail.com
8:30 every Wednesday. Free!
Curry's Parking Lot, Botley Rd.

Intermediate Pilates Matwork Ivana Starkova
Stott instructor. Improve posture, strengthen abs & lower back, prevent back pain
www.ispilates.co.uk / email: enquiries@ispilates.co.uk / Tel. 07818062351
6-7pm / £54 for 6 weeks
North Oxford Association, Diamond Place, Summertown, Oxford, OX2 7DP.

Oxford Ladies Rugby Oxford Rugby Football Club
Ladies, come and learn how to play Rugby, everyone welcome!
www.oxfordrfc.co.uk / email: lill_jenni@yahoo.co.uk
7-9 pm
Oxford RFC grounds are in North Hinksey Village, Oxford, off the A34.

Astanga-inspired Dynamic Yoga Lissa Rodd Oxford Yoga
Fun & challenging yoga flow: for strength & flexibility, meditation & happiness.
www.lissarodd-oxfordyoga.net / email: lissa2516@yahoo.co.uk / Tel. 01865 426348
6:30-8pm / £8/£6.50 regulars' discount
St Alban's Hall, Charles Street (off Iffley Road), OX4 3AU

New Year Women's Cardio Class Aurora Personal Fitness
Lose weight & develop strength and flexibility in an all abilities dynamic class
email: crystaljapan@hotmail.com / Tel. 07730 941781
7-8pm, £4.50, £21 for 6
South Oxford Community Centre, Lake Street, off Abingdon Rd.

Morning Astanga Yoga Classes Bella Galt and Emanuele Rossi
Mysore-style yoga, beginners welcome! Starts on 5th January 2009.
www.astangavinyasaoxford.net / email: yasmin@astangavinyasaoxford.net / Tel. 07967 674 029
6:30 - 9:00 AM
Yoga Garden, Behind Cibo's (on the right), South Parade, Summertown.

Introduction To Astanga Yoga Please contact Yasmin Andrew
Mysore-style Classes for beginners. Six week course starts 7th January 2009.
www.astangavinyasaoxford.net / email: yasmin@astangavinyasaoxford.net / Tel. 07967674029
6:15 PM, £48 for six weeks
Yoga Garden, Behind Cibo's (on the right), South Parade, Summertown.

Relaxation And Yoga. Anita Lewis
Gentle yoga for women in a safe, peaceful environment. Bring a mat/blanket.
www.anitalewisyoga.com / email: anita@anitalewisyoga.com
4.30-5.30. Free. Women Only
Asian Cultural Centre, Manzil Way, OX4 1GH.

Lunchtime Pilates Class Ivana tarkova
Strenghten abs & lower back, improve posture, ease back pain, intermediate.
www.ispilates.co.uk / email: enquiries@ispilates.co.uk / Tel. 07818062351
12.15 - 1pm, £8, £39 for 6
Old Fire Station, George Street

Ananda Yoga/Tibetan yoga.
Tel. Emilia, 07776092373
Beginners and complete beginners. 7pm - 8pm, £65/term or £7 (£5) drop in
Methodist Church Hall (East Oxford), Corner of Cowley Road and Jeune Street.

Beginners Kung Fu FWC Oxford Club
A new class for beginners in Fujian White Crane Kung Fu.
www.fwckungfu.com / email: stefanw@fwckungfu.com / Tel. 07957 198 698
7.30-8.30pm
South Oxford Community Centre, Lake Street, off Abingdon Rd.

Womens Boxercise Oxford Womens Boxercise
Get Fit, Burn Fat, Relieve Stress.
email: faz1@fsmail.net / Tel. 01993 774407
8.00-9.00p.m
Summertown Church Hall, Portland Rd, Oxford, OX2 7EZ

Yoga Meditation Relaxation
Gently paced. Classic Iyengar/Ashtanga postures, focus on alignment and breath.
email: lauramansberger@yahoo.co.uk / Tel. 0796 348 2779
Wednesdays: 6:30-8:00pm. £6/£5
Asian Cultural Centre, Manzil Way, OX4 1GH.

Oxford Tai Chi Oxford Tai Chi Chuan
Health Posture Correct Composure Relaxation Fitness Flexibility Gung and Form
www.oxfordtaichi.com / email: davetaichi@gmail.com / Tel. 01865724669
6.30-8pm £7 (£5)
East Oxford Community Centre, 44b Princes Street (corner of Cowley Rd), OX4 1DD.

Thu 15th Jan — Sports and Fitness Listings

Buggyfit
Postnatal fitness class for mums and babies
www.buggyfit.co.uk / email: liz@expectingresults.co.uk / Tel. 07979341574
Thursdays 2-3pm. £4.50
Albert Park, Abingdon

Yoga (mixed ability) Sue Pennington
All welcome, including beginners. Stretching, strengthening, relaxing.
email: suepennington@yahoo.com / Tel. 01865 776759
6-7.30pm / £8/£7/£6
Asian Cultural Centre, Manzil Way, OX4 1GH.

Jazzercise In Oxford Join now!
60 min excercise class with the latest music and dances
www.witneyfitness.co.uk / email: helen2weller@hotmail.com
7pm / £6 a session or £16/m
Botley Primary School, Elms Road, West Oxford

Pilates ...with Tiago
60 min to mobilise, strengthen and stretch the back and the whole body. 6 week course
www.functional-pilates.com / email: tiago.instructor@gmail.com / Tel. 07760444416
19:15-20:15, £45
Jericho Community Centre, 33a Canal Street.

Oxford Martial Arts AcademyMuay Thai, Boxing, Brazilain Jiu Jitsu, M.M.A , Brazilian Vale Tudo
www.OMAA.org.uk / email: info@omaa.org.uk / Tel. 07906628444 OR 01865 774 998.
6pm - 9.30pm £4.10
381 Cowley Rd

Womens Football Headington Athletic WFCHeadington Athletic WFC welcome new experienced players
www.freewebs.com/headingtonathleticwfc / email: womensfootball@hotmail.co.uk / Tel. 07727277080
Training evenings £2.50 or £1.25 (In full time education or not in work)
The Lord Nuffield Club, William Morris Close, Cowley., OX4 2JX

Ashtanga Yoga
Mixed ability, led classes. Strong, dynamic, energising yoga. Beginners welcome.
www.sashanorton.co.uk / email: sasha.norton@yahoo.com / Tel. 07710 237162
10:30-12:00 / Enquire for prices
Ferry Sports Centre , off Marston Ferry Road, Summertown; Tel. 01865 467060.

Pilates Beginners: Level 1 Wolff Fitness
Stott Pilates. Get a flat stomach, strengthen your back and improve posture.
email: pilates@wolfffitness.co.uk / Tel. 07771 923318
9.30am, £35 for 5 sessions
Parish Church Hall, Avenue Rd, Kennington

Pilates Beginners: Level 1 Wolff Fitness
Stott Pilates. Get a flat stomach, strengthen your back and improve posture.
email: pilates@wolfffitness.co.uk / Tel. 07771 923318
6pm, £40 for 5 sessions
Holiday Inn Hotel, Peartree Roundabout, Woodstock Road, OX2 8JD.

Suang Yang Fujian White Crane Oxford Club
Soft and gentle martial art famed for its health benefits. Beginners welcome.
www.fwckungfu.com / email: stefanw@fwckungfu.com / Tel. 07957 198 698
6.30-7.30pm
East Oxford Community Centre, 44b Princes Street (corner of Cowley Rd), OX4 1DD.

Kung Fu Fujian White Crane Oxford Club
Traditional Chinese Martial Art. Beginners welcome.
www.fwckungfu.com / email: stefanw@fwckungfu.com / Tel. 07957 198 698
5.30-6.20pm (children), 7.30-8.30pm adults
East Oxford Community Centre, 44b Princes Street (corner of Cowley Rd), OX4 1DD.

Private Yoga Lessons Olivia Henderson at Eau de Vie
Learn balance in body and in mind. Suitable for any level of fitness and ability. With a British Wheel of Yoga accredited teacher.
www.eau-de-vie.co.uk / email: info@eau-de-vie.co.uk / Tel. 01865 200678
9.30 - 12.30pm £45 1 Hour/ £65 1.5 Hours
Eau de Vie, 34 Cowley Road, OX4 1HZ

Astanga-inspired Dynamic Yoga Lissa Rodd Oxford YogaFun & challenging yoga flow: for strength & flexibility, meditation & happiness.
www.lissarodd-oxfordyoga.net / email: lissa2516@yahoo.co.uk / Tel. 01865 426348
6:30-8pm / £8/£6.50 regulars' discount
St Alban's Hall, Charles Street (off Iffley Road), OX4 3AU

Pilates Matwork For Beginners Ivana StarkovaStott Instructor - strengthen abs, improve posture, ease back pain.
www.ispilates.co.uk / email: enquiries@ispilates.co.uk / Tel. 0781 8062351
6-7pm, £11, £54 for 6
Summertown Church Hall, Corner of Banbury & Portland Rds, Summertown, OX2 7EZ.

Pole Fitness Beginners CoursePole Fitness is a great way of keeping fit. Please ring or email for further info. 8 Week course.
email: lynnspolefitness@hotmail.co.uk / Tel. 07527170014
8.30-9.45pm, £12 per lesson or £85 for Course
Abingdon Dance Studios

Capoeira - Senzala
Brazilian martial art combining fighting techniques with acrobatics and music.
Tel. 07935 023534 (Andreas)
6.30-8.00pm, £5.
St Michael's Church Hall, Portland Road, Summertown, OX2 7EZ

Morning Astanga Yoga Classes Bella Galt and Emanuele Rossi
Mysore-style yoga, beginners welcome! Starts on 5th January 2009.
www.astangavinyasaoxford.net / email: yasmin@astangavinyasaoxford.net / Tel. 07967 674 029
6:30 - 9:00 AM
Yoga Garden, Behind Cibo's (on the right), South Parade, Summertown.

Adult Squash Coaching Ferry Sports Centre
Looking to try something new? Learn how to play Squash
www.oxford.gov.uk/leisure/ferry-sports-centre.cfm / email: ferrysc@oxford.gov.uk / Tel. 01865 467060
7.00 - 8.00pm Beginners, 8.00 - 9.00pm Improvers. Prices from £39.60 - £45.00
Ferry Sports Centre , off Marston Ferry Road, Summertown; Tel. 01865 467060.

Jivamukti Yoga
Dynamic flowing yoga with Nigel Farrar. All welcome.
email: nigelaf@hotmail.com / Tel. 07771 515327
6.30 - 8pm, £8 (£6)
St. Alban's Church hall, Charles St. (off Iffley Rd)

Korfball: Mixed Sex Team Sport Oxford City Korfball Club
Fun, sociable team sport, like netball/basketball but better! Beginners welcome.
www.oxfordcitykorfballclub.co.uk / email: chairperson@oxfordkorfball.com
6.30 - 8.00 pm, try for free!
Oxford School, Glanville Rd.

Tiger Kung Fu Classes Classic Tiger Kung Fu Club
Classic Chinese Martial Arts: friendly classes suitable for all levels
www.classictigerkungfu.co.uk
7-8:30pm; £3 students; £6 non-students
Centre for Sport, Brookes University, Headington

David Lloyd Tai Chi Oxford Tai Chi ChuanComplete tai chi chuan classes open to all inc non members
www.oxfordtaichi.com / email: davetaichi@gmail / Tel. 01865724669
7-9pm £7 to non members
David Lloyd Oxford

Post-natal Pilates Class Ivana Starkova
Strenghten abs & pelvic floor muscles, babies welcome.
www.ispilates.co.uk / email: enquiries@ispilates.co.uk / Tel. 0781806 2351
12-1pm, £70 for 6 weeks
North Oxford Association, Diamond Place, Summertown, Oxford, OX2 7DP.

Fri 16th Jan — Sports and Fitness Listings

Oxford Martial Arts Academy
Muay Thai, Boxing, Brazilain Jiu Jitsu, M.M.A , Brazilian Vale Tudo
www.OMAA.org.uk / email: info@omaa.org.uk / Tel. 07906628444 OR 01865 774 998.
6pm - 9.30pm £4.10
381 Cowley Rd

Suang Yang Fujian White Crane Oxford Club
Soft and gentle martial art famed for its health benefits. Beginners welcome.
www.fwckungfu.com / email: stefanw@fwckungfu.com / Tel. 07957 198 698
6.30-7.30pm
Summertown Church Hall, Corner of Banbury & Portland Rds, Summertown, OX2 7EZ.

Kung Fu Fujian White Crane Oxford Club
Traditional Chinese Martial Art. Beginners welcome.
www.fwckungfu.com / email: stefanw@fwckungfu.com / Tel. 07957 198 698
7.30-8.30pm
Summertown Church Hall, Corner of Banbury & Portland Rds, Summertown, OX2 7EZ.

Astanga-inspired Dynamic Yoga Lissa Rodd Oxford Yoga
Fun & challenging yoga flow: for strength & flexibility, meditation & happiness.
www.lissarodd-oxfordyoga.net / email: lissa2516@yahoo.co.uk / Tel. 01865 426348
6:30-8pm / £8/£6.50 regulars' discount
St Alban's Hall, Charles Street (off Iffley Road), OX4 3AU

Free Taster Session Tatty Bumpkin Oxford
Yoga inspired classes for children 2-5. Educational and FUN!!!
www.oxford.tattybumpkin.com / email: classes@oxford.tattybumpkin.com / Tel. 0845 6801519 or 07929 288964
10.30 & 11.30am FREE!!!!!
Summertown Church Hall, Corner of Banbury & Portland Rds, Summertown, OX2 7EZ.

Yoga Classes Yoga in Oxford
Yoga for energy, balance and peace of mind. Drop-in class; all welcome
www.yogainoxford.co.uk / email: joannajeczalik@yahoo.com / Tel. 01865 453307
6 - 7.15pm, £5.50, £4.50 concs
Yoga Garden, Behind Cibo's (on the right), South Parade, Summertown.

Morning Astanga Yoga Classes Bella Galt and Emanuele Rossi
Mysore-style yoga, beginners welcome! Starts on 5th January 2009.
www.astangavinyasaoxford.net / email: yasmin@astangavinyasaoxford.net / Tel. 07967 674 029
6:30 - 9:00 AM
Yoga Garden, Behind Cibo's (on the right), South Parade, Summertown.

Hatha Yoga Hazel Faithfull
All Welcome. Mixed ability classes combining breath movement and relaxation.
www.hazelfaithfull.co.uk / email: oxford.yoga@yahoo.co.uk / Tel. 07931 743785
10 - 11.30am six weeks £42. Drop in £9
Abbey rooms, Guildhall, Abingdon

Improver's Yoga Course Luisa Rennie
Build strength, flexibility and focus with a view to developing self practice.
www.oxfordyogalotus.co.uk / email: luisajane@hotmail.com / Tel. 07905241123
6-7.30pm, £42 for six weeks
United Reformed Church (Summertown), 274a Banbury Road (opposite South Parade).

Therapeutic Yoga Anita Lewis
Gentle movement, breath, relaxation to restore and enhance well being.
www.eau-de-vie.co.uk / email: anita@anitalewisyoga.com / Tel. 07726 841815
Tailored to the individual.
Eau De Vie, 34 Cowley Road

Lunchtime Pilates Class Ivana Starkova
Strenghten abs & lower back, ease back pain, improve posture, beginners.
www.ispilates.co.uk / email: enquiries@ispilates.co.uk / Tel. 07818062351
12.15 - 1pm, £8, £39 for 6
Jericho Community Centre, 33a Canal Street.

Ananda Yoga
Tibetan yoga, beginners and mixed ability.
Tel. Emilia, 07776092373
4pm - 5pm. £65 / 12 sessions; £7 (£5) drop in
South Oxford Community Centre, Lake Street, off Abingdon Rd.

Phew I'm exhausted just looking at them all! Bicycle Polo or Pole Dancing though... what do you think? I shall spare you the almost as dizzying list of local dance classes - though they are also on the Daily Information site if you're curious. Then there's every kind of Baby Gym and Baby College for that insecure flabby little underachieving tyke of yours who's just desperate to shed his baby weight and win the Pulitzer whilst still in nappies.

Talking of literary awards, I am delighted to see that one of my favourite writers, Diana Athill, has just won the Costa award at the age of 91. Hope for all we late starters and late overnight successes yet I think!
I first stumbled upon the writings of this impressive grande dame of literature some ten years ago as a volunteer in Oxfam Bookshop when her first autobiography 'Instead of A Letter' caught my eye when shelf-tidying. To this day I cannot explain why I picked it up as the jacket was rather bland and unremarkable. The contents however were anything but as she poignantly (but without a trace of self-indulgence) detailed her childhood and early adulthood from a family bosom of decaying English grandeur to the war years in the most beautiful detail with a depth of understanding and objectivity chronicalling all her loves and losses seldom seen, not to mention remarkable candour. She was a mere stripling of 46 when the book was published in 1963 and in-between a distinguished career as a literary editor for Andre Deutsche and others, has written a number of memoirs about the stages of her life since, including the excellent 'Stet' about her long history as a Literary Editor and what really goes on in the publishing world and its changes over the 20th Century. She has latterly cornered the market in what it is like to grow old in unflinching detail, but again with the most extraordinary and compelling grace. And she is perfectly right - far too much is written about being young compared to the virtually nothing that is written about being old, no matter that youth is such a fleeting state and small percentage of life compared to the remainder. Thus humanity needs to learn to love and value itself for the duration, and not just when at its most physically fit and desirable. The old are, as Ms Athill says, 'Reservoirs of experience' with a lot more to offer than they are often given credit for in the Western world. Certainly there is no going gentle into that good night for Ms Athill.

Calendar Boys

In previous years when confronted with this sort of calendar



I have always defaulted to cute kittens doing cute things, Dilbert cartoons or comedy nuns, as I do not approve of human beings being reduced to sex objects.

However the calendar industry has been more than usually sneaky in spotting the niche in the market for we females who like our calendar subjects a little bit classier and dressier, and this year I have spotted not one, but THREE tempting calendars.





Decisions, decisions...

Luckily I am not into *this* sort of calendar.



No, the 'Vatican Beefcake' effort does not appeal. And frankly I'm appalled the Pope allows them to flaunt themselves like this in their priestly vestments since they are supposed to be celibate. Must be getting a kick-back from the calendar sales.

I eschewed the naked farmers flaunting their parsnips too, doing it for British agriculture. Or somesuch. Those Yorkshire WI women spawned a monster. Even builder's bottoms get their own calendar these days I notice! And right next to Thomas the Tank Engine.

So it's just a new diary for me while I see who's left in the mall next time I visit - think the last Colin Firth has already gone. And lots and lots of these before it becomes illegal for shops to sell 100W bulbs on 1st January. Don't worry if you miss the deadline though - I'll sell you one of mine for a tenner!



My last trip to a Woolies this week and not a thing could I find to buy, though I consoled myself that no purchasing decision on my part could save it now, sadly. But I still love my duck-egg blue kitchenware from Woolies purchased a couple of years ago when I got my own place and they evidently still had a decent buyer or two left who bothered to co-ordinate the merchandise.



This is the time of year I assiduously avoid the newspapers for the duration as I can't bear all those end-of-year reviews, 10-page horoscopes and endless seasonal adverts, pull-outs and fall-outs. I mean that's half the recycling box full before the xmas wrapping and packaging gets a look-in, and no refuse collection for two weeks either! So I content myself perusing the Christmas Radio Times until it falls to bits and trying to read some proper books.

My only nod towards a blog end-of-year review will be to offer my two favourite tracks of the year.

This is what I call 'The Credit Crunch song' - actually 'Paper Planes' by Mia, portraying a defiant underclass getting its own back on the corporate world - note the ad for the singer's clothes in the video - just in case you want to adopt some underclass chic (which I may well be doing soon).



Best dance track of the year must surely be Dizzee Rascal and Calvin Harris's Come and Dance With Me, which I shall doubtless be bopping to on New Year's Eve.



Happy New Year, and may all your promises to yourselves remain unbroken.

A Christmas Poem

The Wrong Chestnuts

Raffling colleagues off in the Christmas slave auction again
Though on alternate years musical chairs pick office affairs
And spin the bottle makes things go with a swing
When bottoms up are done full-colour photocopying

And lest we not forget those less fortunate than we
Barclays, Lloyds, Nat West, Abbey…
Our borrowing can save a bank this year
Our spending can save a High Street's cheer

'Tis the season to be jolly, joyful and redundant
Pretence of plenty and goodwill to all men in abundance
Forget the Messiah
Let's hear it for Mariah
All she wants for Christmas is yoooooou

The sprouts are alive to The Sound of Music
Another Freesia bath set - you'll never use it.
A Christmas Carol Vorderman makes her speech to the nation
She's got Queenie's job - it's an abomination!
It's a scream fest on Emmerdale, Corrie, EastEnders
Then a live murder in Pop Goes The X Factor
Call post-pudding to vote for your favourite killer.

Tox up and max out - pay nothing 'til the January after
Kids ignore ruinous presents to play with the boxes and paper
Take Two Ronnies with food three times a day
Warning: May Cause Drowsiness
Then it's The Great Escape but Batteries are Not Included
Groundhog Christmas, National Lampoon and Scrooged

Shop zero day comes but once a year
We raise a glass with shop-bought cheer
To Prince Albert, who invented presents and trees
And that bloke who inspired the nativity

We might know Santa's an advert for Coca Cola
Who take a secret cut from each mall Grotto turnover
But somehow the Christmas magic survives
Unlike 20.5 revellers per region who won't emerge alive

© Laura King 2008



For all the cynicism in the above poem, the only Christmas song that can reduce me to tears in the middle of Tesco, cheesy I know - but she gives it her all!

Laura's December Miscellany

A quality addition to the streets of Oxford - 'Booty' - aimed at the 18-24 year old market, for whom it hosts home Botox parties. Guess it must be all that binge drinking that wrinkles them up so rapidly.




"The Bollard People". An epitaph to die for if ever there was one.




















No business is complete without the company pet. Tax deductible.



There's lead on them thar roofs...






































Former PM Margaret Thatcher as you've never seen her before. Scaring would-be marauders from scaling the walls of Dorchester-on-Thames Abbey.





















So that's where all the chestnuts went this Christmas.
















If you ask me British Victorian biscuit company Fox's have gone to the dogs! S&M biscuits indeed! As if life isn't punishing enough.





















Why do 'orange inclusions' keep me awake at nights? Not unlike orange smarties.





















'It's all about the potato' folks!

An Inspector Calls...

Stand by your blogs folks, for today the Queen visits Google, so everything had better be ship-shape and Bristol-fashion or 'orf with your heads'!

BBC Radio 4's Today programme had great fun this morning speculating on what HM's
blog might be like if she wrote one. Do click on the link and listen to the humorous clip of Sue Townshend's sketch - no matter that Sue evidently does not seem to know the difference between a blog and Facebook.

The answer to their musing though is that they'd never know, as any attempt that The Queen made to interact with the BBC would be stymied by the fact that even when you go through all the rigmarole of signing up to the BBC website - you can never EVER leave comments on any programme as a BLOGGER! Not even for programmes about BLOGGING!

How annoying is that?

To annoy even further, viewers and listeners can now rarely contact programmes direct - even to offer positive feedback to the British Broadcasting Corporation that we the people personally pay for and own - but are directed to messageboard asylums full of random lunatics who can scarcely write, let alone stick to the same topic thread - in order that the Beeb can ignore their viewers and listeners even more & let them rant away to each other with equanimity.

In fact if our Queen wants a surefire way to anonymity and a low-key life, the way bloggers are tumbling down the Google rankings as a search engine priority, starting a blog is probably the answer! Or the next best thing to trying to contact the BBC directly!

All The World's A Stage...

A poem inspired by the Noel Coward number 'Don't Put Your Daughter On The Stage Mrs Worthington' rather than Shakey. Although penned some time ago, it seems particularly apt in the current economic climate.

Stagecraft

Don't put your daughter on life's stage Mrs Worthington
Nor your son if he can't act
And lie after the fact
Seem to be obedient
Flexible, expedient
Playing all of the parts
Employing all of the arts

For the whole world is a stage Mrs Worthington
And we but two-bit players
Only doers, one-line sayers
And they who steal the show
Will be regretfully 'let go'

There will be no revival
For those who overlook survival
And fail the spot the machinery
Shifting the scenery
As they faithfully stick to the original script

No don't put your offspring on life's stage Mrs Worthington
They'll come to a bad end
If they can't make West End
And their run will be short
And unendingly fraught
With the fear of being written out
Or never written in

© LS King

And The Tune Currently Trapped at No.1 in Laura's Head This Week is…

The Feeling - Sewn

Normally any song containing the lyrics na na na-aaa na na na na is a definite no no no-oo no no no, notwithstanding this tune has somehow managed to worm its way under the radar and into my brain, being a bit classier than many of its contemporaries of dodgy lyrics. Ok so it was catchy, original and he had a good voice I admit it. If only the lyrics were better how much more immortal a lullaby for youth it could have been, though I do love the chorus 'You got my heart in a headlock'

For the more intellectual among you, still trapped at No. 2 in Laura's brain this week is;



Britney Spear's Toxic. A poptastic piece of original dance kitsch with Indian overtones. Surprisingly the words ain't half bad either. For a mad mare who'll shave her head at the drop of a headline, Britney can still deliver the odd hat trick of a hit. And that sparkly body stocking should grant her all the attention she needs!

But you know when you go to the doctor and plead 'Doctor, doctor, I've got this tune stuck in my head, going round and round all day, can you help me?' And he just looks at you witheringly and says 'Miss King, I have patients in this surgery dying of cancer, so just be a good little hypochondriac and bugger off!'

Or is it just me?

Is There Anybody There?

The other week I indulged a longtime idle curiosity to find out if there was anything for 'afters' as it were, and purchased a Ouija board for £7.99 on eBay.

It arrived a couple of days later.

My friend and I read the instructions and tried it that weekend.

After declaring the board 'open' and politely asking - 'is there anyone nice out there who wishes to communicate with either of us?' we waited,

and waited.

and waited.

Nothing.

We repeated the request, alternately staring at the planchette our fingertips rested on, the lighted candles, and each other, until it became embarrassing.

Eventually I asked 'is there anybody there at all who would like to communicate with either myself or Terry?'

Zip.

Not a sausage.

Proof positive that there is no life after death.

I am seeking a refund. (for the Ouija board as well).

Though upon reflection, perhaps asking if 'any body' was there
was the wrong question! Or perhaps an ethernet search is as exacting as an internet search. Or maybe I just don't know enough dead people.

Around Asda In 80 Minutes

What the??? And who wants their crisps 'hand cooked' anyway, even supposing that they contain real bona fide blankets?



At least some great British traditions never change...



And our gratuitous traditional puddings are always good for a laugh.



I didn't know that 'comforting' was a legally recognised and chargeable 'ingredient' under Food Labelling laws, but perhaps I'm behind the times.



After that little lot, you may be worrying about your waistline. Free liposcution attachment and personal bacon slicer enclosed.



Nice to see a store that doesn't glamorise drinking.



But is considerate enough to sell the heavy drinker a few aids to see them through the check-out queue.



Clever chappies, these DUAL-action products. But 'neckache' - how???



Who needs re-hab?



Just in case you're worried about other side-effects of the way we live now.... Could this be the new navel-gazing? Personally I've never been quite that bored of a Saturday night.



I think that merger with Walmart has gone to their head. At this point, needless to say I made my excuses and left.

I'll throw this out as a meme and link back to any blogmate similarly foolhardy enough to test the freedom of their free country by capturing similarly ridiculous products minus security guard molestation.

Meantime I'm off to eat some 'comforting' mash. It's a tough old start of term here in Ye Olde Oxenford, but I hope to catch up with y'all very soon.

The End of The Affair...

'I've told you, it's over'

'Is there nothing we can do to change your mind?'

'No'

'It's nothing that we've done…?'

'Look, you don't phone, you don't e-mail, you only write to enclose narcissistic jargon-filled leaflets about how wonderful you think you are - for years and years. And now four phonecalls in as many hours. Why the sudden interest, especially when your interest was previously dropping like a stone?'

'We just want you to be happy in the relationship. Perhaps you weren't taking advantage of all that we could offer. Perhaps we can offer more.'

'You mean like a higher interest rate?'

'Now let's not be hasty here. We gave you a bankety bank cheque book and pen and offered you a Treats Plus account'

'Oh the one for £20-a-month with all the free cr*p I was never going to use - the one you automatically 'upgraded' me to without my written authority…? Wasn't that illegal anyway?'

'The ombudsman found us merely ill-advised I think you'll find. But that's water under the bridge now - there's really no need to cheat on us with another bank. But we're prepared to overlook that.'

'Can I come back as a New Customer and get the free laptop?'

'Hmmm, we'd have to see. Might prove a tad unethical'

'I dunno, I'm just not getting fiscal satisfaction. I don't feel you value me.'

'Well the blunt truth is you're only a medium-value added customer madam - to any bank - not just us. But if you could just break through the £25k a year income barrier - you could qualify as one of our Premium Pewter customers.'

'What's in it for me?'

'The satisfaction of knowing you're with one of the last British banks standing on its own two feet. And a pewter paperclip pyramid.'

'So I'd have to take on an extra evening job to get a pewter paperclip pyramid'

'And a matching pewter Tutankhamun pen'

'Sorry but my mind is made up. I'm leaving you'

'Do you mind telling us who for?'

'My water company as it happens. They're offering me a higher interest current account, a lower interest mortgage and all the water I can drink. Oh and marriage, an iPod and a baby.'

'You mean those fifteen years we spent together meant nothing to you - what happened to customer loyalty madam?'

'Quite'

Bad Jeans

I have always regarded the trend for prolapsed 'Deputy Dawg' men's jeans as one of the vile-est (next to the tea-stain variety that make wearers look as if they've pee'd themselves - only a good look for alcies who really have), and wondered how on earth members of the male persuasion - previously notorious for shunning anything faffy - were persuaded by the fashion industry to be arsed to bother with jeans that were perpetually falling down their buttocks and worse still, make them all look as if they have stubby little legs, possibly webbed at the top, even if they are actually disguising quite a nice legs and arse combo in reality.

Some while ago I'd heard they were known as badass just got out of jail jeans, as real prison-issue jeans never fit and obviously get mis-shapen after a few months wear and tear out on the chain gang - though why a chap should wish to look as if he has just got out of prison is a mystery - so the Police can identify/re-arrest him for questioning more easily following every subsequent crime in the neighbourhood presumably...?

However the other week I heard a fellow poet reveal that the actual meaning of these slobby-yobby sloppies was to denote that a man was sexually-available to other men, owing to the ease of access as he bent down, and wouldn't heterosexual wearers be horrified to know and dumping their trendy jeans in droves pronto? tee hee. Could give a whole new meaning to the term 'boyfriend jeans', if not also 'fashion victim' and 'crack addict'!

These jeans have always acted as a sure form of contraception as far as this heterosexual is concerned anyway. I do not find off-the-bum jeans the sexy male equivalent of an off-the-shoulder dress on a woman in any shape or form.

Though I guess I should probably lower my standards re my insistence on a nice three-piece suit!

Joking aside, the couldn't-care-less attitude toward society and dearth even of self-respect embodied by this kind of clothing makes me shudder.

Evidently some states in the US share my concern and are now outlawing these jeans Lousiana's Saggy Pants Crackdown. Britain could do worse than follow suit!

The Dreaming Spirals of Oxford (and other scandals)

Oxford used to be known for this



It will shortly be known for this - the Softbrain Softbridge Middle East Centre

Yes, the best preserved Victorian suburb in England has been chosen in which to erect this abortion seamless brave but insensitive new architectural narrative.

In a sneaky deft move, Oxford University has chosen the world's most iconic woman architect Zaha Hadid, who just happens to be muslim so that Oxford City Council daredn't reject the planning application for fear of looking backwards-thinking or worse, was obliged to take their hat off to OU for this daring international design coup showing just how forward-thinking and cosmopolitan Oxford is - a coup which is excitingly anticipated to put our little backwater of Oxford on the map.

Thousands of both public and University users will be welcome in the massive 125-seat lecture theatre with only three days rigorous security checks to undergo to prove they belong to the University and can demonstrate a genuine thesis in Middle Eastern Studies.

A spokesman for Oxford City Council said 'For far too long Oxford has languished forgotten in the shadow of Canary Wharf unable to compete and desperately short of underutilised lecture theatres and libraries.' He refused to confirm that Saudi money is backing the project before hopping into his gold plated, bullet-proof SUV vehicle and speeding off.

To think Oxford denizens ever complained about this cutie landing on a terrace in the less-upmarket suburb of Headington twenty years ago.



In a separate scandal initiative, (not to mention in a falling housing market), Oxford City Council is planning to rob 530 hectares of designated Green Belt land from South Oxfordshire District Council outside the city borders to the South to build up to 12,000 new houses on an area which aside from being legally designated 'green belt land' is an area of scientific interest and bang next to a Sewage Farm. Let's hope some sue-age of another kind ensues, as if this goes through it will set a potentially disastrous precedent for the protection and future of green belt land around all our cities and towns up and down the country. I for one shall keep painting the frogs purple with silver spots to beef up the 'area of scientific interest' protection. Spraycan anyone?

*For those readers not in the UK, 'greenbelt land' is the protected/undeveloped belt of land around each British city and town which was intended to offer a 'green lung' to these conurbations in addition to ensuring that the urban sprawl did not spiral out of control to ruin the character and shape of the countryside or the communities they were intended to protect.

Trying To Be Venus

Time for a poem I think! Here is a little number from my back catalogue as work is so crazy at the moment (start of academic year), but I hope you enjoy. And doubtless there are plenty of chaps out there similarly afflicted with the desperate-to-please thing - as I used to be!

All The Things I'm Not

I'm not a nag
I'm not a drag
Don't obsess about my weight
Or manipulate
I'm not moody
Uptight or broody
I'm not too bossy
Or loud and brassy
I'm not suspicious
Or overly vicious
Not 'eek' and clingy
Who won't do her own thingy
And I'm not boring
Petty or warring
A chop and changer of mind
Nor the dithering kind
I don't cluck or fuss
Constantly analyse us
Don't drag blokes shopping
Impose lads' night out stopping
Don't demand 'I love yous' on the hour
Or count a man's devotion by the flower
Don't insist on talents in DIY
Issue ultimatums, sulk or cry
Or turn the cricket off.
'Not feminine enough'
He said.

© Laura King

*I have no idea what the book is like by the way - merely stole it to go with the poem!

Two Legs Good, Four Legs, a Conspiracy!

Creator of the World Wide Web, Sir Tim Berners-Lee, is concerned that the WWW is getting out of hand with 'disinformation' and wants each website (presumably including blogs) to be bannered with a stamp of trustworthiness.

Of particular concern to Sir Tim was the recent Hadron Collider story which apparently spread real panic about the creation of a black hole. And parents of brain-damaged children questioning the MMR vaccine/drug company assurances also bother him, as do conspiracy theorists.

Nice to know that paedophile, terrorist and suicide sites are obviously fine and dandy with him, eh?

And where pray, would our slow-summer media be without all the conspiracy stories to get them through, when the weather, sport and celeb goss (equally reliable obviously) isn't providing enough to fill their pages?

At the risk of being ahem, controversial, I would question Sir Tim's motives for trying to discredit those who dare question medicine/science (shareholder in either, perchance?). As for conspiracy theorists, anyone with a brain knows at least 80% of conspiracy theorists are complete loony tunes! However those remaining 20% might just be doing a valuable job in keeping us questioning things/exposing that which ought to be exposed.

Either way, it is surely our job as intelligent human beings to filter these things into the relevant mental boxes rather than Sir Tim's...?

*This posting is rated 3¾ % sq for trustworthiness.

It's a Rap!

As a poet I've always been intrigued by rap music, though have often struggled to find great artistic/literary merit in much of it. However these two tracks - Coolio's 'Gangster's Paradise' and Miss Dynamite's 'It Takes More' stand head and shoulders above the rest. I reproduce the lyrics below each one so you can sing along. Gangster's Paradise is a track which part revels in 'da hood', part questions its tendancy to hurt itself more than anyone else.

In It Takes More, (aided by an extraordinarily Austrian vibe) Miss Dynamite challenges her black 'brothers' to be known for more than drugs, crime and pimping and points out that it takes more than that 'to impress a girl' like her!

Somewhat ironic that my two favourite rap tracks are those questioning the very roots that gave rise to them! The silver lining of the bad-ass culture I guess.



As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I take a look at my life and realize there's nothing left
Cause I've been blastin and laughing so long that
Even my mama thinks that my mind is gone

But I ain't never crossed a man that didn't deserve it
May be treated like a punk, you know that's unheard of
You better watch how you talking, and where you walking
Or you and your homies might be lined in chalk

I really hate to trip, but I gotta lope
As they croak I see myself in the pistol smoke, fool
I'm the kinda G that little homies wanna be
Like on my knees in the night
Sayin' prayers in the street light

been spending most our lives
Living in a Gangsta's Paradise
been spending most our lives
Living in a Gangsta's Paradise
keep spending most our lives
Living in a Gangsta's Paradise
keep spending most our lives
Living in a Gangsta's Paradise

Forgot the situation, they got me facin
I can't live a normal life, I was raised by the strip
So I gotta be down with the hood team
Too much television watching got me chasing dreams

I'm an educated fool, with money on my mind
Got my ten in my hand and a gleam in my eye
I'm a loped-out gangsta, set-trippin banger
And my homies is down, so don't arouse my anger, fool

Death ain't nothing but a heart beat away
I'm livin life do-or-die ah, what can I say?
I'm twenty-three now will I live to see twenty-four?
The way things are goin I don't know

Tell me why are we -- so blind to see
That the ones we hurt -- are you and me

been spending most their lives
Living in the Gangsta's Paradise
been spending most their lives
Living in the Gangsta's Paradise
keep spending most our lives
Living in the Gangsta's Paradise
keep spending most our lives
Living in the Gangsta's Paradise

Power and the money, money and the power
Minute after minute, hour after hour
Everybody's running, but half of them ain't lookin
What's goin on in the kitchen, but I don't know what's cookin

They say I got to learn, but nobody's here to teach me
If they can't understand it, how can they reach me?
I guess they can't -- I guess they won't
I guess they front that's why I know my life is out of luck, fool

been spending most their lives
Living in the Gangsta's Paradise
been spending most their lives
Living in the Gangsta's Paradise
we keep spending most our lives
Living in the Gangsta's Paradise
we keep spending most our lives
Living in the Gangsta's Paradise

Tell me why are we -- so blind to see
That the ones we hurt -- are you and me
Tell me why are we -- so blind to see
That the ones we hurt -- are you and me

Tell me why are we -- so blind to see
That the ones we hurt -- are you and me
Tell me why are we -- so blind to see
That the ones we hurt -- are you and me

click here for Miss Dynamite video - rebellious to the last - she's not proving very embeddable!

The things that you promote
Fighting, violence
Like you don't want to grow old
You talking so much sex
But you na tell the youths about AIDS
You na tell them of consequence, no
Your talking like you a G
But you killer killing your own
You're just a racist man's fossey
Tell me who wants to know
What when who where
Or how you lose control

Certainly not me
Certainly not me
'Cos baby personally
I like to be challenged mentally
I've heard it all before
Gangsta's pimps and whores
Quality is born
A girl like me is born

It takes more (it takes more)
To amuse a girl like me
So much more (much more)
To confuse a girl like me
They've got you (got you)
'Cos while you braggin'
About your badness you're just
Avoiding, adding to the real sh*t
That's happenin' to us

Now who gives a damn
About the ice on your hand
If it's not too complex
Tell me how many Africans died
For the bagettes on your Rolex
So what you pushing a nice car
Don't you know there's no such thing as superstars
We leave this world alone
So who gives a about the things you own

Certainly not me
Certainly not me
'Cos baby personally
I like to be challenged mentally
Content's insignificant
And it don't help to pay my rent
It's pure negativity
That you impose on me

It takes more (it takes more)
To amuse a girl like me
So much more (much more)
To confuse a girl like me
They've got you (got you)
'Cos while you braggin'
About your badness you're just
Avoiding, adding to the real sh*t
That's happenin' to us

Now I can sit
And chat a spit about how I sex
But my business is my business I got self respect
I can talk 'bout how my press could pimp man's dough
Get the keys to his ride and his home
But I looked it up and that would make me a ho'
Little sisters now I really got to let you know
Real women ain't sexin' for no man's dough
Real women work hard to make their dough
And we can all chat 'bout gats and blacks
On blacks and force the hypes and all the stereotypes
We used to watching that ain't what I'm here for
Show them to think higher and aspire to be more

It takes more (it takes more)
To amuse a girl like me
So much more (much more)
To confuse a girl like me
They've got you (got you)
'Cos while you braggin'
About your badness you're just
Avoiding, adding to the real sh*t
That's happenin' to us

It takes more (it takes more)
To amuse a girl like me
So much more (much more)
To confuse a girl like me
They've got you (got you)
'Cos while you braggin'
About your badness you're just
Avoiding, adding to the real sh*t
That's happenin' to us

The British Government Endorses Polygamy

Once upon a time in the post-war era an entire family could live and pay their mortgage on a husband's salary - which was just as well since the wife was expected to leave work the moment she married and the husband also expected and wished to support his wife to stay at home and iron his newspapers/children - it being a pride thing.

This state of affairs endured until the early 1970s when feminism came along.
A good concept in many respects as chaps had definitely had it all their own way for far too long, an unexpected side-effect of greater female earning power was a sudden lurch upwards in house prices.

With the countrys' women taking to the workplace in their droves, more and more families started to benefit from the additional income to enjoy their first wondrous luxuries such as their own family car on the driveway and straw donkeys on the mantelpiece from their first package foreign holidays to Benidorm.

However someone somewhere noticed all this going on and thought, hmm, we'll soon put a stop to this extra income lark!

Suddenly houses began to shoot up in price until within a decade it became necessary for not one, but two, full-time salaries coming into a household to cover most mortgages.

Since then things have gone from bad to worse and however much a woman may want to stay at home to raise children, unless her husband/partner is wealthy these days, she will often have no choice but to return to work full-time, often without even the luxury of being able to remain at home until her youngsters start school (and feminism was supposed to be about having a choice of choices, right?).

But house prices didn't stop there. Oh no! People started finding they were being priced out of property altogether, particularly in certain areas of the country. For a while ingenious 100% + mortgages, terrifying 'interest-only' mortgages and cheap loans papered over the cracks by offering first-time buyers the chance of an unsustainable-if-rates-ever-rose home ownership opportunity.

However at least it was an opportunity and many grabbed it, even going so far as to tell whoppers on income self-disclosure forms to secure ever more perilous piles of finance to afford their 'house of cards'

Increasing numbers are today facing repossession or having to radically-downsize in a sinking market now that rates have shot up and the fixed-rate mortgage bonanza is coming to an end. Meantime the banks responsible for the credit crunch through their short-term speculating/reckless lending to the feckless/feck'd continue to award their CEO's obscene annual bonuses, rather than the Order of the Boot for their gross failure, and penalise the poor householder through increasing interest rates on the one hand while that same poor householder is bailing those selfsame banks out through the Government raiding their taxes to prop up them up on the other, thereby hammering the poor householder twice over.

But w***er banks aside, if we are to return to the sensible days of a sustainable 3 and a half x salary calculation for a mortgage and most houses are still around £200k, I calculate I will need at least 2.5 similarly income-endowed husbands to afford a modest two up, two down in a reasonable area of Oxford - 3.5 if they want a bigger house with a room each! Hence I might just have to opt for blogmate Mrs G's unthinkable solution! As for children, I might just be able to afford to rent a couple at weekends tho' they'd have to get a Saturday job once they hit 5 years old.

To be reduced to polygamy though - what is our government thinking of? ;-)

On a more serious note, 70% of UK citizens not yet on the property ladder are now 'poopers' (priced out of property) - ie; earning too much to qualify for social housing, but not enough to acquire a mortgage. As a co-operatively minded individual who believes in citizens getting together to fight back against an overly-greedy system I have joined my local Community Land Trust, who seek to provide a community-led solution to genuinely affordable housing.

Martin Sheen for President!

In the time-honoured British tradition of interfering in the affairs of other nations, I feel now is the time to interfere in American politics and say forget Obama and McCain, cut straight to the chase and vote for Martin Sheen! You know it makes sense. Who better to elect after all than someone who's spent enough of his career playing politicians to know exactly what to do. And more importantly, exactly what not to do. He's literally been rehearsing most of his professional life for the role of a lifetime, but can genuinely say he 'never sought high office'



Aside from playing President Bartlett in West Wing, anyone also remember him as Kennedy in 1983?

Other reasons to vote for Martin Sheen;



He survived Frances Ford Coppola's Apocalypse Now (apparently under tougher conditions than the real army)



He puts his money where his mouth is and has variously been arrested for peace protests and threatened and nearly killed by hunters while trying to save baby seals.



He has a brain, and despite a modest High School education, has gotten himself a degree late in life and been awarded several honorary degrees as well.



He's been married to the lovely Janet for 47 years, whom he credits with 'saving my life' after she helped him win battles against both booze and drugs earlier in his career and also nursed him back to health following the heart attack that nearly killed him while filming Apolcalypse Now. Together they have also helped their actor offspring through various (very public) crises and always been there for them, no matter what.



He has a faith - rediscovered after surviving and confronting his demons/health crisis - which he takes pretty seriously, but without shoving it down other people's throats or bible-bashing.



He's cooler than James Dean (as you'll know if you've ever seen him as 'Kit Carruthers' in Badlands).

Finally, who could fail to trust Marty with that marvellous reassuring American voice of his just made for saying 'justice'? I'd buy a secondhand chevvy off him any day!

Show your support for Martin - get your car sticker here!

In Martin We Trust

British Comedy Is All The Poorer

Britain may not have much to shout about anymore, but just occasionally we do still manufacture a great comedy show as our nod toward a GDP.

Last Friday one of the writer/producer lynchpins of our comedy world (and former BBC Head of Light Entertainment) who had a hand in many of our comedy hits over the last 20 years - Geoffrey Perkins - was tragically killed in a hit and run accident on Marylebone High Street in Central London, at the age of only 55, and still at the peak of his career.

There is not a great deal I can add to this excellent Telegraph obituary of him, except to say that it shouldn't be forgotten that Geoffrey was also an excellent performer in his own right, co-writing and co-starring in the precursor to The Day Today - KYTV - as 'Mike Flex' - taking the mickey out of how terrible digital TV was going to be, back in the days when most of us only had 5 terrestrial channels - which makes KYTV's version look a REALLY quality digital TV channel now! (see clip below)

Reading the obituaries over the weekend, it is clear that Geoffrey was much loved in the television industry, and his judgement, highly respected. In addition he was not of the faceless bland accountancy or bean counting ilk who sadly run so much of television these days, but someone who came from the performing arena himself and could see things from all sides, but particularly the all-important creative side, without which there is not a great deal of point in commissioning a TV series!

RIP Geoffrey - I do hope Father Ted (aka Dermot Morgan, whom we also lost far too soon) was there to meet you after all you did for him!



Geoffrey Perkins fan tribute site

Transvision Revamp

Some of you may recall my recent shameful confession regarding makeover shows Help, I'm A Binge Makeover Show Addict!

However in lieu of a show yet to help no-lifers like me, I may as well share that one of the best makeover shows in my view was a series on BBC2 several years ago called 'Would Like To Meet'.

Each week a man or woman who had had a disastrous relationship history - or quite often none at all for many years for whatever reason - would be rehabilitated by a stylist, a confidence coach and a body language/sexuality expert, so that by the end of the show they were fit to face the world and hopefully attract a suitable partner with their newfound confidence, knowing that they really did have something to offer/what that something was.

A particularly quality production, WLTM encouraged participants to be totally honest about themselves without injury to their dignity as human beings, or degeneration into emotional or physical strip-tease for the camera. Unlike subsequent low-budget attempts by lesser channels, you felt the WLTM team maintained a lot of respect for their subjects, as indeed did the viewer.

One of their most startling subjects was an engaging former journalist from Plymouth, Jon Massey. Despite being bright, attractive, courteous and charming, Mr Massey (now McKnight) had managed to get to 41 without losing his virginity and lived alone in a small terraced house eating greasy takeaways night after night and despairing of ever finding love. Rather touchingly he'd decorated his bedroom in romantic-fiction style on the off-chance love should ever come knocking, no matter that he'd allowed his wardrobe to go to pot and childhood toys to proliferate.

My heart went out to him, and far from finding him 'pathetic' as he saw himself, I found my admiration for his honesty about himself and how he came to be in his situation grew as the programme went on. Despite having to uproot and face one deeply-held fear after another, Jon threw himself into the process of his own refurbishment, only baulking at the prospect of a professional massage to get him used to being physically touched by another human being in preparation for finding a relationship, and even that fear he overcame.

Within a year of the show Jon was contacted by the woman of his dreams who'd seen the show, and whom he subsequently went on to marry!

I defy anyone to remain dry-eyed at such a human renaissance, or deny that some makeover shows can achieve life-transformingly positive results.

Jon's case, and those of several other of the WLTM participants, also highlighted that all too often human beings have to reach rock bottom in order to be ready to change whatever is blocking or making them miserable about themselves. Also how an unfortunate background, coupled with the lucky breaks in love simply not materialising for some can have a devastating effect on human confidence. Or as Sting so aptly put it; 'How Fragile We Are'.

It also left this viewer wondering how many decent human beings are going to waste being lonely when they needn't be, because some unfortunate life event or unfounded insecurity about themselves has paralysed them from living a full life or making the best choices for themselves.

The show was particularly poignant at the time as I had just endured a horrible relationship break-up and come through an equally horrible illness, which together had conspired to leave my own confidence and feelings of attractiveness at rock bottom.

It was therefore nice to see an interview with Jon in one of the weekend papers prior to a follow-up show of Would Like To Meet Again being screened this week. Apparently true love is still holding good for him and he is continuing to enjoy being the GTi version of himself! I look forward to watching the show and catching up with him and the others, though one subject who opined that she would never consider dating anyone 'ginger' naturally deserves to stay on her tod and unloved for the rest of her days!

As for me, I joined MatchCom internet dating site for a year at around the same time that WLTM was being screened. But that's another posting!

2012 British Olympics Update

Further to yesterday's posting, I am reliably informed that work has now begun on arguing about the new Olympic venues - The Bird's Mess and The Pear-Shaped Cube.

Meanwhile the kebab vans have been hired, the portaloos booked and the marquees requisitioned for the weekend before the start when the Committee suddenly realise they are not going to finish in time and have spent £9bn on giving themselves eight years of Olympian-sized performance bonuses to keep up with their city banker friends.

However they have purchased the lane dividers for divvying up the Thames for the swimming events, not forgetting to leave a modest shipping lane down the middle, and organised handy special Lodgings for the human dolphin at the nearby London Aquarium.

The merchandise is on order (from the US, to make sure it arrives in time!), so as you can see nothing has been left to chance and the Royal Family trapeze act to open is also coming on a treat!

As Steve over at Bloggertropolis has just reminded me, we even have our very own asset (or should that be 'ass'?) in the form of Sir Les Patterson-style cultural attache - Boris Johnson. Coupled with late Brit kiddie serial killer Myra Hindley as a mascot, what could go wrong?

Let's remind ourselves of that inspirational winning logo once more...

A 2012 Olympic Cynic's Opening Ceremony

Shanghaied into watching the closing ceremony of the Beijing Olympics with my partner (I was born missing the sporting gene), I was expecting a prancing dragon and a couple of fire crackers, but found myself swept away by the sheer opulence, originality and grandeur of the event. The Chinese had evidently taken their time on the world's stage deadly seriously and were not about to miss out on their opportunity to impress the watching globe to the max - to the point where you wondered how many Beijingers may have died or suffered to make it possible to pour that degree of an economy's revenue into an event which would pay it minimal dividends other than in international kudos. As for the amazing purpose-built venues, how many citizens' houses were swept away to create them? Were they adequately compensated? What will they be used for after this weekend? Somehow I can't see Mick Hucknall filling The Bird's Nest on his next world tour.

The sheer spectacle of this Olympics naturally leads to the question, how will Britain compete in 2012? On any level, not least as we have just been told the finances have been scaled down and not a penny more than £9.35 billion will be spent. As for our £400,000 2012 logo (bottom), it looks like a 1980s High School art project and 80% of the British population loathe it!

Nor am I looking forward to our opening event; The Complete Standstill of the Underground Tube System or some of the spectator sports such as 'Can you last two hours until it's your turn for that WC cubicle?' or 'Buy The Last Congealed Burger in the Olympic Village for £20 or Starve' As for choreographing the acrobatic display of our LED light-suited Beefeaters and the Metropolitan Riot Police Sychronised Swimming Team for the closing ceremony, methinks that'll need some work.

And let's face it, Londoners may as well just book a month's holiday and let their homes out for the duration of the London Olympics, making the day of all the newly-built overpriced hotels that the remainder of the East End is being bulldozed, er, sorry, 'regenerated' to erect. To expect that London will be able to function on anything more than skeleton level during the games is ludicrous. In fact it is ludicrous to stage the Olympics in one of the world's most overcrowded cities in the first place in a country renowned for grinding to a halt at the slightest excuse.

Besides which Milton Keynes needed it far more, and has already bulldozed all architecture of any worth in readiness.

On a separate topic, once all athletes are using performance-enhancing drugs in order to have any chance against rivals who already are, will that make the Olympics a 'level playing field' again?

Photographs & Memories

Aaron was a 30 year old part-time DJ with bad teeth and a welded-on 80s leather jacket who lived with his parents and fancied himself as the next James Herbert in the horror-writing stakes.
I was an impressionable 19-year old of similarly limited wardrobe and writing talent desperate for intelligent company in Coventry.
Aaron began to visit me in the greetings card shop where I worked bringing me home-compilation tape after home-compilation tape of all the music he insisted I must listen to.
At some point I visited his parents' house and sat in his black bedroom with its grey, black and red geometric curtains as he plied me with track after track of rare pop music for my delectation, but which in actual fact washed in one ear and out the other as I enjoyed the curiosity of his company for its own sake. Boys and their attention were still a tremendous novelty to a girl from a sheltered rural Northern Irish upbringing and it was rather daring to be alone in a room with one I hardly knew, even if his parents were watching Family Fortunes downstairs.
I confessed to a liking for soul music and before I knew it had acquired a dozen compilation tapes of the hard stuff - not just the right tracks, but the definitive versions sung by the definitive artists according to Aaron.
I should have seen the signs that he fancied me, but as far as I was concerned, Aaron and I were just friends (and fellow writers) who hung out occasionally.
A trip to Alton Towers ensued during which he sulked as I eschewed the three-hour screaming kid queues for dinner-raising rides and was content to just wander about the parkland wasting whatever exorbitant multi-ride admission tickets Aaron had laid out for. On the train back to Coventry he complained bitterly.
I decided he really was a bit controlling in a way I didn't care for, much though I realised even then he was probably quite a good moulder of my scant musical knowledge.
That night, possibly as a conciliatory gesture for being a somewhat ungrateful mare, I allowed him to kiss me goodnight outside my grandmother’s house where I then lived. It turned into a full-blown moneysworth snog. I didn't resist, but found myself guiltily repulsed by the acrid smell of his breath and sticky tackiness of his leather jacket in the chilly Autumn air.
The next time I saw him he was full of plans for our next date, a local concert to see a band I now forget, but I felt it was only fair to come clean and admit that I didn't want to date him, just be friends. He was furious and stormed off, displaying a pronounced limp I had hitherto never noticed, seldom to be seen again, except to tell me in no uncertain terms I had made a big mistake and would regret it for the rest of my life.
For a week or so I wondered if he was right and then forgot about him except to occasionally put a tape on and slowly over the years form an appreciation of certain tracks such as the wonderfully overblown soul number ‘Patches’, much though I could take or leave most of the rest which seemed altogether more middle of the road, despite Aaron’s lyrical waxing.
But there remain two other things I still thank Aaron for - firstly introducing me to Jim Croce's hauntingly beautiful 'Photographs & Memories' despite the fact that he and I were to revel in no ‘morning walks and bedroom talks’ of our own, and secondly, and less flatteringly, for giving me a whole new appreciation of comedy series 'Garth Merenghi's Darkplace' when it came along – the spoof of a horror-writing hack who succeeds in getting his improbable dialogue, continuity chasms and holey stories screened on the most obvious of shoestring budgets.
Yet I find I make this second observation with surprising affection for someone who could at the very least have been a ‘cult’ had he but known it and stopped trying to take himself so anally seriously.

Mind you it came as a bit of a shock to find Jim Croce looked (to coin a line from fellow poet Sue Johns) 'like Burt Reynolds washed at the wrong temperature' when I looked him up on YouTube (see my first attempt at ‘embedding’ below) I had always had a highly romanticised view of him as a bit young Justin Hayward-ish in my head.

But then aren't things always more romantic in our heads...?

Elder Stubbs Allotment Festival!

This is where I was on Saturday reading poetry as one of the 'Bards In The Woods' at Oxford's 'Elder Stubbs Allotment Festival' - surely a unique event in England! As you will see I was also competing with snakes, falcons, scarenuns, swingboats, ferrets, belly dancing, samba drumming, sculptures, the Headington Hillbillies (amidst other free bands) and lots of stalls - which strangely I didn't get round to photographing. Not to mention 'Mr Wilson' the baby giant tortoise who was zooming around trying to snaffle courgettes from people's stalls - and for a tortoise he was no slouch!

This event happens once a year and is the best day out in Oxford for £1 that I know of, as you never know what you are going to find! All proceeds go to RESTORE local mental health charity who run the allotments as a kind of gardening therapy for those who need it.

Usually the weather is amazing, but this year it was a little overcast, hence the not-so-sunny photos.

The Lost College & Other Oxford Stories

Next Tuesday night in local pub Far From The Madding Crowd sees the launch of a second book of Oxford short stories - 'The Lost College & Other Oxford Stories' by the OxPens writer's co-operative, of which yours truly is a member.

This follows the success of our previous anthology;



which was launched almost two years to the day in the same pub in 2006, to a gratifyingly packed venue with copies flying off the table, and which, with the help of various marketing-minded members of the group, went onto enjoy success and profit for all thirteen of we contributors (if not quite enough to renounce the day job), beyond our intially-modest breaking even hopes, being both Blackwell's and Waterstone's no. 1 local fiction seller for some time.

Far from 'vanity publishing' (a process by which you hand an over-inflated sum to a shyster for a set number of often poorly produced books over which you have virtually no quality/editorial control - and who seldom offers after-sales or marketing services), knowing ourselves to be quality and capable writers, we made a conscious decision that we wished to take control by publishing ourselves, using a reputable 'publishing partner' to produce a high quality, bookshop saleable collection on a par with anything to be found from a terrestrial publisher.

This enabled full cost/editorial/jacket control, the option of marketing help and to go the print-on-demand or POD route so that if our first volume was less than a success we didn't have boxes of the darned things cluttering up our living rooms and tying up assets we didn't have for years!

Thus we have been able to order them in batches of 100-200 as needed and mostly supply Oxfordshire shops directly (gift as well as book), not forgetting to ensure a presence on various online bookshops including Amazon. In addition we have solicited reviews wherever we can and been lucky enough to have an author friend or two in a high-er place who has been happy to say nice quotable things about us, and genuinely so - we didn't need to bribe them or anything! We also had the splendid luck of the aid of one of Oxford's finest artists, Valerie Petts, with our lovely eyecatching wraparound jackets.

As a group who have often had agents and publishers come and talk to us over the years, we realised some while ago that the majority of authors (however good) are depressingly now shut out of mainstream publishing, with most publishers and agents refusing to take on new authors and having dispensed with the 'readers' who used to read slush piles to pick out the next JK Rowling, so the DIY approach made ever more sense rather than an UnpublishedWriters4Justice stunt abseiling down the Houses of Parliament to get noticed! Not least since those of our members who have been conventionally published in the past now struggle as much as the rest of us to get anything further published in this increasingly competitive climate.

Sure we've had endless meetings labouring over every comma and the odd disagreement along the way, but we've (nearly) always managed to stop short of inkshed, and most of us have been pretty pleased with the results.

Should you be stuck for an Xmas or birthday present for the Oxfordophile in your life, you can purchase either or both titles here;

The Lost College & Other Oxford Stories

The Sixpenny Debt & Other Oxford Stories

I've slightly reduced the body count in my latest short story!

When Late Night Digital TV Starts To Have A Detrimental Effect On One's Poetry

Romance Isn't Dead

He's 'sofa surfing' for a 5' 2" brunette with a spare hour
Who likes dressing up as a pony girl within a five mile radius
And will wink suggestively while eating cream puffs
Preferably flaunting black and white striped toenails
While dancing a Cuban mambo along his spine
On a rainy Tuesday at twenty past three
His Google search engine returns 'thirty three'

© LS King 2008

*The TV programme (in case you hadn't guessed) was about saddos who surf for extremely 'Brief Encounters' with strangers. Be quite funny to know what actually turned up on their doorstep in real life though - knowing the internet!

Ingredients For A Hit (or How To Be A Pop Star)

Insert Rapper Here

Lift a riff or two from Bowie or whoever
Insert a rapper if your song is lacklustre
Select your chosen beat
Stick your synth on 'repeat'
A line here and there
Scream 'yeah' as you layer.
But if you really want to cash up
You can't beat a mash-up,
Drop an 'angel' in the mix,
Or make it a 'love 'n' Christmas' hit.
With a fee for every play
You'll make more royalties that way
And girlfriend, it's yo' duty
To shake that liposuctioned booty
Flaunt that silicone valley
In a push-up balcony.
Make out you're a filthy slut
Available 24/7 for a non-vanilla f**k
And did I mention rehab
And falling knickerless out of cabs?
It'll boost your pink diamante clothing lines
And push your doll to the under-nines

© LS King 2008

For the Binge Alcoholic In Your Life - Gifts From Argos

If a loved one bought you any of these gifts (click on picture to enlarge for grim details), would you see it as an act of love? Or would you see it as a sign that they wanted you dead, soonest? Would you check to see if any of the family had bumped up your Life Assurance cover recently?
Would you ask for the receipt and take it back to exchange for something more life affirming? A Breville sandwich toaster for example...?

My brand new Autumn Argos catalogue happened to fall open at this edifying page, this damning endictment of modern Britain as a national disgrace, where youngsters spend hours preening themselves to look flawless for the big night out, but seemingly care nothing by the early hours for being found unconscious in the street in their own vomit, undies akimbo. Or who stumbles upon them in that state, be it friend or foe.

Drunkenness used to be a normal-ish rite of passage, a phase, circumscribed by the high cost of drink, the refusal of the pub or bar to serve 'one over the eight', the long arm of the law who still had the power to administer 'tut tuts' or 'thick ears' accordingly, and the young drinker's own sense of self-respect. Then there was the sophistication of being seen to sip your Cinzano rather than turning potential mates off by witnessing you crassly glugging pints and necking shots.

This all now seems to have been swept by the wayside so that despite all their material advantages over previous generations, today's hardest drinking generation displays a worrying degree of often-exhibitionist nihilism, a devil-may-care, so what if I die? attitude. Some indeed are attaining their inner death wish, foi gras-ing their livers with booze, and not seeing middle age.

More and more older people are also drinking to excess or never calming down from their Uni days. Retirees too seem to be opting to take up alcoholism (usually alongside boredom in the sun as ex-pats) and eschewing the golf, ballroom dancing, community work and allotment-keeping of yesteryear.

Is life really so awful that an alarming number of people seek escapism in these excesses? Is life becoming more awful because an alarming number of people are seeking escapism via excess rather than trying to make it better and doing that much-missed community work?

Does excess really = happiness?

Or just numbing, dumbing down?

Funny how a page in a catalogue can lead to a whole train of thought. But lest anyone mistake me for a born again Temperance evangelist, I would just like to make it clear that shocked though I am at Argos promoting binge drinking, I am not against social drinking, only anti-social drinking. And if excessive drinking only killed the a***holes of this world, I'd personally bulk buy these aids-to-suicide for them, but fact is a lot of good people are being sucked into this toxic world and lost to it too, no matter that there has never been more psychological and other help available to them to help them face up to whatever demons are driving them to drink destructively.

I remember being a mess and unhappy with myself in earlier years, but never self-loathing. Where does self-loathing come from (if a person's not actually Hitler), and how do we as a society address this scourge (apart from trying not to indulge in behaviours that can only make self-loathing worse and offer no sense of achievement)?

Here endeth my lesson for Thursday...

The Perils Of Emulating Livestock...

In this increasingly prescriptive 'free' country of ours
My attention is drawn by a newspaper headline
Bannered 'That Mutton Moment - knee no no's after 35'
Demanding an end to above-the-knee hemlines
For females 'of a certain age'
Who don't want to be confused with a tired hock of meat

If ever I'd sought to emulate a form of livestock
Be it lamb or mutton
And followed the herd
This might well succeed in preying on my mind
Not least since there's no companion article on
What a funky monkey who intends to be the bee's knees 'til the day she dies
Should be wearing this season.
Oh dear, guess I'll have to wing it….

© LS King 2007



But where do the fashion police stand on Jelly Shoes for the over-35s, I wonder?

The Honours List

I was greatly moved to find that I had been awarded this honour by relatively recent blogmate Can Bass 1, who keeps a lively and eclectic blog of ecclesiastic hue, but is touchingly not above consorting with a God-fearing athiest like myself! (Or applying for a job in Asda - good luck CB1!)

I have been thinking all week about who I would like to award in turn! Here, in no particular order, are my favoured few! Ok, well quite a few actually.

Rol Hirst - For his services to creative writing and scintillating wit, who recently made 'Blog of the Week' in the Mail on Sunday.

Bloggertropolis For his services to TV reviewing, creative writing scintillating wit and contraception (don't ask!).

Reluctant Blogger - For her services to human insight, soulfulness and compelling narrative writing.

Oliver's Poetry Garret - For his services to poetry, photography and trying to live the life artistic!

The Age of Uncertainty - For his services to bookshops, book trade honesty and how to cope with the 21st C.

Kaz - For her services of being the most stylish young pensioner with attitude around!

Derfwad Manor - For Mrs G's services to the TV networks, homeschooling, good relationships and America!

Old Fogey For his services to intelligent blogging, nostalgia and the arts.

Moi - For her services to photography, keeping fit and squirrel wars!

Screaming Headlines - For his services to honest journalism!

Through A Glass Darkly - For his services to British town planning (he's given up!)

The Vaguetarian - For her services to avatarism, cyber-vegetarianism and an allround welcome at her cosy tearoom!

Jock's Place - For fighting for just about every worthwhile cause there is!

More Canterbury Tales - For services to New Zealand bloggery!

Life Happens Between Books - My newcomer's award for Mrs Fishwife's services to books & redheads!

WiseWebWoman - For her services to doing exactly what she says on the can! Not to mention some great photography too.

Hell Hath No Fury Like A Poet Scorned

Former Serbian-Croat leader and war criminal Radovan Karadzic, who was apprehended at the weekend after 13 years on the run, apparently started life as a working class poet who couldn't get his work published by a sneering middle-class, and despite becoming a psychiatrist to be admitted to their ranks.

Thus after a spell in the Green Party he turned his hand to politics, assuming leadership of his country through founding the Serbian Democratic Party (SDS), but resorting to less-than-democratic means to attain/maintain power, culminating in the torture and genocide of countless fellow countrymen.

Now the worst I've considered is attending a Quaker Meeting and when it's my turn proclaiming that the Lord has moved me to share my entire works with them and they can't leave until I've finished.

Is that where I'm going wrong? If the pen doesn't prove 'mightier than the sword', should one then give the sword a chance?

And did Karadzic give his victims one last purchasing opportunity to acquire his complete works as an alternative to a bullet-in-the-head?

Which makes you wonder really - if Hitler began his life as an artist who couldn't sell his work, what would have happened if he'd won the German equivalent of the Turner Prize in the early 20th C and had enjoyed a meteoric art career...? And was artistic jealousy behind his hatred of Jews in particular (a demographic known for their high percentage of successful artists)?

An unappreciated artist can be a dangerous creature methinks.

As a poet friend of mine puts it

Best Seller

Poetry doesn't normally sell
But mine might
For I intend to embark
On a series
Of bizarre and
Motiveless murders
On and around
Hampstead Heath.
Poetry doesn't normally sell
But mine might...

© Paul Birtill

*It works, he always sells a lot of books after ending his set with it!

By the by, here is a collection of Mr Karadzic's later work published while on the run;
I Can Look For Myself
PS: Doesn't he look like the long-lost brother of Ted Hughes (below), if he hadn't killed his hairdresser, though?

Politicians Moving Forwards Actually

Honest Politician

Vote for me and I promise
To spend 98% less time in real terms
Slagging the mismanaging freeloaders of tax payers' money,
(otherwise known as the previous, Right dis-Honourable Government), off
And getting on with the job
Of arguing with Newsnight presenters
Browbeating my dissenters
And conjuring oratory
Whispered down a small ear mike to me
In ever more impressive-sounding
Patterns of convolusive evasiveness
Replete with the spurious figures and stats
That suggest I am doing a great deal
When in a very real sense
If you cared to follow my ambidextrous verbosity
(For which no shovel is large enough)
Through its maze of Machiavellian machinations
You would see
I am merely a vainglorious exercise in how many ways
There are of saying nothing
Spending nothing
‘Moving forward’ while standing still
As I practice my signature on the history annals.
Oh I have spin to make your head spin
So you won’t know your Left from your Right
How else do think I’m going to win?
Policies?
How very passe of you!
Vote for me – yes honestly…

© LS King

*I ought to make it clear that this poem is not specifically about David Cameron MP, and any similarities between Mr Cameron and this poem are as co-incidental as he chooses them to be! More a question of his picture seeming to go with the poem best!

Churchill & The Two-Finger Salute!

Last week I obtained 70 online car insurance quotations for 3rd party fire and theft, ranging in price from £279 -£1285 for my new (secondhand) Skoda, using a variety of price comparison sites. Can you guess which one I went for?

No more fully comp for me after Churchill (a major British insurer which prides itself on the emulation of British values) decided that its British values are incompetence, gross underestimation of both car and customer and trying to string the customer along until they either lose the will to live or die of old age. Yes their quotes may be competitive, but forget it if you ever need to make a claim. As for that legal cover you took out with them, forget about them employing it to defend your no-claims honour against a dangerous road surface on Britain's Deadliest Road - no matter that your car decided at low speed (and of its own volition) to aquaplane at temporary roadwork traffic lights in treacherous conditions.

So that my suffering and paperwork hell of the last four months since the crash has not been in vain I thought I would share with you several useful insights I have gleaned about car insurance companies when you need them - knowledge I found very lacking on the net when I needed it;

a. ALWAYS claim for whiplash injury, even if you only have it for a day as they will stitch you up big time on your car valuation. Not being in the habit of crashing, my mistake was trying to be totally honest and honourable, assuming they would behave likewise towards me, despite friends warning (and urging) me otherwise.
b. Always strip your written-off car of everything you can & claim the money back for any unused road tax on the disc/extract the stereo if it's any good. I only wish I'd had the means to lever my recent tyres off as well!
c. NEVER accept the insurance company's first insultingly low offer. This is regarded by them as an 'opening gambit' to ascertain how big a mug you are and should be regarded by you likewise. However do swat up on the value of your car and your insurance policy wording as you need to be sure of the moral/legal high ground before arguing with these people re what your entitlements really are.
d. Hassle them by telephone EVERY DAY or they'll let your claim drag on ad infinitum. Always be icily polite but insistent. It drives them nuts. One call centre supervisor, 'Russell', said he didn't like my 'insulting attitude' just because I kept asking to speak to the Customer Service Manager (CSM) and pointing out I couldn't afford to accept his 'final offer'. But as a friend remarked it wasn't up to 'Russell' to either like or dislike my attitude if I wasn't actually giving him verbal abuse or insulting him. In fact 'Russell' was being downright unprofessional by making personal remarks and trying to deviate from the point.
e. Always record names/dates/phone conversation details for future reference and keep all correspondence.
f. Finally like me, you will probably be forced to acknowledge that it is unlikely the spotty 17 year-old call centre operator will be authorised to go above a certain amount (usually an extra £100, which they will always insist is their 'last offer'). In addition they will try and lie to you that they have no Customer Service Manager (CSM), as to escalate your case affects their bonus. One 'Leanne' was so desperate to get rid of me, she lied to me that my written-off car had actually been fixed! Reaching a brick wall on one level dictates you move on to the next level.
g. Failing the holy grail of a Customer Service Manager, find out the Regional Manager's address and phone number, and if you get no joy out of him, the Managing Director himself. As a last resort there is the Financial Ombudsman to complain to (free to you, but it'll cost your insurers so it is not technically in their interests to allow things to escalate this far)
h. If you have legal cover and believe the accident was not your fault, insist it is used - Churchill denied me mine on the grounds that they didn't have 100% chance of winning against Oxfordshire Highways. Which kind of makes you wonder what are they doing selling legal cover if they have no intention of letting customers use it? And since when was any case a dead cert???
i. In Britain the Association of British Insurers stipulate that a final claim settlement should be enough to allow the insured to replace their lost vehicle with one of equivalent quality, allowing for regional/time of year price differentiations. It is as well to keep reminding the insurer of this industry-standard obligation as well as sending them at least 6 print-outs of equivalent age/model/condition cars as your own for the price that you seek.
Check out any insurance watchdogs, ombudsmen or regulatory and industry standard bodies in your neck of the woods.

And before you ask, after all that, my final settlement for the Rover was still pathetic. Too depressing to talk about indeed. And contrary to the whole point and spirit of 'insurance', I was left significantly out-of-pocket by the accident. I suppose I should be grateful not to have been in a worse accident, and I am - when the paperwork permitted me time to reflect and recover the will to live that is!

To sum up, God help anyone sick or elderly who needs to fight the same battle with today's insurer. Much though insurance companies undeniably need to protect themselves against fraud, they are bludgeoning the majority of us who are honest too, and perversely, actively encouraging dishonesty (such as exaggerated injury claims) by very dint of their renowned meanness and own brand of rip-offery.

But hey what else did I expect from a disturbingly obscene orgasmic animated dog?

Perhaps someone should report him to Watchdog...?

Other sites of interest;

Beware Car Insurer Tricks on Write-Offs

Fluxsposure - an Insider's Take on the Insurance Industry

Innocence and Experience

Two Little Girls

And there were two little girls
In long dresses, picking blackberries
In a field before the city
Once upon a day long and bright
When the world was black and white
And there was a man in a cloth cap
Stole up and grabbed them by the shoulders
Tried to scoop them up and shut them up
But novice hands failed him
Lost his nerve, and then his grip.
Tried to make it up with assy drops
Almost tempting older Lily
But wiser Alice dragged her, running
To the safety of the lane
As he begged them not to tell.
They never went again.
Eighty years
And a thrashing, later
From a mother who didn’t believe her,
She still can’t stand blackberries
Or funny men,
The grandma I nearly never had.

© LS King

Musings On a 21stC British Class System...

Reclassifying a Classless Society

The upper class and the lower class
The over class and the under class
The haves and the have-nots
The eloi and the morlocks.
Thank god for Business Class
Is all I can say,
As I eat the rich (tea biscuit)
© LS King 2007

* For 'morlocks', substitute 'hoodies'.

Our National Health Service – The Promise

One of my earliest postings on this blog; My Sweeping NHS Reforms concerned my fantasy reforms of the National Health Service - the majority of which I still stand by.

On the eve of the 60th Anniversary of its inception, I think about all the men, women and children born pre-5th July 1948 who were promised healthcare 'from the cradle to the grave' by the State and were given the NHS basically as national reward and recognition for the privations and suffering they endured through World War II, whether they be de-mobbed soldier, long-suffering civilian or evacuated child. That and the guilty fact that Joe Public got bugger all by way of national reward and the much-vaunted 'homes fit for heroes' after World War I.

It is doubly appalling to me when anyone from this generation is denied NHS drugs or care, not only on account of everything they went through during WWII whether adult or child to secure the future of this nation, but because they were promised this care, and the majority paid contributions all their working lives towards it.

I wonder why none of them (or their families if they are too ill themselves) has yet gone to the European Court of Human Rights to defend their right to this national promise made to them.

Glittering 'polyclinic' re-launches of the NHS butter no parsnips with me when layers of re-branding, management and unnecessary new PFI-disaster hospital buildings even less light, airy and value for money than the old (and just as dirty), divert money away from the sick who need it, and some of whom were born with a right to it.

When the pre-1948 generation pass from living memory, then will be the time to consider root and branch reform of the NHS if it does not find a natural and sensible balance between advances in medicine and over-demand in-between times, but not until.

Happy Anniversary NHS! Your days of being 'the envy of the world' may be long gone, but you were a good idea and can be so again if only the powers that be display some honour and common sense in the administration of your ministrations.

As the Hippocratic Oath that all new doctors used to have to swear before commencing practice puts it; 'First, do no harm.'


And not all medical advance is for the better…concrete fatigue is a terrible way to go!

Companies Who Do Not Wish To Sell Things

Every since the industrial heart was ripped out of Britain as a manufacturing nation and the Great was dropped off the front, we have been repeatedly told we are a nation dedicated to the 'service industry'

My response to this is; where is it then? Where is the service?

As both a private and a business consumer, my experience of at least 70% of British suppliers and services has been that their idea of service is an insult to the word!

Take my trade account with Laura Ashley (home furnishings store) for example. Great products, mouthwatering catalogues. However try and buy a 5L tin of their paint to cover a medium-sized room and it was 'Oh we don't do 5L tins' And they didn't have it in stock in larger than 750ml tin size either! The latest LA catalogue would come out and you would bound to your local branch for samples of their exciting new fabrics, but they wouldn't be there. You'd ring to order them but half still wouldn't be available 'yet'! If you ordered anything - a well-priced reproduction clock for a formal reception room example - which you wouldn't expect to be a made-to-order item like a sofa, it would take weeks, even months to arrive, yet every time you telephoned to chase it, not only would the person at the other end of the phone sound suspiciously like they hadn't a clue, but they couldn't even give you an ETA of when you might see it, as if the concept of stockcheck/delivery screens on their computers was entirely alien to them! Finally I gave up trying to order anything from them as I was so sick of having to shop for last minute stop-gaps while I waited for the real thing (aka their products) to arrive.

Some while later I received a letter from Laura Ashley saying regrettably they were closing the Trade Account arm of their business. I replied with a long letter saying why I had ceased to use it anyway and it was a shame they had such desirable products they didn't seem to want to sell to me!

Time and time again I have noticed this. A British company would rather chase after new customers offering incentive after incentive - expensive for them both in marketing and advertising (and the incentives) you would have thought - rather than pursue the saner and more cost-effective solution of keeping their existing customers happy and harnessing that wonderful phenomenon known as 'repeat business' and that other knock-on side effect, 'word-of-mouth' advertising by their impressed clientele. Customer loyalty is not only unrewarded these days, it is positively spat on by the likes of banks and insurance companies in particular who lower their interest rates and hoik their premiums up respectively to the poor sap who is foolish enough to remain doggedly faithful to them.

I recently lunched in a funky café in the heart of a busy city centre and was surprised to find myself the only diner there. After a while I realised why the café was so quiet. Every time a potential customer came in, they found out the café didn't take credit or debit cards. And yet they had the customer footfall outside that many a business would die for!
Die is probably the word though, with an expensive refurbishment, four staff to pay and NO customers, I'd give it about four months and deservedly so if it is that dumb. Not that most British restaurants/cafes like or wish to serve customers anyway of course.

On a business level I can find no one to repair aluminium sash windows and patio doors locally, yet every second sales rep phonecall seems to be from a company trying to hard-sell me Plant Hire. Everyone and their dog is doing Plant Hire in Oxford, yet I can count on one hand the number of times we need to hire equipment in each year, let alone would I open a dozen accounts with a dozen suppliers for the privilege.

The worst businesses bombard you with customer feedback forms as if you have nothing else to do, (no mention of remuneration for the 'free consultancy' you're giving by indulging them), then completely ignore every word of their customer feedback until the next customer feedback form or glossy catalogue arrives.

As for all the business websites that still annoy with pointless floating graphics (and an elusive 'Skip Intro' button) or making you sign up your entire personal details down to your shoe-size merely in order to browse lighting products etc, well they don't get many orders from me either!

On the rare occasions I find a company that a. sells the perfect product at reasonable price and b. makes it easy to order and obtain said product, I could kiss them. And if they also turn out to have decent after-sales service, I want to marry them as well!

A Tale From The Family

Every family holds a character in its past who deserves not to be entirely forgotten. Here's one from mine in the form of a poem. I have incorporated some of my grandmothers' phrases about her late niece word-for-word (italicised), as she did like to romanticise the tale! I do not regard it as one of my best pieces, but it means a lot because of the family connotations.

Family Legend

A blonde siren to whom all the family looks had been handed
Together with an impossibly sweet and generous nature
My grandmother told me many times of Miriam Gunn
Loved by all who knew her – a charming girl
Could only die young
Became an early air hostess
Fell in love with an airline pilot as dark as she was fair
They married and bought a flat in Bell Green
A thoroughly modern suburb of Coventry
And lived in mutual adoration
For eight blissful months, until tragedy struck
When his plane was iced up and lost over the Atlantic
Less than a year later Mirries’ plane crashed in the Cape
She the only survivor
Dying of her injuries several hours after.
They were destined to be together, you see
Broken hearted, her parents left the Midlands
To live out their days running an antiques shop in Brighton
When they had lived them out some years later
My grandparents went down to clear their shop
Came across a locked trunk in the attic
Full of Mirrie’s things
Unopened since the day she died
And all as unfadingly beautiful as she
Shimmering silks and glittering mementoes
Of a short career’s travels round the world
She could never have been older than 26
And remained a figure of endless intrigue
In my young mind
Frozen in magic by tragedy
Only two hand-tinted photographs left
As testament to her glamour
Jealously guarded and shown only as a treat.

© LS King


While reading up on 1930s Stewardesses, I was surprised to learn that they all had to be trained nurses, as flying was regarded as so dangerous! I guess my relative didn't have a chance to use her training in her own crash though.

My Drugs Hell

Perhaps it was a strict childhood deprived of sweets that had me exploring my parents' medicine cabinet in search of succour and happening upon the delights of New Era Biochemical Tissue Salts No. 4 at about the age of five.

Once I started guzzling them I couldn't stop and before I knew it the contents of three bottles of them had been crunched into delicious melted powder upon my tongue and I was avidly ransacking the bathroom for more when my parents discovered me.

My next memory is of being held down on the floor while they poured salt water down my throat to make me sick.

Whilst I admit I hadn't quite got the hang of the (less is more) principle of homeopathy at that age, my taste for these little tablets has remained undimmed and to this day I don't trust myself to have a bottle of them in the house.

In fact even writing this is rather dangerous as it makes me want to rush out to my 'dealers' at Holland and Barrett to procure a bottle (or three)!

The funny thing is they don't actually taste of a great deal, but to me the texture and taste is utterly irresistible.

Nor am I aware of any sort of high resulting, let alone any of my ailments being cured. Just an insane compulsion to keep eating them.

Worse still if it's true you can now buy a fix of coke for slightly less than the price of a cappuccino, New Era Biochemical Tissue Salts are a whole £4.49 a bottle, so I'd be better off being a conventional junkie!

On the plus side, I do hear they are about to develop a Biochemical Tissue Salt No. 13 remedy for 'addiction problems'.

Leamington Peace Festival

For all your Beatnik Poet needs (not to mention dogs against climate change!) Shame there was no live poetry though.

But check out my groovy felt strawberry bag and hell's kitsch 'Rama and Sita' Indian legend top!

Wonder what 'Swindon Give War A Chance Festival' will be like next weekend.

Nightmare on Main Street

The first time I met my neighbours' illicit two year old (she had broken the rules by having him on a child-free development) I looked under the cascade of golden curls expecting to see an angel. What I saw were the glinting malevolent eyes of a devil incarnate. I shuddered. Jakey (Wakey) was no ordinary toddler.

And so it proved. His otherwise pleasant-enough mother was soon to be heard loudly boasting that she had taken him out of his first nursery as it was 'too structured' and she didn't feel it appropriate he should be made to say 'please', 'thank you' and 'sorry', or wait for lunch if he was hungry at his age. As for the activities, it was quite unreasonable that he wasn't allowed to delve into the poster paint without putting the play dough away first. Toddlers weren't meant to be tidy. No, his new nursery was much better. He could just get stuck into whatever he wanted whenever he wanted and do his own thing and they simply changed them into nice clean clothes before the parents arrived.

Soon Jakey (Wakey) was running amok in his (far-more-expensive-than-mine) designer togs on the formerly-quiet estate, tearing up and down the main avenue on his toy tractor delivering his interpretation of tractor exhaust noises at the top of his voice, accompanied by his equally vocal friend on a bicycle, pretending to be a motorbike. At the Residents' Summer Fete, his mummy actively encouraged her little darling to help himself to as many free go's as he liked once his £1 had run out on the lucky dip or the hoopla, in full view of all the visiting children, and then demand to swap his prizes for better ones.

Another delightful pastime of Jakey (Wakeys') entails running around shouting rude things through letter boxes when he should be in bed. Noisy pirate parties take place in his parents' back garden on a weekly basis whether it's his birthday or not, his friends' parents' cars cluttering the narrow residential street so the rest of us find it hard to get in or out of our driveways. To cap it all his parents have decided they need an exceptionally noisy mini bus in which to cart their little prince and his retinue around. Exceptionally noisy as it is almost too large for their driveway and takes at least ten minutes of manoeuvring every time they go in or out, an activity they most enjoy performing at 7am on a weekend, just in case anyone fancies a lie-in.

Although still only 4, Jakey (Wakey) shows every promise of maturing into a fine young thug. Advanced for his age no less. I often wonder what sort of monster his mother-who-doesn't-agree-with-rules thinks she is breeding. Will future partners of her son (straight, gay or don't know) thank her for raising an utterly selfish sociopath with a Royal superiority complex who treats them like a doormat and throws a hissy fit every time he doesn't get what he wants when he wants it? Will future employers thank her for such a self-serving exercise in expediency who would sell their industrial secrets to the first rival who asked, as soon as accept their shilling?

Well that's got that off my chest, dear blog!

I have put out the extra large slug pellets. You never know.

**Note the name of this child has been changed to protect - me!**