Don't read this book! But read another!

I’m a bit concerned that I’ve lost my way a little with this blog. I originally wanted to use it as a means of scribing my thoughts on books I had read, films that I’d seen and maybe the odd painting I’d enjoyed. Whilst this remains the primary purpose, I have started to pontificate somewhat of late, and whilst that is likely to happen again, (it’s obviously in my personality!) I feel it’s important to get back on track and fortunately I have finally defeated Nostromo by Joseph Conrad!

It has taken me about four weeks, and it is so heavy that you are physically drained after reading about five pages, and there are four hundred and fifty of them! Not since Charlotte Brontes Jane Eyre have I felt that a book was more about the author justifying their existence through using flowery loquacious language than about entertaining the reader.

The heroic Garibaldo accepted Nostromos abrupt departure with a sagacious indulgence. He remembered his own feelings and exhibited a masculine penetration of the true state of the case.

No, I haven’t a clue either.

I think the story is an observation of how the rich can misguidedly abuse the poor by raping their land (in this instance extracting silver) whilst justifying this by giving prosperity and peace to the natives. The central character is poor but works for the rich who are dependent on him, and rely on his vanity such that he doesn’t realise that he is being abused. Anyway, the penny drops and he looks to even the score but then he gets shot!

Don’t read this book. Please, please don’t read this book. Take the total of 24 hours (plus) which it will take you to read it, go paint a wall and watch it dry.

I’ve moved on to something a lot easier: A John Grisham. I have to be candid here and admit that if I could be any kind of author it would be one like Grisham: A rich one! By 2008 he had sold over 250,000,000 books!

It’s an interesting contrast, but whilst Conrad is acclaimed as one of the greatest british writers (err he was Polish) it has been written that his biography could have been called ’30 years of debt, gout, depression and angst’ culminating in a low point of a failed attempted suicide in 1878! Yes he kept his literary integrity, but it didn’t bring home the bacon!

I’m reading The Appeal by Grisham, and even the font size and width of the margins make it such an easy read. I started it on Sunday and I’m already on page 200. It really is for the masses, but it’s an enjoyable yarn and is that not at the heart of reading? But that’s the beauty of books, just like art and music, its all about choice and taste and we don’t have to stick within one genre. I love the variety but I fear that stories will ultimately be forgotten: When you buy a book and have read it, it remains physically on your bookcase, or leant to a friend, or even given to a charity shop. The point is, it continues to physically exist with the potential to be enjoyed again, and again and again.

But now, the book is under threat from the accursed Kindle (no I don’t like them!) and I’m concerned that stories, like music, will become disposable & forgotten, trapped beneath layers of download, and ultimately discarded when the memory gets full. You can’t smell a Kindle, wonder whose scribbles and underlines they are in the margins, pass it on, donate to a charity shop, have a favourite bookmark (which isn’t a bookmark but a ticket or receipt to something that brings a fond memory to the forefront of your mind) and you can’t show off your collection of Kindles.

Do the decent thing today, go buy a second hand book, or lend one out, or buy one as a gift for somebody. What’s that you say? My Birthday, why, its 4^th April. Any orange-spined Penguin Classic will do!

Purpose

I’ve just returned from  a few days in Tenerife courtesy of a mate who invited and paid for 100 of his friends to fly out and stay four nights in a hotel, and to celebrate his fiftieth birthday at his luxury villa.

This colourful character had certainly seen some highs and lows along the way before striking gold and making his fortune. This was mirrored by the selection of guests who ranged from wealthy to modest, passive to ‘cross me at your peril’

Significantly I hadn’t seen my friend for nearly twenty years and so it was something of a shock to receive an invite, but as the expression goes: ‘You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’ and so off we went.

Incidentally, what an odd expression this is! Its meaning relates to the inspection of a horses teeth as this is an indicator of the health and therefore value of a horse. It would indeed be rude to do such a thing to the gift in front of the giver.

Once landed, we were informed that the hotel ‘had a bug’ and we were being moved to apartments in a different part of town. It was no step down in quality and was indeed a treat, offering spacious balconies to admire the bay, bars, gyms, swimming pools etc, and, because the English were coming, a cooked breakfast.

Did I drink my fair share of lager. Again, you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Sadly, there is one thing that money cannot buy, and although the party was great, the company entertaining and the lager cold, one by one we all fell victim to the bug. For anyone of a delicate disposition I will not describe the symptoms, but needless to say, one couldn’t stray too far from your room.

And so, here I sit, having just eaten for the first time in 60 hours. Unsure now whether the pain in my stomach are hunger pangs or a continual evidence of the unwelcome guest in my intestines.

Three years ago I visited Haiti, a full ten months after the earthquake devastated the capital Port au Prince and claimed the lives of an estimated 220,000 people and injured a further 300,000. In addition, a further 216,000 were infected with cholera. We left a week before the outbreak, and were later emailed by a doctor who told us that many of the people we had met were now victims of the disease and no more.




It remains a profound memory which will stay with me for the rest of my life, and one which cannot be allowed to not alter the way I think, speak, behave in this world for it taught me the meaning of privilege.

But there is wealth in Haiti for the chosen few.



Take a look at this photo. This good looking chap has his back to the presidential palace. Perhaps the most ostentatious building on the island? And yet, like my friend in Tenerife, has found that no amount of money can completely protect from the forces of nature or malady.

It never hurts to be reminded of our frailty. I love the parable of the rich fool which can easily be misconstrued as God being a killjoy and resenting success:

And he told them this parable: The ground of a certain rich man yielded an abundant harvest. He thought to himself, ‘What shall I do? I have no place to store my crops.’ Then he said, ‘This is what I’ll do. I will tear down my barns and build bigger ones, and there I will store my surplus grain.  And I’ll say to myself, “You have plenty of grain laid up for many years. Take life easy; eat, drink and be merry.”   But God said to him, ‘You fool! This very night your life will be demanded from you. Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?’ This is how it will be with whoever stores up things for themselves but is not rich toward God.”

There’s nothing wrong with success, or wealth, but accumulation can’t be the only reason we are here? Surely there has to be more? We need to have a purpose in life. Don't we? Obviously I have a sense of purpose as a Christian, which gives me a sense of direction, but purpose is something we all should have isn’t it?

There is enough want, need, injustice, sadness, sorrow, pain, ill health, disaster for us to find something to want to change. We don’t have to travel to the other side of the world to make a difference (though some may be called to) as long as we have something! What's your purpose?

Validation

There’s a bit of a craze at the moment for a certain kind of man and a certain kind of woman to attempt these ‘Off road, test your mental and physical limits, whilst getting very muddy in the process’ races. I’ve not quite determined what the male collective is, but I’m guessing for the females its ‘dyke’ (Am I allowed to say that?) My mate Pete commented that he didn’t think his wife would attempt one to which I replied that I didn’t think I knew any women who would want to attempt one!

These races have testosterone fuelled titles such as ‘Tough guy’ ‘Tough mudder’ or ‘Survival of the fittest’

Anyway, I duly found myself on Sunday at the starting line of ‘The Devils Challenge’ in Barton Le-Clay which was advertised as involving running through fire, being electrocuted, crawling under barbed wire, 8 miles of off road running, and of course the obligatory mud and puddles.

Oh, and it snowed.



This is not an aggressive pose, this is me frozen to the spot!

I’m not going to write about the disappointment that they didn’t have fire, and running through the electric cattle prods was a complete non-event (it reminded me of a twisted Japanese game show where they poured a non-flammable liquid but which smelt of petrol, and then made the contestants jump through a hoop of fire) as everyone was trying to avoid these wires whilst (in a kind of perverse, totally non sexual way) I was excited about being electrocuted and so ran through with my arms akimbo, and felt nothing!

No, if there was anything that this rather pitiful event did for me, it was that it got me thinking about my own sense of worth. Some people determine their worth through material success, the size of their house, their postcode, their car or where they holiday, whilst for others it is perhaps about relationships, and in particular those that involve the opposite sex, & yet for others I guess its power or influence.

The point is, I’m wondering if, as I fast approach fifty, whether I am seeking validation through trying to be fitter, stronger, faster, more defined than my peers?

I’ve noticed this in some of my actions recently: Firstly, I’m spending too much time at the mirror, vainly, and in vain, looking for definition in my arms, whilst scanning the arms of similarly aged men, and, worse, I met a chap in the gym last week who I had a right laugh with until we started talking about Half Marathons and I realised that his best time was 8 minutes faster than mine. 8 minutes!!! We can never be friends! (Is this the equivalent of a woman going to a party and discovering someone in exactly the same dress?)

 As a Christian I’m meant to attain validation through knowing God loves me irrespective of how (or who) I am. I do truly believe this, as I experience that same feeling towards my children. It doesn’t really matter what they do, there’s a ‘cant help loving them’ emotion which prevents estrangement. In our state of mere mortality, there must become a point when the little axe murderer goes just too far, and I wouldn’t want to put this to the test, but even then, if the prodigal son sought forgiveness, would it be refused?

I see plenty of Christians who obviously don’t feel sufficiently validated by God’s love alone, and who remain driven, shriven, misgiven and riven rather than forgiven! This is something of a tragic state of affairs and it would be easy to blame parents, dodgy vicars or denomination and we certainly live in a blame culture, but let’s be honest, Christian or no Christian, we all seek, no, crave our fellow mans’ approval or admiration. But what are we frightened of? In John Eldridges excellent book ‘Wild at Heart’ he focuses on the mask that we all hide behind, although he places this vow, to never reveal the true us, firmly at the door of our Fathers (something I’m not sure I agree with) but I will confess that I do hide behind the mask, making sure that certain aspects of my life, my personality, are safely concealed from public viewing whilst conversely presenting an image of my self in a light which is favourable to others.

Andy Flannagan puts it this way in his song Ego:

'I’ll take the glory, but skip the pain, Edit the story to fit my frame.'

Yeah, you got me there Andy.

I deduce that one of the reasons for writing this blog is to start to melt the wax mask, so that the true Jon is revealed. I hope you still like him.

Passion

I’m in the middle of reading Nostromo by Joseph Conrad, (he of the novella ‘Heart of darkness’ which I own but have yet to read.) I’m about a third of the way through and I haven’t enjoyed any of it. There appears to be no plot, the descriptions are laboured, and I’m not even sure of the context of the story, but I think it is somewhere in South America in the distant past.

Its one of those 'red sauce, brown sauce' questions. If you get a few chapters into a book and you realise its not for you, do you a) Give up, and start something else, or, b) Soldier on, you will not be defeated!
I am firmly in the second camp, although a biography on Maria Callas and her Greek shipping magnate lover nearly beat me once.

A week ago I visited clients in Warwick, & in preparation for my trip had researched the town for second hand bookshops. To my delight, in close proximity to each other, there were two, and so after bidding my leave of the clients, I went with an air of expectancy, armed with a few pounds and intent on purchasing a handful of paperbacks. I was surprised but unperturbed when I was informed by the proprietor of the first shop that ‘there was no call for paperbacks!!’ but to my disappointment, the second fared no better. Nothing could be found on my ‘to buy list’ and so, simply on the basis that my Heart of darkness is a silver leafed Penguin, picked up Nostromo as a match.

I have spent the weekend decorating my study and I now have my bookcases back and there are boxes opened everywhere as I try to put them into different piles: Classics, sport, religious, travel, bio etc. I have an unsightly fusebox to hide and I need to cover it up with a poster. Even I believe the young female tennis player scratching her backside is a tad dated (depending on your age, that will either be a nostalgic moment or a..nathema!)

Or perhaps the course adaptation of DaVinci’s Vitruvian Man?

I couldn't find the 70's poster version? Do you remember it??

I think I have found the perfect print which I intend to purchase. What do you think?

Its called 'The Huguenot on St Bartholemews Day' by John Everett Millais. I’ve always had a soft spot for the Pre Raphaelite Brotherhood for no other reason than their paintings are either pure illusion, fantasy, fancy but first and foremost unashamedly quixotic!

When I worked in London, if I was having a tough time I would walk to St Pauls Cathedral in my lunchtime & just sit and stare at Holman Hunts 'Light of the World' Its sixteen quid to get in to St Pauls now. It's a church (for God's sake!)

The Huguenots were sixteenth century Protestants living in predominantly Catholic France. Their differences had risen to a staggering level of violence which culminated with thousands of Huguenots being massacred on St Bartholemews day. The lovers could be star crossed Romeo & Juliet characters of different houses, or they could be both protestants, but the mans love of his God is greater than his love of his fiancée and so he gently refuses to wear the white arm band which would signify his allegiance to Rome. His passion is the reverse of hers whereby her love of her man carries greater weight than her love of her god. Or perhaps, understandably, knowing what brutal consequences await, she is driven by fear.

I love the way his left hand gently cups her face, there’s a finality in their parting, but its noble and that’s a character trait we all aspire to. To place our faith, our principles, our passions over a relationship is one short of the ultimate sacrifice and perhaps later that very day, he will pay the ultimate price to?

But at a very base level it simply screams romance. Its not a girl thing. I think we all crave relationships which involve valour, idealism, intimacy, desire, a dragon to slay, a knight to the rescue.

I hate motivational posters, but when I look at this painting I am inspired to make a stand. To grasp a passion to which I can say ‘this is what I’m here for, this is what I have been put on this earth to achieve.’ It certainly beats a girl scratching her bum!

A little piece of Pi

I’m back from the Isle of Man now, and having been on trains, planes and automobiles, I’ve had plenty of time to finish ‘Life of Pi’ but since my return I’ve had no time to blog my thoughts. So here goes:

How often does a film disappoint if you have read the book, or a book disappoint if you have seen the film? On the back of watching the movie I was very keen to read the book, but mindful of the above, my intention was only to alleviate my fear of being shallow, as the supposed depth of the story had sailed serenely over my head!

Very early on, Pi says ‘Let me tell you a story. A story that will make you believe in God!’ but I had left the Multiplex perplexed, as I didn’t see how the story achieved this boast. Perhaps the book would enlighten?

Ladies and Gentlemen, I really am that shallow! I cannot see how this story of a young indian boy, named after a French swimming pool, who plans to emigrate with his family to Canada, and who then tragically loses them when their ship sinks, and ends up the sole survivor in a lifeboat apart from a Zebra (with a broken leg) an Orang-utan, a Hyena and a full size Bengali tiger proves the existence of God!

Notwithstanding, Pi’s attractiveness (In both film and book) is his innocent search for the truth of who God is. And there’s certainly an argument for a pluralistic faith which is what he ends up having, following both Hinduism and Islam as well as Christianity. This creates a delightful comic scene (tragically omitted from the film) where he bumps into his priest, his imam and…whatever Hindu leaders are called, all at the same time! I suppose as a Christian I shouldn’t be so blasé as to suggest a pluralistic faith could work but does God reject earnestness?

I gave a talk this morning about the Dominican Republic in a little church in Bedford. An elderly man did the bible reading and announced it as ‘Today’s reading is from the book of Ecclesiasticles’ These sound like slang for male genitalia, but I’m sure the bearded wonder looked down from heaven and had a good chuckle. This poor old man was earnestly doing his best, no harm done.

I’ll take it no further than saying that for Pi, being able to draw on the good of all three religions gives him the strength and the hope to battle through this epic encounter with both nature and beast. It works for him, but he is only a fictional character.

Let’s not get too heavy. This is a surprisingly enjoyable yarn, which at one level is simply a manual on survival, but interspersed with wonderfully lucid descriptions of his ever changing, ever challenging surroundings. No small feat when all he is surrounded by is sea and sky!

Yes, this book is deep, both spiritually and philosophically, but it’s a free country and you only have to address it at this level if you really feel you have to. But I don’t. I want to read so that I can conjure up colourful vivid images in my mind that allow me to escape to where the author takes me, and in ‘life of Pi’ I would at times, sitting up in my bed, think I could feel the rhythmic movement of the waves, gently rocking my bed as if I too had become cocooned inside a lifeboat.

You’ve probably missed it at the cinema, but I would certainly recommend buying the DVD.  But a cheaper option is to apply that most pleasing of cocktails, picking this book up in a charity shop and using your imagination!

There was a vastly over rated (in my opinion) book a few years ago called ‘The five people you meet in heaven’ and  if there were limitations on the number of inhabitants I was allowed to meet, the central character of this book would be on my list. To hear him regale this tale first hand would be celestial!

Y'know, Pi in the Sky when I die!

Lincoln, The film, not the city!

I’m sitting in my hotel room in Douglas Isle of Man. You know the type of hotel which has two sides: The one in the brochure which boasts of panoramic views of the coast and the other which looks out onto a car park which the hotel shares with the local cinema.

Now, it’s nice to look out of the window every once in a while and be reminded that last night, out of sheer boredom (I’m here on my own on business) I went to said cinema and watched Lincoln. I was reminded of the picture house of my youth in Harpenden which is now sadly a petrol station. I would suggest the fittings were original, as are the ticket booth, the rest rooms and maybe even some of the staff. Sadly, the prices were still very much twenty first century, but I intend to put this night on the Company!

If you want an authentic treat, and ever find yourself (ironically) in the county of Lincoln, do visit a quaint old market town called Louth. (I have never known a place with so many charity shops, with such good selections of second hand books. There really is nothing else for the good people of Louth for recreation other than to read!) Well, that’s not strictly true as it has this fantastic old cinema of which the screen is so small, I have seen bigger tv’s in peoples houses! Add to that it has an intermission half way through the movie, in which two girls come round the aisles selling confectionary out of their trays suspended by ribbon round their necks and you really do re-visit your childhood.

Apart from Mama Mia (immensely more enjoyable than Les Mis – see prev blog)) the only other film I saw there was ‘Amazing Grace’ which was about William Wilberforce’s fight to abolish slavery in Great Britain. I remember being distinctly underwhelmed by the presentation of such an overwhelming subject, but the film was one I still felt was worth seeing and stood up as an edifying spectacle when compared to so many far less noble subject matters which are turned into movies (C’mon, how long before we get ‘The Killer on the track – the story of Oscar Pistorious) 

Sometimes you just have to let the woman have the last word fella

And so it was with similar expectation that I went and saw Lincoln.

My low expectations were met. It was like watching something on BBC3. Only 24 hours before I had sat cuddled up on the sofa with a Terry’s Chocolate Orange watching a wonderful documentary about the history of Baroque art, but if it had overlapped with the start of Mrs Brown’s Boy’s, my shallowness would have usurped my depth and I would have changed channels. But here I was again (sans Terrys Chocolate Orange) being informed rather than entertained. I was in a cinema, I wanted to be shocked, awed, tickled, inspired but I was none of those things.

'Washington, Jefferson, Watch out baby cause here I come, Abraham, Theodore, You're gonna see my ugly mug on Mount Rushmore Yeah!
Ian Hunters song 'When I'm Presiden

Don’t get me wrong, my admiration for the guy has increased, and he certainly deserved to be carved out of stone on the side of Mount Rushmore, but the film was just too intense, complex in its plot and too many characters who looked like Charles Dickens but with yankee accents. I just didn’t know who was who!

My guess is that the history of the Civil war and the fight to abolish slavery is on the curriculum in every school in the US, and therefore this is a story with characters all too familiar to an American audience. But to this Brit, I was only able to appreciate it at a broad level:

They have slavery, some want to keep it that way, others don’t, there’s a war on, and the two are linked, but which comes first? They abolish slavery, then the Confederates surrender and then Lincoln gets shot.

There you go, just saved you 2hrs 20 minutes of your life and £9.10

Daniel Day Lewis is Oscar nominated for this role, but let’s be honest, no-one knows what Lincoln sounded like, and so if you grew a goatee beard, dye your hair black and wear a top hat, we can all be Abraham Lincoln! Admittedly he has lots of lines to learn, so he earns his fee, and that pretty much sums up the film. A lot of dialogue and in particular a lot of Abe telling anecdotes and saying famous Abraham Lincoln sayings.

I always assumed Lincoln to be a devout Godly man with a deep faith and although there were hints at this it wasn’t laboured at all. He was more interpreted as a deeply principled man with a love of people. Perhaps the best scenes were played out between him and his wife, the role entrusted to the ever dependable Sally Field. Their relationship was strained at times, but the co-dependency and trust in each other was heart warming, although I’m sure by the end, even she was probably ready to shoot him, I know I certainly was!

Hair cuts!

I got my hair cut on Saturday. I use this great little barbers in the indoor market in Luton. It’s run by four very working class lasses who are all born and bred Lutonians. Educated in Luton also, which is reflected in the charming little sign on the wall demonstrating their ‘Ernie Wisesque’ command of the English language. However, similarly educated Lutonian mothers have full understanding of its content and happily stand outside in a gaggle, (blocking the door) as they chat away and moan about not being able to smoke in the market anymore. I love the place, the girls are really genuine, very welcoming and do a sufficient job in keeping me trimmed.

I’ve just read that back, and I have to say it does make me sound like a snob. For this I apologise, but I also caveat this with the fact that all my three offspring (that I know of!) were also educated in Luton, and like my hairdressing girls, have not let this be a handicap. However, there are small malapropisms (well, they’re not even really them) which often pop out.

Example: I get a text saying ‘Dad, will you leaf out a key for me’ He could see nothing wrong with this!!

Or, when my 18 year old daughter comes downstairs in a figure hugging outfit, which is revealing far too much of her cleavage, and which she intends to wear to a party, and in which her Father clearly disapproves, I’m told ‘I’m very proud of my figure, I think I’m voLUMPtuous!!!’ The irony is completely lost on her.

Who’d be a parent!

When I first moved to Luton I used a great little barbers called Tulios, who used to be run by lads, for lads. We would discuss ‘lads things’ and it became a bit of an event to go there, drink coffee and have a bit of banter. But Tulio had plans to go upmarket and made a crucial error in introducing two extremely glamorous girls to work with him. Sorry, but in no circumstance am I having some sexy woman massage my scalp, ask me how I want it and money change hands! I’m just not that sort of bloke!

Next I moved to Carmens in High Town but he made the mistake of taking too much off my forehead and received a visit later that day from the wife! The shame was too great, I had to find somewhere else. I don’t think I have a particularly ugly forehead? It’s not as if I have 666 tattooed across it, but whenever I go to get it cut, I’m sent off with strict instructions ‘leave some at the front to cover your forehead’

The only time I ever deviate from my Luton lasses is when I go to Dominican Republic and because of the heat I’m allowed a Number 1 all over. Having a son who was a skinhead in a previous life, we have the equipment for a DIY job. I think most men would go for this look if they thought it was attractive to girls, as its certainly practical, saves on shampoo and most importantly makes you look hard! I hadn’t realised, but whilst skinheads were a reaction to the long haired look of the hippies, it fitted in with their violent lifestyle, as, in a fight, your opponent has no hair to grab hold of.  



I've been told I look like a Serbian war criminal!

Perhaps the most unique experience I had was getting my hair cut in a settlement called Ascension village in the Dominican Republic. This community is primarily made up of Haitian refugees, a collective which I have come to dearly love, and so to help boost the local economy I agreed to get my locks pruned.

On entering the shack I was greeted with a bare room containing only an office chair held together with masking tape, and a broken mirror precariously balanced on a couple of nails. On a small shelf sat a small black comb and a Wilkinson sword razor blade. (ha! On cue, a merengue song by Theodore Reyes, a heartthrob in DR has just shuffled to the front on the ipod!) My new friend Isaias took the comb and the razor blade and in a deft slashing motion, transformed me to my favoured war criminal look, and all for about one pound.  

Had I known at that time that HIV was running at about 20% in the village at that time, I might have been less keen!

Gosh, I’ve just written a whole post about getting my hair cut. I’m surprised you got this far. Thank you! Perhaps to counterbalance this, I’ll make sure I reveal some dark secret about me in my next blog. You have been warned!