Okay, joke may go over the head of younger readers. You don’t see the citrus fizzy pop much these days; it’s all about electrical weapons.
Being Wiltshire has one of the lowest crime rates in the country but peculiarly police Taser usage is above national average, how does Chief Constable Mike Veale celebrate this incongruity? He gives out Tasers to any old PC Tom, Dick or Dirty Harry. And even more bizarrely his reasoning? You guessed it; it’s all these darn terrorist attacks happening in our God forsaken county.
Fear of terrorism resided over common sense, again. Take heed of Yoda’s words of wisdom this Star Wars Election Day, “fear is the path to the dark side.” With zero terrorist attacks here and the obvious effectiveness a Taser would have against a nutcase with machine gun, explosives or a lorry through a shopping mall, absurd uneasiness procures the unsuspecting masses.
I never the envy the job of the police, if there’s two muscular louts knocking seven bells out of each other in the street most would cross and walk on the other side, whereas Bobby has to go and sort it out.
The thing we need to learn is, if you’ve got a beef with another bloke that’s an issue between you both; best not involve anyone else, especially someone trying to prevent you from having your head smashed in.
Try to remember no matter how drunk, beneath the uniform there’s a real person, maybe with a family, with a life, just with a job to keep the peace; sumbuddy’s gotta.
In turn the police need to drop the condescending discourse and treat civilians as equals. Unfortunately if you’re pointing an electric-shock gun at someone, you’re immediately intimidating.
If you ask me the police need training by Doctor Who scriptwriters, cos the Doctor has been talking down entire alien races hell bent on destroying mankind for eons, never used a Tazer in any time-zone.
The police need to understand life is a struggle and our government are not making it any easier. Anyone can have a bad day and flip out, it doesn’t’ make them a terrorist; like the man killed by police Taser in Warminster in October.
Neither does throwing your pants deserve a Tasering, Tom Jones would never get through a song. But despite being caught on CCTV, the Melksham officer who superfluously zapped a naked suspect for such a petty wrongdoing was cleared of assault.
This is not NYC, as much as I sympathise with police tasks, a lethal weapon is not bridging a divide between officer and civilian. It’s a responsibility I trust with most, but you know there’s always one bad egg. My other concern is you don’t bring a knife to a gunfight; if cops are armed the robbers will match.
Make no mistake; in the aforementioned street fight scenario I’d have Tasered both rather than wrestle them. I’d Taser anyone if my boss gave me one; lucky I’m not a police officer and just the milkman. Still, Mrs Smith, you can put those away you filthy cow, if you can’t pay your two pound eight pee this week I’m going to have to Taser you.
Yeah, I’d Taser anyone; kids arguing over the best X-Box controller; I’m going up there to Taser their heads together. Local election candidates’ campaign-posting on the Devizes Debate Facebook page; TASERED. Lad tying a soiled dog poo bag to a tree in Drew’s Pond Wood; TASERED! New owner of a landmark pub suggests its ceiling needs a lick of paint; TASERED!
Dress up as a Muslim to protest against the cancelled May Fayre; TASERED! Ye gods, let’s get this one cleared up shall we? The complexities of a safety form prevented Wiltshire Council and Lions Club arranging the fayre this year; it had nought to do with Islam. I don’t know if it was satirical discord which badly backfired, but whatever was going on, it was in exceptionally bad taste.
While I never disagree with protest, perhaps the organisers of it could have concentrated their efforts on arranging a fayre instead; give it a go, see if it’s so easy. But because the tabloids went to town over the bullet-point of covering for a possible terrorist attack, no matter how absurd, some idiot decided to dress in Muslim attire. As suspected, this terribly tenacious link sadly deposits Devizes central on the xenophobic map.
Yeah this week, local Facebook group members went hammer and tongs over this, scrolling comments got as far as screenshots of Koran and Bible passages when really, the May Fayre has nothing to do with any of it.
Forgot the bank holiday is Beltane? A Gaelic festival anglicised forcibly by Christians, back in an era prior to this religion being all tea and cupcakes on the village green, but in a day when fear and terror were trappings thrusted upon heathen folk to accept the word of God or be burnt on a plinth. Irony, just a tad, we attempt to clear our town of dog poo, when there’s a lot of other fetid matter we need to sort out.
Maybe there’s the police’s confusion, the difference between a terrorist attack and a terrier attack. And not from the barking, biting end but from the depositing end. Oopsy daisy, now I’ve opened a whole new Pandora’s pooch poo bag, without the time to finish what I started.
So, it’ll be a scatological themed next week; if I’ve not been Tasered by then. I hope to chat with Wiltshire Council’s Green Party candidate Geoff Brewer who along with Zena’s CUDS and other volunteers, have been clearing Drew’s Pond Wood of littered dog poo bags. At last here’s a politician cleaning up shit rather that talking it.
Now you can relive all last year's No Surprises Living in Devizes column; ewe lucky buggers.
Fer yer Kindle:
I’m just a
young lad, been delivering this crazy old man’s newspapers for so long I cannot
recall a day when I didn’t. I never see him but despise walking up his cluttered
path. There’s a variety of chocolate bar vending machines in states of
disrepair, heaven knows what he needs with them all, or even worse, what he
uses them for.
Sauntering
up that same old path again, leaving his newspaper on a pile of old newspapers,
worn and yellowing; he orders them but never picks them up. It was just another
day in my tedious life, until in boredom I kicked that mountain of newspaper in
frustration to note they were all dated the same day; today.
This
disturbed me, every newspaper was identical, today’s edition. It couldn’t be, I
thought, the top one I delivered yesterday, and the one underneath on
Wednesday. Anxious I bit my lip, raised myself from a crouch in confusion. It
didn’t help that I sighted another newspaper delivery boy, sauntering up the
path; was he meddling on my patch? No, he was me.
He looked
like me in every way; he strolled past in my clothes, ignored me as if I did
not exist and plonked today’s paper on today’s paper which I just laid. I shook
myself, was I dreaming?
Just then
the old man appeared in his ragged, stinking clothes. He held his hands in the
air and cried “Eureka!” Then he noticed me, I backed off a step. That smelly
old man in his filthy white lab coat smiled, “Welcome to the land where time
stands still!” he bellowed.
“Oh,” I
replied, “how long has it been like that?”
“Well I
don’t bloody know, do I?” he simpered and with that he beckoned with bony
finger that I follow him inside. Normally of course I’d refuse, but given my
other-self had moved inside too I figured what the heck, I might be missing out
on something here.
His house
was as equally messy as his garden, broken machines rusted in corners and
contraptions of a bygone era whirled and flashed lights at me. He span on one
foot to face me, jeepers he looked creepy. “I am Doctor Risenfall,” he
explained, tripping over live wires as he stumbled his way through the mess.
I gathered
my suspicions and laid my cards on the table, “are you some kind of inventor?”
He returned
an apprehensive frown, and then announced, “Behold, my thyme machine!”
Now I
understood why I saw myself back there, as unnerving as it was. “You’ve made a
time machine, like out of chocolate bar vending machines?” I asked in a
flabbergasted manner, “Can I see the future?”
The doctor
slipped some seeds in one end of the giant contraption, “No,” he answered
bluntly, “I said it’s a thyme machine, you put seeds in this end and…..” The
machine wailed and puffed a cloud of dust into the air, the cat hid under a
table. “….And fresh thyme comes out this end; no need to cultivate it.”
“Oh right……”
I replied as the machine plonked some scraggly strands of herb from its far
end.
The Doctor
gave an awkward sneer, “It will change the herb industry, if I can get it to
work on basil too.”
He looked annoyed
at my disappointment. “I’m sorry doctor,” I confessed, “I thought, you know
what with the whole meeting another me, and you saying about this being the
land where time stands still, that you had invented a machine which could
travel in time.”
The doctor
twirled and covered his face in frustration, “I once toiled with the idea of
building a time machine, but it’s all in the past.”
He threw
himself down on a wooden chair by a desk and rubbed his forehead until it
reddened. “Oh that’s a shame, be wicked that would, a time machine,” I offered,
“but a thyme machine, you know, pretty cool as well.”
“Oh I did
invent one of them too,” he waved an arm randomly in the air, “but I never use
it.”
I followed
the direction of his arm with my eyes and there, covered in dust and cobwebs
stood a vending machine converted with wires and beeping gadgets hanging haphazardly
from it. I wandered over to it and noted on each arm of the vending machine sat
a separate glowing globe. Images from within the globe, as I drew my eyes level
to them, depicted an animate display of a bygone era. One was of a Victorian
street, another with a castle and lastly, one with dinosaurs roaming around. I
was awestruck, “Oh wow, that is so cool; how come you never use it?”
“I was going
to be famous,” the doctor groaned, “it could have revolutionised the
travel industry, confirmed historical reports and given man a chance to amend past errors, but there was no future in it.”
“Can I
borrow it?” I asked, well it was worth a shot.
The doctor
gave a suppose-so shrug, “If you bring it back by yesterday.”
This was
freaking awesome I reckoned. “How does it work?” I asked.
“Just as a
conventional vending machine, put your money in the slot,” informed the doctor,
“and make your selection.”
Without
thinking I fumbled for change in my pocket and scanned the spheres of time, wondering
which one I’d like to try. I spotted, above all, one which displayed a grand
Edwardian hall where dancers pirouetted and chortled; a period of history I
always admired. So I made my selection, pressed the corresponding code, B56
into the panel and held my breath.
The spindle
began to twirl, my excitement bursting. It pushed the globe and I shrilled with
delight. The doctor swung his head from side to side and scanned the contents
of the table. Butterflies developed in my stomach as the globe began to fall
towards the collection slot; what will happen, will I find myself back in that
era, what will it be like and will I be able to get back? So many questions I
hadn’t cared to contemplate before flooded my mind.
“This was my
only problem,” sulked Doctor Risenfall, “the idea was ingenious, the design
faultless, just the damn……”
I ignored
his moping, too excited to listen. The globe dropped but got stuck between a
protruding globe and the glass cabinet. “NO!” I cried and attempted to push the
machine.
The doctor
continued, “…….mechanism.”
I slammed my
fists against the glass, I kicked the bottom, I wobbled the machine but the
globe wouldn’t budge.
“It will not
work,” informed the doctor miserably.
I dug my
fingers to the bottom of my pockets but could find no more cash. “This cannot
be,” I muttered, “it has to work.”
“Oh it works
alright,” sighed the doctor.
“Hold on,
you said it didn’t.”
“When?”
asked the surprised doctor.
“Just a
second ago,” I informed him, crazy old man.
“Yes, that’s the point, seconds,” he sighed, not
looking up from his table.
I didn’t
need this foolish madman, I had newspapers to deliver. “I’m coming back
tomorrow……”
“No you’re
not.”
“…..to give
it another go,” I declared.
“Sorry,” the
doctor sighed, “I was once as optimistic as you, which was tomorrow.”
Now I was
angered, “I can’t leave it like this,” I told him in no uncertain
circumstances, “I have to try, have to see if it’s possible.”
“Oh it’s
possible alright, but it just gets stuck, none of the time,” said the doctor,
still unmoved, “you can try again, but it won’t be tomorrow.” Slowly he stood
up, sauntered over to me and faced the machine. He pointed into its left hand
bottom corner and I again followed the direction of his bony finger. There was
a globe already stuck close to the bucket slot.
I crouched
and stared into the sphere. I saw a young boy delivering a newspaper to a
dilapidated house. I gasped; it was me.
“Welcome to the land where time stands
still!” he bellowed.
Brexit reminds
me of Terminator 2, when they bust into the home and destroy the study of the
scientist who created Skynet, Sarah Connor narrates they face the world with an
uncertain future for the first time. There’s a degree of optimism at that point
in the movie; wish I could say the same for how many feel in the United
Kingdom.
Recently
I’ve been pondering writing about Brexit on my local rant column for Index but
I’ve been instructed in the past to avoid the burning subject, plus I have to
uphold it to a local level. So I posted on local Facebook pages for opinions on
how the change will affect us on a local level and the response was minimal.
Leading me to conclude either no one gives a shit, or really knows; I favour
it’s the latter.
That’s the
issue here; no one nationwide really knows the outcome. Everything you read is
wildly bias speculation. So I flavour bringing my wildly bias speculation to
the table, apolitical, just plain old, ready-salted how I feel.
One comment
on the fox hunting episode I wrote for the column said, “….that is ill informed
and biased. Much rather read a balanced argument that draws a conclusion,”
which kind of defeats the object of writing an opinion piece, which is what “no
Surprises” is after all; fucking pompous savage twat.
How can I not
mention it when it’s on every lip? How can I balance this argument when I feel
so bitter about the result? I’ve tried to remain optimistic throughout; I try
not to fall into the pathetic “remoaner” banner, and honestly I hope it works
out, pondering there may be a few fair points to be made in the leave campaign.
But the reasoning for leaving has been high jacked by lying right wing bastards,
patriotic to the point of xenophobia and generally makes me ashamed to say I'm
English; which I’d never imagined I’d say.
I fantasised
this new century like The Jetsons, little flying cars and conveyer belts taking
us through a bubble city where everyone is at peace. What a naïve fool, take me
back to 1999 to start again.
So the
country has never been so divided, thank a pig shagging deserter for that. I
search for sanity from the other side of the argument but cannot see it through
flag-waving idiots who only voted to clear our country of brown skin or were
suckered into believing the outright lies of Nigel Farage, which although he
openly admitted he bolshily bullshitted the nation in front of billions on TV,
still they salute him because he's British enough to be seen downing a pint in
a pub at any available opportunity. The idiotic irony makes me sick to the
stomach, let alone allowing it to motivate me to write a “balanced argument.”
Please, I
beg the ones cringing when reading this and not the pre-converted, try get your
thick skull around this; Farage talks absolute crap with or without pint in
hand, and like his American President bum-chum he openly admits it, and then
rubs your face in it. And still you worship the ground he walks on; he's pissing
a puddle behind him and you blindly lap it up. That then is the crucially cringeworthily
reason why I fear the outcome of the battle-axe triggering the fucking
wretched article 50. I’m not moaning for nought.
Or maybe I’m
just in a tetchy mood for no reason, but that’s just so not me. In fact not for
the want of trying, the only comment I've read in favour for accepting the
decision which made sense, maybe, was "when we went in I voted against it,
had to accept we were going in at the time."
Yep, we have
to respect democracy, when it’s not based on complete selfish bollocks, and we
have to respect the opinions of others, based on lies or not, but this was in
1973; if you're a baby boomer old enough to vote at the time, nowadays you’re
old enough to have built a financial base, from the assistance of a Tory
government who backed the free market, yanked us out of recession with an iron
fist rule, downtrodden working classes, came very nicely out of the era of
prosperity and pulled the ladder up after you.
To me,
without sounding ageist, their opinion only matters for a few years of free bus
passes, when the ones really affected by the change didn't even get a choice.
Had the government allowed under 18’s a vote on this one critical issue, you
know you'd have a very different result.
I covered on
Index prior how youth today are articulate and sensible enough to cast an
opinion and interviewed ones from a group who have more political knowledge in
their little pinkies than me, you and definitely the current government.
I estimate
most remainers are parents who fear what it’s to become for their children's
future; how the fuck can that be pointless whinging? Let's face it, every time
she uttered the word Brexit, prior to the triggering of article 50, we saw the
pound crashing to a further all-time low; subtle omen?
You have to
understand, it's not Churchill's government, not even Thatcherism; she was for
the free market. It's a just a sad, old stubborn bag-lady who is only in it so
her husband's tax-avoiding financial dealings are protected. You have faith in
her? I don't believe you anymore than I believe she has a Scooby-Doo what she’s
doing. To think you can leave a club then dictate the rules regarding how they
react to it is pure idiocy. Europe will decide how and when to deal with us,
and it's not going to be pleasant being we've stitched them up by pulling our
fairly secure economy out of the club.
If I left
the cub scouts and my mum stopped the direct debit, could I still brashly smash
through the doors, tell everyone I want my home-help badge and expect to be
taken seriously? No, cos I left the fucking cubs. Sort your woggle out Mrs May.
So we’ll
deal with this complete mess by, apparently "pulling together" how
can we pull together in a crashing market which only benefits multinational
corporations and sends small business to liquidation and its lower class to
hell? How am I supposed to even pull my coat around me to deflect the icy blast
when the buttons have fallen off and I can't afford a needle and thread?
When we look
at a child’s history book covering either world war we think “how could they
have been so stupid not to see it coming?” As that generation dies we forget
what they fought for, they fought not for Britain but for a Europe without
fascism, yet fascists exploit war imagery as propaganda; protecting poppy
sellers from a Muslim attacker; it’s an insanity that’d turn our grandparents
in their grave.
These people
need to time out of verbally assaulting people on trains and read a fucking
history book, for they will see no example of where fascism did anyone any
good, ever. But of course they need not deter from their actions when
encouraged to do so by newspapers; and now feelings like the government is
giving them a licence to continue.
The war
generations didn’t see it coming as the trouble didn’t erupt like a volcano, it
was gradual, just as these turn of events we live with today; the plastic
melted figure of He-man standing as President of the USA with his blatant
racist agenda, the movement of right-wing politics sweeping the developed
world, a Russian psychopath, the breakdown of the United Kingdom and religious
extremism from both sides. And the follow-like-sheep policy of our own
government, hoping Uncle Sam will give us a trade deal, cos no other cunt is.
You’re not
getting your country back you fucking brainwashed idiot; it was never yours to
get back. They will get it back; to do whatever the fuck they want to do with
it; the repeal bill proves it much in same way the banker’s cockup proved the
financial collapse; they stood there and admitted it was there fault, blew a raspberry
in your face, stuffed all the money in their ears and waited for the taxpayer bailout;
still you insist to blame immigration, because that’s what a racist media tells
you to do.
Face it, get
off your high horse and lower your union jack (it'll be a flag only seen in
history books soon) and wake up to the notion the chances of this working out
best for Britain is nil to nought. One perpetrator (or traitor) who admits
freely if it doesn’t work out for him he’ll take the cash he’s stolen from the poor
and move abroad, despite supposing to be a xenophobic bigot, it must be your
round soon Farage? No, oh okay. That is how low and selfish the people you
follow are.
The best we
can hope for is that, under the repeal bill they are kind enough not to
reintroduce a Henry 8th style rule and bring us into an era Orwell warned us of,
but I doubt it, it’s what they want; mass control and absolute power. An era
where fairness and equality is void, where institutions based on non-bias
entertainment, like the BBC, are but government service announcements, where
only the rich can afford health and the poor die in their own shit, where the
NHS is a fleeting memory.
The making
Britain great again slogan is alright, if the Great, like The Great War, isn’t
the same definition as we’re making it. It is “great” as in big, an empire,
built on theft, hate and genocide. A burden we all carry across our beautiful country
and it is a beautiful country and I love my country; only difference from me
and the supporters of the right wing is I care about the people living in it. I
cannot see the problem with that.
The Great in
Britain should be that we’re educated and intelligent enough to have learned
from our mistakes and strive to ensure they never happen again; chew on that
while you’re in the bread queue in a few years’ time.
There’s
nothing unpatriotic in this, in wishing the best for our country. Simply
because I’m pessimistic about the current decisions and the ability of the
current government to sort it out, surely makes me love my country more than
someone aiming to destroy all which is good about it, yeah? No? I hope you don’t
need the NHS anytime soon, bleeding nig-nogs working there I tell yer, "get yer hands off me foreigner and stop saving my life!"
I’ve had
enough of turning, twirling Theresa May; I didn’t vote for her, nobody did.
It’s time for a vote of no confidence in our government, a general election and
of course, a second EU “bullshitting free” referendum. Or else we keep calm and
carry on, suffering in our own reserved fashion, gawking at EastEnders with a
microwave sweet and sour chicken on our laps; Rule Britannia.
A Lambretta
scooter propped up against the railings on the Brunswick Docks awaits the
return of its owner. A young, upper-working class guy, attired in an Italian suit
scans the flotsam washed upon the shore. He’s hunting vinyl, the London fashion
of Mod culture still in its infancy here in late 1950s Liverpool.
Succumbed by
the beatnik adoration of French philosopher and playwright Jean-Paul Sartre,
the finesse of an Italian lifestyle and the melodic African-American rhythm and
blues, these youth, jaded with the dowdy status-quo, breach the chic coffee-bar
culture and combust a fresh subculture progressively to commercialisation.
Unlike the
pubs with strict closing times, the bohemian coffee-bars are lively until the
early hours, part of the attraction for the early mods. The jukeboxes are
occupied with jazz; the “modernist” youth though crave a raw rhythm and blues. Dancehalls
in England’s cities are yet to cotton-on; the house party, with an ethos of
“bring your own records” is the trendy way to congregate.
The only way
for our beachcomber to impress is to find American R&B records, discarded
from transatlantic vessels; vinyl is not cheap and seldom the genre obtainable.
The records
have been jettisoned from mess-hall jukeboxes of US Navy ships by Caucasian
country-and-western loving servicemen who do not favour R&B, the era of
segregation awards them superiority and the right to rid their vessel of “black”
music.
Ironic and
shameful to think these days, with perceived equality in the music industry and
campaigns like Rock against Racism, that in substantial quantity, racism has
assisted the spread of musical styles and shaped what we now know as pop music.
Undoubtedly but sadly I consider, pop music would not sound the same if it
wasn’t for the very thing it’s supposed to reject; racism.
Now please
do not misunderstand me, quite the opposite from condoning racism I despise it,
but akin to the development of computers via the WWII Enigma code-breaking
machine, perhaps some good has spawned from a terrible thing.
It backfired
for right-wingers, attempting to stall the merge of musical styles in line with
their discriminatory views; it incongruously spread the idea across the globe through
a rebellious generation.
If it wasn’t
seen as outrageous for a white country-boy to sneak into negro blues dances,
maybe the young Elvis Presley wouldn’t have, and the archetypal American folk
wouldn’t’ have seen a white man offensively
gyrating like a black-man on television and thus, rock ‘n’ roll may had never
seen popularity.
Through all
criticism, the watered down rock ‘n’ roll of
conforming artists such as Pat Boone created admiration for blues and
black rock ‘n’ rollers from his largely white audience through his plagiarisms
of original sounds. Fats Domino showed a diamond ring to the crowd at a concert in the 50s, announcing Pat Boone’s version of “Ain’t That a
Shame,” paid for the ring. Even if Boone wanted to change the title to “Isn’t
That a Shame,” radio listeners liked it and ventured to find its roots,
discovering black R&B.
Now the
duel-race citizenship of rock ‘n’ roll will shake the foundations of pigeonholing
xenophobic Americans.
Similarly
back in the UK, if the US Navy didn’t discard records because of their racist
ideals, the mods in the northern cities may never have discovered the soul
sounds which hatched the blues-inspired Mersey-Beat scene, a cradle for the
most influential pop band of all time; The Beatles.
The Northerner’s
love of R&B and early soul christened a later genre when they ventured to
London to search for such records. In jest the staff in the record shops put
the older tunes aside for the northern customers, labelling them “Northern
Soul.” A name-sake built on north-south divide prejudices.
As we’ve
discussed records didn’t come cheap, but if you only have to pay royalties to
third world artists the price can be cut significantly to persuade people out
of your target audience to purchase them. This is true for Trojan Records who
in an attempt to cater for the Jamaican immigrants in London priced their
records accordingly.
They bought
cheap licences from Kingston’s Studio One and Coxsone Dodd to create the
compilation album series “Tighten Up,” but because of its respectable
price-tag, the white mods bought them up and thus gave birth to a second wave
of reggae and ska, in a unique British fashion; so emerged the “skinhead,” with
an appreciation of all things Jamaican.
But reggae
was still considered “novelty” music and not to be taken seriously, a prejudice
Chris Blackwell would put to rights when deciding to dispel the myth and sign
Bob Marley and the Wailers to his Island Records label. Similar to Pat Boone
plagiarising but therefore assisting the attention of a wider audience to black
R&B artists, Bob Marley and the Wailers found a universal audience in the
1970s through Eric Clapton’s cover of “I Shot the Sheriff.”
Bob Marley’s
intelligent lyrics would pave the way not only to superstardom but spread
reggae globally and enhance the career of other reggae artists. Richard Branson
assigned Johnny Lydon to take a holiday to the Caribbean island and sign as
many reggae artists as he can to Virgin; lucky punk.
This is
reggae inspired by the wisdom of Rastafari, a faith in the emancipation of
black slaves. When these revelations first came to light at the crowning of
their god, Ethiopian king Haile Selassie in 1930, the Rasta’s were viewed by
the Jamaican government as terrorists and after they flocked to the shores
expecting Selassie to have called upon the monarchs of countries that profited
from the slave trade to provide them with ships back to Africa, they were
pushed underground for some time.
It was only
after the rude boy culture of 1950s Kingston caused the government to enforce a
curfew that the cultivation of marijuana trade blossomed, introducing youth to Rastafari. Prior to the trend Rastas were viewed as hermits and "Blackheart men" (bogeyman.) This is why the music
slowed from ska to rock steady and then to reggae. Without the racist slave trade then, we wouldn’t
have reggae or its influence on modern pop; from dubstep to Sean-Paul toasting
over Little Mix tracks, and possibly, all hip hop, punk and two tone ska.
Meanwhile
reggae’s predecessor Ska, with its up-tempo brass style, breathed again, but
Two Tone’s bitter undertones were a haven for nationalists to build an army out
of disgruntled youth in a Britain obliterated by recession. Racism killed the
scene off just as it reached commercialisation, preying on Pakistanis initially
and progressing to an ironic hate for the Afro-Caribbean immigrants who gifted
them the music in the first place.
As it is
with all fading youth cultures diluted with commercialism or ironic hate and
racism, the death of the skinhead movement would only be replaced by a new ethos
to be exploited by mass media. The first I knew of Americas separate pop charts,
divided by colour, was when George Michael touched number one on the “black”
chart in the USA with his album aptly titled “Faith.” For us in the UK there
was only one chart and we tended not to separate them. Still soul broke borders
in the 1980s, ask Vanilla Ice.
Maybe the
bottom line that most modern musical styles originated in the US is because
segregated ideals challenged new genres to develop. Of course I could consider
the birth of hip hop actually stems from the New Yorker Kool Herc and his
innovative DJ skills, who originally emigrated from Jamaica where, just like
pioneer producers King Tubby and Lee Scratch Perry, was the proud owner of a
sound system. Dub reggae not being New Yorker’s cup of tea caused Herc to experiment
with funk and soul music, moving into a miss-mash of differing styles. However,
to argue reggae mothered hip hop is to neglect that American R&B inspired
reggae’s older brother ska; swings and roundabouts.
I was in awe
of BBC’s early 1970s TV program “Tomorrow’s World,” when a group of Germans,
stiff as posts and nerdier than Walter the Softy; Ralf Hutter, Fritz Hilbert
and Henning Schmitz made music entirely on computers; it was an abomination for
the elder generation but we, the kids, knew Kraftwerk was a vision of the
future.
It took the
creative genius of Italian, American and British artists and producers to tweak
the new-fangled technology and create a soulful or spritely sound. Giorgio
Morodor showed us how computer generated music could change funk into disco
with Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love.” Afrika Bambatta, Arthur Baker and Grandmaster Flash spurred Electro and hip hop in the US, whereas the more British punk approach saw the development of a
fresh electronica sound, birthing New Romantics, and bang, we had New Order,
Joy Division, Duran Duran and a plethora of electronic pop icon posters to pin
on our walls.
Disgruntled
with the immediate debasement of technology by “Hit Factories,” such as Stock,
Akien and Watermen, again the next generation sought a way of keeping it
underground and England blessed the Chicago-based sound created at nightclub,
“The Warehouse.”
House music
was the epiphany of racial unification, rather than being a youth culture with
uniformed style and sound, it was akin to early hip hop, a musical melting pot
where anyone was welcome to bring in their influences and calmly discuss them
over a bottle of water and some chewing gum.
The
burgeoning rave scene did break down barriers; a euphoric psychedelic
experience was enough even to dull down football violence in the 1990s. Surely
racism did not stand a chance now. But the “hardcore” sound of rave divided
equally into Drum and Bass/garage, largely reggae inspired sounds for a
majority black audience, and “Happy Hardcore” driven by sped up BPM madness and
smiley-faced white kids. I recall those kids defining D&B as “Jungle
music.”
Still though
it was more unified than previous youth cultures which sought to fight out their
differences; mods and rockers, skins and Teddy-boys, as while there was an
alternative to bleeping repetitive bleeps, it’s term coined from independent
labels, “indie kids” and ravers kept themselves to themselves; ravers too
obliterated into their own scene to even realise there was an alternative until
the likes of the Prodigy, Chemical Brothers and Fatboy Slim aligned them again. Truth be told, indie developed from the raving Madchester scene which bought us
Oasis and the Stone Roses.
If you
compare a free party’s “trance” sound to an African shamanic drumbeat in which
the trance it produced acted as healing, the last great youth culture, the
raver, has bought it full circle; all aforementioned genres stem from folk
music, different geographical places mean different instruments but still, it’s
all the same. The only fresh concept the rave generation really blessed us with
was the technique of using technology.
So, make some folking noise.
Of course
now there’s a washy insignificant difference between pop styles where acoustic
sounds seem to influence or electronic R&B thrives, a world where a rap,
ragamuffin or hip hop fashion, can be slotted into any track and with that the
idea of discriminatory concepts being involved is thankfully uncommon, but the
roots will never be wiped.
For today’s
downloading, twitter generation who listen to identical tinny beats through a
phone’s speaker, and where street dance is taught in COE primary schools, it’s a
far cry from the image of our mod beachcombing for records washed ashore by
racist American navy servicemen, or aCaucasian dancing like a “black guy.”
But as our
stable world crumbles before us and right-wing politics appears back on the
agenda its possible influence on music concerns me. Last year’s 50th
anniversary of the Country Music Awards sustained a grave repercussion in
Trump-favoured Tennessee, when Beyonce performed alongside The Dixie Chicks,
racial tensions in music clearly hasn’t evaporated. After the show raging
racists took to social media to express their abhorrence at a black artist
appearing on a show clearly perceived as something wholly “white.”
How
erroneous these idiots are, if they love Country music they should see beyond
the contemporary redneck, Confederate Flag connotations, their style of music
belongs just as much to African-Americans as Caucasians. Despite the African-Americans
probably wouldn’t admit they listen to modern Country, the very essence of
country is rooted in their culture. The notable instruments of which, such as
the banjo and fiddle, were formed by African-Americans.
And so the
world turns on its axis, history repeats and the beats go on; music is supposed
to be an escapism, a moment to let ones hair down and enjoy life any from
niggling issues; in order to do that you can consent its history lays in
prejudges, but try to celebrate its cultural diversity instead.
A few years ago an author suggested I join a Facebook group
called the Book Review Depot. The idea being you purchased six selected books
and reviewed them. Then, once complete, your own wares could gain access to the
“active list,” and you’d receive sales and reviews.
It sounded like a plan and a great way to network. I met
some great authors but sadly, the group fell into disrepair; perhaps due to too
many people joining or some trying to mimic the idea for their own profit, or
maybe it was me ruining the neighbourhood; the latter most likely.
Anyway, one book I picked was a fairly lengthy read and once
done I announced its completion to the admin, only to find out I totally had
the wrong book , this one was not on the list, or even known by the group; d’oh!
I tried to appeal, but them were da rulez; the admin were
like mafia (not really.) Still, I shrugged; it was a darn good read! Enough to skim
onto my on-going bucket list of self-published books to read before you either
die or go buy a book from a big publishing house.
Of the steampunk genre, it was called “Walking,” and part
one of the “Clockwork Twist,” series by Emily Thompson. Not for the sake of interest, just purely due
to time I admit I’ve not read much steampunk. I love ninth art legend Alan
Moore and savoured in the eleventh Dr Who series, with its gorgeous Victorian
portrayals but still, I’ve not got the googles yet.
As the genre matured it developed meandering tangents but,
if you’re undecided, I’d recommend Emily Thompson’s uniquely designed fantasy
world, wrapped neatly under her own banner of “clockpunk.”
It combines a geographically diverse universe of classic
mutations, creatures from anthropomorphised spirit guides, vampires and some
truly original creations, of which the protagonist is of no exception.
The clockwork professor “Twist” has a completely original
persona and a magical power which sees him headhunted by airship pirates for a
mission to fix a clockwork princess. Whisked out of his hermit life in the
dark, dank streets of Victorian London he takes off unwittingly on a Gulliver
style adventure.
Despite its setting and fantasy element it’s not written in
an archaic style such as Verne or Dickens, rather it reads contemporary, verging
on modern American TV series.
The only area it irritates is by the relentless usage of “said;”
no one here seems to yell, shout, bellow or whisper. With an extensive arsenal
of vocabulary at her disposal, it was overlooked by the author. A minor
criticism you ride out due to the original concept of the book, its engaging fantasy,
unique in popular style and reads without riddles.
Even though I feel like a window-shopper at the steampunk
store, doubting I’m trendy enough to enter, I still enjoy traditional apocalyptic
themes in sci-fi ; more popular than beards for 20 somethings, and if you’re
looking for something completely faultless and original in this area, I cannot
recommend Iron Mike enough.
It’s one I intended to get while the book review depot was
still active but maybe the title put me off, as here in the UK the term “Iron
Mike,” connotes the nickname of boxer Mike Tyson. You could double-check, but
I’ve done it for you and can confirm this read is definitely not a biography of
Mike Tyson!
It is in fact, the first book I should have picked from the
review depot scheme.
Iron Mike in the States is slang for men who are tough,
brave, and inspiring and now a de-facto for monuments commemorating servicemen
of the United States military. Patricia Rose’s magnificent novel has a militant
side, the protagonist coming of age during an alien invasion and learning the
worth of human life, but it has so many other key elements which make it stand
out from the rest.
At the beginning I was dubious, unsure if this was going to
live up the hype. It read like many, aiming to be an adventurous movie script.
Stick with it, because as the story develops it sucks you in like the alien vegetation
which cultivates across the land.
The narrative is interesting, using a different character’s
POV each chapter is no innovative notion but Patricia weaves it into some fascinating
junctions. Yes, we have Mike and we have his love interest and the militant man
struggling to keep command under pressure, but the point of view of the dog Hershey
brings it something special, down written to reflect the mind of a domestic dog
attempting to understand what is going on is sublime.
Where Iron Mike soars above and beyond your average story
striving to be a Hollywood blockbuster is where we get to read the POV of the
invading aliens too. I often argue HG Well’s longstanding War of the Worlds has
a far better plotline than the popcorn-munching mush of Independence Day.
Rather than having humans triumphing by Jeff Goldblum breeching the mothership
and Will Smith punching aliens bare-fisted, in War of the Worlds the Martians
overlooked the simple element to life on Earth; bacteria. This unpretentious
twist may not appeal on a big screen but you’ve got to admit, it’s far more
likely and ingenious.
Iron Mike goes one better than this, and for a book I doubted
at first going one better than HG Wells leaves you putting the book down at its
end and nodding a “wow.” You see, while you’re fighting the aliens alongside
the heroes in traditional methods, this alien POV is building a political
system within the extra-terrestrial social structure and its regulations needs a
campaigner for moral justice; this is where Scientist-Farmer glides in.
It leaves us with a truly original, breath-taking finale, one
where you now realise what all the fuss was about with this book and one which
makes you glad you stuck with it. I cannot recommend this read enough, digest,
enjoy and relish this unique story.
I did have one more book to mention here but I’ve used
rambled on far too long and Mulp with have to wait until next time. For now,
keep reading!
You lucky
people; been cutting a fine deadline, writing your least favourite causerie as
I’ve been gallivanting again; so I hope you appreciate the last minute blood
and guts I’ve emptied over it. The question being, whose guts are they this
week?
The intention
was to continue the subject of youth making a positive difference. From afar I
admired the shared video of extraordinarily talented Arthur Plumb, doing his
fire-juggling on a unicycle in the Brittox and Bath. Arthur is out to promote
his skills for booking at private occasions, let’s get behind this lad (but not
too close when he’s on his unicycle.)
I figure
this is going to be a walk in the park, there’s so much to cover on this “kids
rock” theme. Then, oh dear me; I go away for five minutes, look what happens.
Who’s been letting the side down? Teenagers accused of arson on a toddler’s
slide in a playpark perhaps, others hurling snowballs at swans, or the “grownup”
local MP supposed to be setting a good example?
I was flabbergasted
and mesmerised with Claire Perry, standing against her Bory party this week, blathering
cringeworthily comparisons; hysterical Brexiteer MPs as jihadists, they made
her narcissistic scoffs on Twitter seem tame.
It was more
irrational outburst than a cheap-shot rebellious kvetch, her only intention seemingly
to earn a permit to appear on the tele-box. Did you catch “the World According
to Claire Perry Show,” with guests including David Dimbleby, incorrectly scheduled
by the BBC as Question Time? She fumbled humble pie but it fell on the floor
before she had the opportunity to eat it.
Wow, she can
unleash some serious drivel. Certain she had all the answers, to everything,
her omnipresence brashly drowned the entire panel and audience, with rude
interruptions, tactical equivocation and broad fibbing through her teeth. It
was a shameful show leaving me embarrassed to confess she’s our representative.
At only six
minutes in I felt my stomach churn when Claire explained the issue of Syrian
refugee children. In a chinwag with the home secretary apparently there never
was a number suggested, despite rash Dimbleby quoting a figure of three
thousand from the original immigration act of 2016, which was quickly dispatched
by her majesty as codswallop. She continued unabated, “all children put through
such a horrific situation would be given as much support as we could give
them.” Thus the blame she turned to councils that refused to accept more.
Now I’m
confused, is there another Claire Perry MP, who back in April signed a
rejection to the amendment accepting three thousand Syrian refugees who landed in
mainland Europe without parents or guardians? Claire blatantly avoided the
question by celebrating Britain’s previous track record, rather than focusing
on the issue now.
Nauseated I
felt the need to skip the NHS debate, such a delicate subject at present I fear
I’ll end up on a bed in a corridor if I continue. Nothing more than lack of government
funding is crippling the health care system, because this regime are hell bent
on terminating our only establishment which remains the envy of the sane world.
Underfund it so everyone thinks its closure doesn’t matter; it was
dysfunctional anyway.
I got home
from a major hospital in East Anglia, where nearly all patients were Caucasian
British, and nearly everyone slaving through extended epochs to help them were
foreign, only to watch an opinion piece by a contemptuous old fart stating the
BBC was bias, blaming immigrants taking up beds. It’s pathetic ironic dribble
of the highest order. The kind Jeremy Hunt sniggers at behind closed doors.
I’m sorry
Claire Perry; while you support this corrupt government you don’t represent me.
While financial backing is needed in so many areas of Devizes from healthcare
to potholes, I cannot abide the cash spent on splashing your smirking face on
campaign posters in a constituency of full-gone conclusion conservative
dominance.
Obviously
she seethed through opposing opinions from Labour MP Owen Smith and blanked
leftie folk singer Billy Bragg, but she even chose to ignore senior obnoxious
cow, Anne Widdecombe as she threatened to pop Claire’s ego-bubble with the
stern waving of a pen.
You’d have
thought she’d have respected Widdecombe, who was conniving in Parliament when she
were mere fagging in Brasenose. See how Anne expertly scoffed in the face of a
teenager who pointed out Brexit was not proportionate as she was under voting
age during the referendum.
I’m with
Whitney on this one, I believe children are our future, teach them well and let
them lead the way. While we roll out the red carpet for an orange American
chauvinist, we reject desperate children who could be nurtured to upstanding
citizens of our future; acting like this AND expecting youngsters not to throw
a snowball at a swan, oh my years.
The ones who
burned the slide should try to recall a time when they were toddlers and
enjoyed swings and slides, don’t mature sharing our generation’s selfish
attitude; you have your own mind; use it.
The
year of our Lord, 2010; I find myself amidst an impenetrable crowd of buoyant
rural folk hither our nation’s capital, contemplating this city hath never seen
such a horde of bumpkins descend upon it since the Countryside Alliance march
of 2002. Misfortune the outcome of both affairs; this occasion Paul Robinson
scored at the end of the first-half, leading Millwall to a one-nil win against Swindon
in the League One play-off final, whereas, rightfully, The Hunting Act was
passed as law in 2005.
Although
there were various mini-issues to the protests; protecting British farming,
rising fuel costs and the right to wear green wellies on a dry street, it was
and will always be a method to boost numbers rallying for the right to brutally
slaughter innocent mammals in the most bloody-thirsty means possible.
Thanks
to the “Countryside Alliance,” city-dwellers believe the countryside is united
under one flag; one fox-blooded flag proudly waving against the winds of
change. However, while most approved the mini-issues, no other subject has
divided country folk more than the notion we have the god given right to tear
animals to shreds for the mere thrill of it; can you guess which side of the
fence I stand yet?
Start
the year as you mean to go on; I’m on a wind up because, despite its illegality,
thousands gathered on Boxing Day, no better than heroin addicts, to blatantly
flaunt the law and, just like their children, they rub the blood in the face of
anyone who might feel it slightly unfair on the fox by unveiling their crime in
the native newspaper, as if what they did was acceptable behaviour; shame on
the Gazette for passing such conceited pugnacious dribble off as an innocuous
pageant.
Don’t
get me wrong, I’m no tree-hugging, bunny-loving beatnik, I just don’t
understand the attraction in the barbaric and pompous act of fox hunting. So
you’re not flabbergasted by their articulate defence upon meeting snobby
barbarians, which is inevitable around these parts, I wanted, not to pledge my
case against, but merely outline the facts regarding hunting foxes, so you don’t
get weighed down with their timeworn but privately educated excuses; fair
enough innit?
Foremost,
the average hunter will tell you what they do is legal and on the surface they’re
correct. The flushing out of wild mammals as vermin and humanely shooting foxes
are exempt, coupled with the laying of an artificial scent for hounds and
heroes to pursue. Who are you trying to kid? Who stops them should the vague
law “accidentally” be encroached? Like the enemies of Michael Knight, these
criminals operate above the law.
Fox
hunting is not about culling a pest. Why would you breed a pest? Yep, blowing
this pathetic excuse out the water is simple, for foxes bred in captivity have
been discovered on many hunting estates. Even worse than hunting a wild fox, they
release their unwanted pets and for just a brief moment the fox has a taste of
freedom, a freedom it’ll never know. Then, it’s chased in the most terrifying technique
conceivable until, nerves shot and physically unable to proceed, hounds
leisurely tear it shreds. It is not, as suggested, killed quickly. After the
petrifying hunt they withstand abundant bites and lacerations, so too do the
hounds.
“The
fox has a fair chance,” they drivel. This one interrogates its term “sport.” Sport
is competitive; look it up in the flipping dictionary. If I bricked up my goal
prior to the football game you’d accuse me of cheating. A Fox’s natural means
of escape is to hide underground, why then are burrows and badger setts
deliberately blocked up prior to the hunt?
“Foxes
are vermin,” because the simple erection of a secure electric fence has never
been conceived until just now; I need to patent that. Besides the fox’s
favourite tucker is rabbit and they breed like, well. Eliminate the fox; you got
yerself a rabbit problem. We share this planet with other species; get used to
it or tally-ho to Mars.
The
most hypocritical excuse, “foxes kill for sport.” They bury excess spoils for
consumption at a later date. Should you have to hunt to feed your family and
were fortunate to break into Ginsters one night; you’d take all the chicken and
mushroom slices rather than only what you need for a quick snack, for Ginster’s
security guards will be on the prowl tomorrow. Chicken carcasses are left in
coops when the fox is scared off; unable to pop down Morrison’s for a chicken
chow-mein ready-meal for one.
Certain
this week’s column will face heated debate, which is dandy; but please, don’t
try to convince me otherwise. This is my opinion, an opinion shared by the
majority, that is why it is law; democracy yeah? Nothing you can say will cause
me to change my opinion and therefore your time spent spouting manure will be
pointless; capisce?
When
I started my milk round I’d have to check through my folder every few minutes
to remind myself of the following customers who required milk, as each day is
different. Now days I don’t need to refer too often, memorising parrot fashion.
I was on Church Lane, in the village of Woodborough when I checked, noting I had
only one house called “Sheldon” before the stop at the garden centre. As a
quick reference I said to myself “Sheldon, shop.”
Well,
the phrase rang a miniature bell in my peculiar bonce, thinking it sounded
catchy I dreamed up an idea for a children’s book; in a pet shop, a bulldog
called Sheldon is under the illusion he is the boss. By the time I reached the
house the character was foggy in my head and a minute later, upon reaching the
garden centre the plot had unfolded before me; I even remembered to deliver the
milk too!
I
wrote the story in rhyme; it’s fun, cheeky, with a moral. I pondered the idea
but put it on the back burner, aware children’s books are tricky to
self-publish and market. I read it to my daughter, probably my toughest critic;
she liked it. I passed it to authors Heather Osborne, Sarah Hill and Robin
Rowles; the feedback returned positive.
Now
I am delighted to be at this stage, the original mailed to the publisher’s
editor and I have convinced the most amazing and talented local artist Clare
Brookes to illustrate it. Here is a secret sneaky exclusive peek; a mock-up of a
page, a prototype of how I’d like it to appear, with Clare’s beautiful
rendering of Sheldon and friends.
A
new direction for me then; I can write adult junk till I’m blue in the face,
but really, deep down, a children’s author is my dream. Kids love stories and
books, they influence their imaginations, in a mechanism most adults have sadly
lost.
I’d
like to thank everyone involved with the project so far within this announcement;
fingers and toes crossed for us.
