KFC (K and a Friend in Conversation)

In a KFC somewhere...


Him: (Smiling) Ah, good old junk food...nice.


Me: Really?

Him: Yeah! But in the ends, chicken and chips costs £2 pounds, KFC take it too far with their prices.

After eating said KFC...

Me: (Holding my stomach, envisioning multiple bathroom trips when I get home) That was horrible. Never again!

Him: Yeah, it wasn’t all that. Not for the money they charge anyway.

Me: KFC, it’s a lot like sleeping with your ex.

Him: (Confused look on his face) Come on, what are you talking about?

Me: Well, it sounds like a good idea at the time, possibly even a great idea that you have craved for some time, but once it’s done, you kind of wish you hadn’t, in fact, there is a pretty good chance that while doing the deed, you feel slightly ashamed of yourself.

Him: (Big man chuckle) You are too much!

Me: I’m serious!

Him: (Big man chuckle, again)

Me: Especially the feeling after, all that guilt. You try to do a billion good things to make yourself feel better, and swear that you will never do it again, but you know, one hungry night, you just may succumb to those familiar herbs and spices.

Him: (Shakes his head) You're not well K.

Act 4

He dreamt of his main squeeze, them hitting the night scene, draped in the finest robes, the flyest stones, elegance, decorum, the whole thing, in this particular fantasy, they were out, he and she, hands intertwined, eyes locked, sharing space and time, in a room brimming with avant-garde deocr, men and women of all sorts, from the door to the bar, they stood, inhaling the aroma of intoxicating potions from afar.

She sipped an elderflower bellini, he nursed a sour martini, he held her hand, proud to be her man, proud to be her other, her friend, her love, he cherished her, and all she represented, he smiled at her, "I love you" he mimed, she returned the sentiment, they both meant it, all of a sudden, the scene turned bright, excess light, she started to fade out of sight, he knew this feeling, the onslaught of daylight, and in a flash, his eyes opened, the dawning of a new day had left him awoken.

Staring at the ceiling, retracing feelings and pondering the dreams' meaning...

Three things I learnt this week.

1. The term ‘baby boomers’ refers to people born in the 1940’s and 1960’s. This group of men and women are one of the most influential cohorts of people, as they make up the bulk of the modern workforce, pay for many to receive state education, medical treatment and pensions. They are due to retire very soon, let’s hope the state reciprocates the sacrifice and dedication the baby boomers have shown.

2. Trying to arrange a simple pick up and drop off of band equipment, can be filled with as much heartache, joy and tribulation as the work of Homer. Think transport problems, intra-band conflicts, shady meetings in car parks, all of which takes place amid a cold and dreary London landscape. And where would such a voyage be without a deeper, philosophical rumination, which in this case was, ‘why am I out here in the cold lifting drums, while dem man are at home?’

3. People come, and people go. It is very easy to focus on their departure, which is often fuelled with emotion and misplaced words, but rarely, do we remember them by their stay, the way they managed to occupy so much of your life, of your time, of your thoughts.

Act 3

Back home, where he sits atop his throne, the centre of sanity, where he can be, himself, the tragedy, is that home consists of bad memories, a reminder of what shouldn't be, his place to dwell, the room at the top of the stairwell, was light years away from the outside hell, he shut the door upon entry, threw his everything on the floor and tiptoed gently.

Pictures of past pleasures plastered two of the four walls, old friends, an old him, smiling, having a ball, he lay on his bed, arms by his side, slightly intoxicated, an alocoholic high, the room span some, the results of cognacs and dark rum, he closed his eyes for a second, but at that moment his phone beckoned, the familiar 'beep beeping' of a text message:

"Hey love, hope u r well, im swell, u coming for dinner friday? need to know how many, ask them lot aswell."

He shook his head, he knew her type, not a friend, just someone who enjoyed his company on random nights. He trusted nobody, least of all women, serpents in satin, the title he'd give 'em. 'Forget her!' Right now, he craved rhythms, syncopation and harmony, he grabbed his headphones off the nightstand and threw on a CD, Miles Davis was what he heard, he held adoration for the man, over the years he he had become a hige jazz fan, he felt the tension, the build, their brilliance, their skill, herbie on keys was enough to please, he closed his eyes and slipped between the sheets, rubbing his legs in an attempt to generate heat, music gave him hope, its beauty, its joy, it helped him cope, in musical bliss he lay, entering his dreams in a silent way.

Chapter 6

At some stage, his longing for her, his desire to remain relevant in her life had surpassed his original feelings. He no longer cared about 'them,' about cultivating a unison that would see them transcend their habitual lives and surroundings. He no longer valued the art of nurturing feelings and developing memories, nor did he value love and the joys it brings, about the pleasure possible when the right lives intertwine at the right time, he was only interested in maintaining a shred of importance, he only cared for relevance, to be able to project his neediness someplace other than nowhere. What started out as a love, an unbridled fusion of feelings and foresight had morphed into obsession.

For the first time, he felt her hatred for him. In her eyes, he saw a level of loathing he never thought possible. With that look, at that moment, he understood her cold demeanor, her monotone greetings and effortless sex, for she was void of all feelings. Her actions had been lead by misplaced obligations and interests were feigned as a pleasantry.

In his mind, the last 18 months suddenly burst into a concerto of clarity. He was able to see himself through her eyes, his pitiful, needy adult self, unable to read signs, unable to comprehend when a relationship had soured. Yes, he was the reason for their displeasure, for the months of repressed comments and awkward silences, he was the perpetrator of a murder most foul.

**

She never returned any of his calls after that night, instead, she sent him a text several days later which read:

'I'm staying in a hotel for a week. Be gone when I'm back.'

**

8 months had passed when he found himself again walking along that road. It all seemed too familiar, the houses, the smells, the lives of others. He peered past her curtains, in an attempt to catch a glimpse of her. But what for? To try and talk her into some kind of re-run of their relationship? Or worse? Maybe a night of halfhearted for old times sake fondle between the sheets that would only serve as a reminder of his past failings? 'No,' he whispered to himself, crouching down in front of the window, wringing his in despair.

She had probably grown, met a worthy suitor, and he would appear to be nothing more than a forlorn man, still unable to grasp the beginnings and ends that love and life offer. He glared at the familiar contents of the room through the window. Maybe she hadn't changed, maybe she too missed him. Maybe she sat alone at nights, self-esteem ravaged, replaying the epic in its entirety in her mind, all the while craving for the stale comfort that comes from being in a loveless relationship, maybe she needed him. Maybe...All this and more ran through his mind, but in the end, he said "sod it, I'm going home."

And with that, he turned his back on the past and the present and walked, alone into tomorrow, camouflaged in the counterfeit tranquility that the city at night offers.

END

Act 2

He hated "facebooking" and "twittering," activities that act as a precursor to online bickering, more evidence of him trying to fit in, he stood steadfast on the sidelines of social scenes, always the one that would question the nature of teams, a habit he developed in his post teens, reclusive nature, wallflower self-esteem, couple that with a mind that would always question things, and you begin to slightly understand this fellow, a guy who would be described by most as a mellow, on the surface that is, his mental wages war like Othello, but back to the tale at hand, he's in the same spot, same groove, same self-loathing attitude, surrounded by a wealth of people, but his temperament remains crude, let's see what's happening in the room.

Ladies in clans, skins tanned, sporting High Street gems and lesser known brands, sipping Bellinis' and Pinot, the odd cultured lady partaking in Merlot, cute as can be, dudes stand scattered, engrossed  in their greatness, in their minds, others don't matter, their timepieces filled with icy matter, bench-press heroes, their arms looking fatter, they never do legs though, a loaf of bread balancing on two poles.

He smirked to himself, the world he inhabited, slightly confused him, but always amused him, he had other thoughts in his mind, at this moment in time, he sipped the last of his drink and floated away to think.

He held visions of success, wild philanthropy, he seemed happier in his dreams, probably, because he lived a better version of himself or so it would seem, one that not only jumped hurdles, but straight cleared them, a force to be reckoned with, an example for all men, knowledgable, conversant, a complete person, yeah, people would listen to that dream version.

Three things I learnt this week.

1)
Dreams bring to fruition the things one represses, shirks or flees from in real life. For example, if you dream of fist-fights, or grappling with your boss and placing him in several Hulk Hogan approved chokeholds, then chances are, you probably avoid such situations in your woken life.

2)
NEVER call the slightly attractive English lady who operates the welcome desk at Haringey Council “darling,” for she will look at you with great contempt and disgust, more so if your spoken English is either fractured or riddled with urbanisms.

3)
Lying to others is extremely easy but lying to oneself is a much harder feat.

Chapter 5

He had decided to make her dinner. Spaghetti Bolognese. It wasn’t the most a la carte dish, but it was by far the most perfected in his culinary arsenal. He had just finished straining the spaghetti, enjoying the warm atmosphere that comes from such activities, when the front door slammed shut.

She skulked into the kitchen, weary, defeated, hair ruffled and plopped her bag onto the tiled floor of the kitchen.

“Hey babe,” he said, all smiles and cheers with his head stuck in the nether regions of the fridge. “I decided to make you dinner. You sounded a little down when I spoke to you at lunch, so I thought; I know what will bring a smile to that face of yours...spaghetti...”

“Bolognese” she said, completing his sentence and choking back her disgust at his predictability.

“How did you know?” he exclaimed.

Her lethargic demeanour vanished and she grabbed her bag with force, turned and left the kitchen and made her way upstairs, her feet and the beige carpet bearing the brunt of her frustrations. She shoved the door of their bedroom, threw her bag onto the bed and soon joined it.

He carried on preparing the dish in the warmth of the kitchen, grating cheese, adding basil and parsley to the simmering contents on the stove, all the while, his face blank, his heart empty and his mind confused. HE had made a gesture and SHE had stormed off, bloated on her own self-importance, totally oblivious to him. “This is nonsense” he thought. He turned the stove down and marched out of the kitchen, up the stairs and with great vigour headed towards their bedroom.

He saw her, sitting on the bed, body arched, head down. His anger melted at the sight of her. Her, dressed in black, sitting so defenceless and void of strength. He daren’t enter for fear of intruding. Instead he peered into the room and gazed at the woman he loved, the woman whom he was subject to.

She had her head clutched in her hands and was crying, silent tears of despair. She looked up and caught her reflection in the mirror opposite. Massacre trickled down her cheeks, leaving a black trail of tears and regret, the souvenirs of a woman in pain, a desperate individual with options but without the conviction to act on them.

Farewell

At some stage in the 00's, I had entered a musical drought, nothing seemed to move or inspire me. I had just come out of a turbulent relationship with garage and a sordid affair with hiphop, so like most lonely males, I was in need of  a new chase, something young, fresh and exciting. Enter one Dominic Stanton.

I had stumbled across Dominic (better known as Domu) after listening to the likes of 4hero, Zero 7 and the Cinematic Orchestra. His first full length LP "Up and Down" was nothing short of brilliant to me. Full of samples and synth leads, it helped me appreciate the finer art of drum programming and song arrangement. This album

For years to come, his work would astound me, whether it be the string of 12"s he released on 2000Black (check "Save It,"), his monthly mixes he would upload (my fave entitled "charity shop breaks" which includes the theme from Grange Hill), his follow up album "Return of the Rogue" or anyone of the copious amount of remixes he has put out under the many guises he takes, Sonar Circle, Rima, Umod to name a few. His musical knowledge seemed boundless, being able to hold intricate conversations about the role of the recession in the creation of drum n bass (his was part of the Reinforced crew) or, Herbie Hancocks' scientific approach to synth programming.

Apart from being a sterling musician, he is also an exceptional writer and critique of the world at large and his blogs were always a source of wisdom and insight, but while reading his blog today, I learned that he has decided to end his musical career. To me, this came as grave news. Not because he believes he has come to the end of his creative spree, but because of the effect it has had on him personally.

I for one will miss his creative input to the world, as he always managed to bring a smile to my face and a shuffle to my feet. If you are unfamiliar with his work, please Google him, you will not be disappointed.

This is his post in full.

The End

It’s over. I can’t go into the personal reasons, but of course will leave you some explanation as to how I got here. It feels a bit like walking away from a life of crime or the Mafia. I am Carlito, I have finally made the break from the old dangerous way of making a living. I just hope Benny from the Bronx doesn’t shoot me as I am boarding the last train out of here. The point is that I am no longer Domu. He is a character, always has been, and as of Friday 13^th November 2009, he no longer exists. Neither does Umod, Sonar Circle, Bakura, Yotoko, Rima, Zoltar, Blue Monkeys, Realside or any of the other names I put out music under. I am cancelling all my gigs and not taking any more. My hotmail is closed, my Twitter is closed and my Facebook is closed. If any of you want to talk to me and know me well enough to have my mobile number then that is still the same, and please feel free to call any time. My other email address I mail from occasionally is still open to tie up any loose ends.

I had started to change, for the worse I am now sure. My confusion was growing, my insecurity and bitterness getting out of hand, a lack of creative direction and focus were leading me somewhere very dark. I have felt so depressed by all of this. Believe me I have searched my soul long and hard this year to find the reasons again why I do this, but I can’t locate them. Too much of ‘me’ is mixed up into all of this, and no one should ever give so much of himself or herself to a job. I once believed in all of it, that I made and played music for a certain type of person, for people who didn’t want to adhere to the ‘normal’ way of life, the free thinker, the independent or open minded type who was bored of the genres, the staples, the blueprints or the formulae. The underground. But I just don’t truly believe I am needed in this battle anymore. It has been passed down to another generation, who are doing it their way, and I have no desire to try and edge in and start proclaiming to be fighting a fight that is no longer mine. I am a 31-year-old man. I can’t claim to be holding a torch up to something that meant so much to me at 15. At 21, maybe. But now, after ten years going full time, I think I have said all I had to say. My creative light has dimmed. Maybe because I started so early, who can tell? But I feel satisfied that this is it.

I have had an amazing time. I’ve travelled the world, drank and partied and made a decent living out of entertaining people throughout all of my 20’s. I met some incredible people in cities I never dreamed I would visit, shared my thoughts and collected wisdom from a huge range of deeply profound and lovely people. But I have also met some real arseholes, and I could feel I was becoming one. Playing records I wasn’t sure I liked to people who had no idea who I was. I had gone cold, cold to the music, to the reactions and to the point of it all. I was changing what I thought I liked, so that I would be liked. I am not a chameleon. I am not Madonna, I can’t stay abreast of the current styles and keep changing with it just to stay in fashion or retain some kind of credible status or career. I have had my moment. If you know me well, you would have sensed a change in me over the last two years. I have always suffered with problems of confidence, but I know that’s not why I am throwing in the towel. I feel like I have to change so much of what I think is ‘me’ to carry on. What I believe in, how to talk to people, how to behave. I just don’t think I can be so arrogant and harsh to stand out anymore. There is so much noise out there that people have to shout louder and louder to be heard. And for what? I am beating myself up over something I no longer believe in for an income that is stressfully patchy and more often than not, very low.

I used to say I owed it to ‘the fight’ to keep going. My belief in that has waned over the last few years too. Yes we needed Coltrane to go against the grain, to sacrifice his well-being and life to create beautiful art. We needed all of them, creative and unique beings burning brightly in our souls, our influences and idols that created the music and the movements that can provide us with sanity, sanctuary and meaning through our confusing lives. But music has lost some of it’s meaning to me as a medium. It’s everywhere; everyone is making it, playing it, giving it away, and trying to make a living. So many people have a voice in it now it is hard to pick out what is cutting edge from what I actually truly feel. I have gotten numb to my life’s biggest passion, and I need to leave it for a while to see if I can ever get it back to how it was.

Some have attributed meaning and understanding to my some of my work. I know it is special to some people, and my message was understood by a few, which I am very grateful to have come to know over the years. I was lucky enough to catch a ride in it for a while, was recognised by some very special and talented people and I earned the respect of my peers and achieved a hell of a lot in a short space of time. There have been huge highs whilst playing music to all sorts of crowds, creating an atmosphere and being in control. I have felt the joy and adrenaline rush of the success, alongside the emptiness and despair of the empty club or the unresponsive floor. Now I recognise I have done all that, I need to put it all behind me and move on, and the only way to do that is to disappear. It has to end sometime, and as I keep saying, everything is finite. I don’t want to lose everything else in my life for this. I just don’t believe in it enough to make that sacrifice. The kids are fighting the battle now. I hope I influenced some of them, I know I have, and that gives me a sense of ease doing this. I haven’t wasted 10 years, I know I have bought joy and hope to many of the disenfranchised, the open-minded, the musical outsider or the devoted dancer. There are people creating things and using technology in a way that I am having to try and catch up to, but I no longer feel the desire to. They are doing it better than I ever could now. It’s their time, and mine has passed. You can either think I am being incredibly brave by admitting it or incredibly weak and stupid for stopping. But it’s just how I feel. I was going wrong in many aspects of my life, and I need to start making a change. I have no idea how long this piece will stay up, but this site won’t be here forever. Please feel free to copy and paste and pass on to preserve it, to let others know why I left, assuming anyone cares.

I have tears in my eyes now. I have so many people to thank for all the personal and professional support they have given me over the years, but I shall do that personally in time. But I want to thank everyone who has bought a song, paid an entrance fee, had a dance or just come up and spoke to me about life, music, the world or whatever. You have given me a dream-like blessed existence for many years. If I have inspired anyone, then I am a happy man. You all have certainly inspired me, and I want to use those years of travelling and sharing to good effect, not this anger and confusion I feel towards it all now. I need to find meaning to the next phase of my life. So I bid you all farewell. I am just too sensitive to keep up the façade of something that doesn’t feel right. I knew it would come someday, maybe some of you that knew me saw it too. I have so much love and respect for my peers and teachers that are carrying on with the struggle, and want the next generation to achieve the best they can for themselves and their art. I am just not a lifer. I’ve traded up, and I’m out.

I’ll leave you all with this. Life isn’t the X-Factor. No one has a God given right to his or her dream or ambitions coming true. I have worked hard and had some great luck. I followed some opportunities, squandered others. I have no regrets, other than not stopping when I knew I should have done this time last year. The only thing you have to guide you through your life is your instinct. Sometimes the right decision isn’t the easiest, but between your conscience and your intuition you will find the answer. Please listen to it. It’s you.

Act 1

He was known to converse in manner that was candor, contributed to blogs and forums with insight and banter, words were often his allies, they brokered deals and created thrills, conjured truths and misplaced lies, what a guy, net nerd queens sipped his style like after work Mai Tais', he never understood why, he knew he was ways off from being a desirable guy, the perks of online lives, nobody knows nobody and in this mantra was where he would spend his time.

Sat alone at the bar, he reviewed his life thus far, he recalled an innocent infancy. moments past with the women he no longer sees, complex relationships with family, normal so far he surmised, then turned left in his mind to see what he could see, a lot of time spent  worrying and wondering, an ability to hide his true thoughts, true cunning, fast forward a few years, discomfort among peers, reckless student in his teen years,
a boy among men, never shook fears, music and family, his consistent cares, before he was met with further flashbacks, he snapped back to reality, "barkeep, same again, this time no coke with the cognac."

Drinks magnified pain, an ethos he believed should be engraved on the walls of bars and clubs to shock and awe the masses, and leave mental stains, so instead of downing shots of dark liquor, they might seek more suitable ways to manage their pain and hide their disdain.

The wisdom of HIM.

An abridged excerpt of a conversation I had last week. Truth be told, it's a recurring topic in conversations had with others and myself.

Him: What’s the job front saying though?


Me: Work? I’m still looking for something I really enjoy.

Him: Enjoy?

Me: Yeah, of course. We spend the bulk of our adult life at work, we must be able to extract some enjoyment from it shouldn’t we?

Him: Nah mate.

Me: No?

Him: Nope. I think people place too much emphasis on this “happiness at work” shit.

Me: What do you mean?

Him: What you do is what you do innit. Reality is, there are not enough dream jobs to for everyone so you might as well do a job that doesn’t stress you out and pays you enough to do what you want to do.

Me: Seriously?

Him: Yep. Its what you do in your time outside of work that counts.

Me: Seriously?

Him: Yeah mate. I’d love to have a job where I go in at 9am, no, 10am, no 11 am and finish at 6pm or whatever and no matter what I’m doing, when it hits 6pm, I drop it and walk out, and when I leave work, I don’t think about it until I’m back there.

Me: Seriously?

Him: Yeah man. I would go home, link my people and be easy, spend time and energy with them.

Me: Interesting.

Him: Trust me, it’s what you do out of work, in your own time that matters.

Chapter 4

Home. She pondered the word and its meaning, its appropriateness in describing the place she shared with him, the two bedroom fortress she resided in was a haven for silent arguments and memorabilia of past conquests. Her mind waded through childhood memories, of family, shared meals, of the warmth and security that came with being part of a home, of being able to draw comfort in the familiar, a place that offered reciprocal love and devotion. Nope. Her current abode was not a home. Far from it. It once had the potential to become one but that time had passed.


As she cruised the Northern Line to its most southern tip, she reflected on the last 18 months and what had started out as a colourful and care-free situation, had turned into a loveless chore, a routine brimming with self-sacrifice and muted feelings, a relationship built on middle ground and a failure to courageously articulate truths. She knew she had loved him, no doubt there. She knew that she cared for him in ways she had never come to care for men in the past but at some stage, that unbridled passion had transpired leaving emotional debris in its wake.



“THIS TRAIN TERMINATES HERE.”



The all too familiar monotone voice of the capital’s transport system struck her back into reality. She scanned the carriage and saw the backs of the nations’ workforce alighting the train, briefcases and backpacks in tow, leaving behind a stream of newspapers, confectionary wrappings and the potent aroma of a semi-hard days graft and with that, she made her way out of the carriage, up the escalator and into the busying road outside.

The day’s grey skies had developed a red tinge, one that set the skies ablaze with hope and beauty. She sauntered through the bustling suburb, past the array of estate agents and newsagents, all the while, her heart fixated on the rose-tinted heavens, wishing time away. Before she knew it, she was at the front door quivering with avoidance. She stood motionless, gazing at the white-washed door, sturdy and defensive. She wanted to run, to flee the mediocrity that was waiting for her on the other side. She couldn’t bare to see him, his pathetic little face and his endless gestures that were laced with sentiment but at its core, were rotten and evasive. For she believed that he knew it too, that 18 months, had been 8 months too long, the joy had evaporated and like aging rock-stars, they were trapped, clinging to days of former glory, days when she would smile in his presence, nights when she would please him. But now, it had all dissolved and all that remained were the fragments of lost love and unspoken truths.

She turned around and faced the houses opposite, thinking of the life that could have been, the opportunities for love and lust that had flown by. Her heart sank, for she knew she could not leave him, her guilt would imprison the pair of them. Her eyes were once again drawn to the crimson skies above, with its promise and potential, She liked the beautiful sky, it being something so majestic, that the whole city could appreciate its amorous nature. This thought comforted her, but as her gaze trickled downwards onto the life in front of her, the routines and doctrines that constructed the lives of those that inhabited the city, she sighed. She had come to the conclusion that optimism and hope was reserved for the heavens because here on earth, we lived the predictable, we revelled in the status quo and subscribed to the human agenda. And with that, she turned to face the door once more, put her key in the door and entered her life.

5 hours and counting...

For the past week, I have been engaged in numerous conversations regarding one Nick Griffin, who has somehow managed to shift from cult to celebrity status amid the public’s concern over his appearance on Question Time.

As I pen this, there is exactly five hours and counting until he graces the stage, to a barrage of ‘boos’ and wanton chants of “get off, “ “racist” and “evil,” and like the celebrity he has become, he will smile and take it all in his stride, for he, has arrived.
No-one can dispute that his appearance on Question Time is monumental, but the real wonder will be what he says after the heckling, how he articulates his ideas and how well, if at all, he manages to capture the public, for you see, with Nick Griffin on set, spouting his Nationalist manifesto of British this and English that, immigration this and white working class that, the true measure of his impact will be the discussions the public has after, both in public and in private.

Having him on stage not only elevates him and his party, it also forces us to face our own prejudices and insecurities, it forces us to look at our own conduct and beliefs and assess just how far, or near, our actions and beliefs are in sync with Mr Griffin’s own, and whether there is even any correlation between our actions and our convictions.

Earlier today I watched the demonstrations outside the BBC studios and was amazed by the sheer volume of people enraged by this whole fiasco, but I had to ask myself, how many of these people have made snide, racist remarks? Behind closed doors, how many feel that all black men are gun-slinging-knife-wielding madmen, how many greet their EU counterparts, who come to this country in search of a better tomorrow, with consideration and cheer? How many, enclosed in comfortable and private conversations, have mocked their colleague who chooses to don a burkha? Hopefully none, but if that figure is wrong, then why the outrage, why the protest? Maybe Nick Griffin really is our own Ghost of Christmas Present, sent to haunt us with visions of our own internal prejudices and discriminations, and the hatred we so overtly hurl at him is nothing more than transference, for if we embrace the fact that we agree with his rhetoric, that we find some comfort and hope in his policies, maybe we are not the egalitarians we once thought we were. Maybe.

So as the electorate protests and prepares to burn him in effigy, I ask that we allow the crowds to disperse, for silence and normality to reign and then focus on the conversations after, for that will be the true measure of us all.

Form 696

As someone who once reveled in nights out and can appreciate the benefits of enjoying the music and culture you hold dear among your peers and fellow die-hard fans, it was with great disappointment and rage that I read the changes made to Form 696.

Form 696 is a risk assessment that club promoters and the like must complete before holding events. The information is forwarded to the Metropolitan Police, who then run detailed checks on the performers and the events they have played at in the past, and from that, they assess the level of threat and violence that the proposed night holds.

In it's infancy,the form was to ask for the ethnicity of the performers, their age, their real names and other information that many, artists, promoters and fans alike thought both intrusive and a hinderance to the future of live music in the capital. To some, the notion of having to state the ethnicity of the performers reeked of racism, with many clubbers forseeing an attack on clubs and events with a large black population.

After much speculation and lobbying from the Musicians' Union, Form 696 was revised. The need for ethnicity information has been purged as has the focus on live events, instead the focus of the form will be events that take place between 10pm and 4am, in nightclubs or bars, have been promoted well in advance and last but not least, events that feature DJ's or MC's performing to a backing track. What this means, is that clubnights ("raves" for those old enough to remember all-night nirvanas in air warehouses and soundsystems) will in effect be under fierce attack, to the point where many skeptics and forum fiends believe that clubland will in effect die out.

For example, there is a popular garage night that runs between those hours and beyond in a club and because of the nature of that particular scene's culture, hearing an MC over a backing track, (which I have interpreted to mean DJ set or live PA) these clubnights may be no more. Similarly, a thriving clubnight that takes place in the bustling City district, has a similar criteria, again, because of the changes madein Form 696, these nights could be at death's door. This in theory could also be applied to concerts, with artists being refused shows for fear of leaving the promoters in violation of Form 696. As we speak, I am mulling over why the "MC" tag has been thrown in. One could speculate, that had it not, clubland in its entirety, (which would include those in the heart of the city, which play host to professional athletes and the woman that hunt them) would dissolve over night. Hmmmm.

These of course could be seen as nothing more than doomsday prophecies from one of the planets more darker theorists but I believe they are not. As we speak, a grime rave, due to commence in a weeks' time, is currently under fire and in fear of cancellation because of Form 696 (the hold up being that one of the performers has a criminal record), which if it is cancelled, is yet another blow to a scene that runs into difficulty when trying to secure clubnights (and everyone wonders why some of the scenes brightest and best decide to make saccharin-drenched-synth-laden-numbers.)

This is something that troubles me greatly, not because it is an attack on a particular type of music, not because it may be seen as an attack on a particular race/creed/group of people, but simply because this is something that will only get worse, it will only lead to confused and energetic young people, who in their attempts to blow off steam may just land themselves in situations that will do them no good.

So if you are someone who has ever enjoyed a clubnight, please, read the changes made to Form 696 and if you have an opinion, if it troubles you, if it makes you think about the memorable nights spent with friends, basking in the glow of strobe lights and cutting a rug until the early hours of the morning, then please, use your voice, tell someone, anyone, tweet them, poke them, use your status update if you see fit, but do something, for I fear that at some stage in the not to distant future, even that may be something that we no longer have jurisdiction over.

For more information, read here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/8309690.stm

PS: if I am wrong or misinformed, feel free to correct me, it is the only way I'll learn.

A promise is a comfort to a fool.

A referendum on the Lisbon Treaty has been a hotly debated topic in recent years and has resulted in the creation of blogs, lobbyists and the inevitable Facebook groups. The treaty, which is seen as a constitution in the eyes of some, moves towards a unified and single Europe, a positive in the eyes of many, as it aims to improve cooperation between member states, gives residents of said member states the opportunity to travel and work between member states and generally acts as a safeguard and a preemptive strike at inter-European conflicts. Skeptics however, believe that the treaty diminishes the powers of our leaders in Whitehall, with many important decisions being made by MEPs and Euro regulators in Brussels, all of which was signed off and agreed to by the Labour party.

Promising a public vote on whether to accept or reject the treaty was one of the catalysts for David Cameron fever, who was able to adopt a liberal stance by supporting the need for public debate (left...check) while seen to be championing the preservation of national interests (right...check.) But many months and soundbites later, it seems that the referendum may no longer be an option. I suppose at this juncture, it would be fitting to talk about the Irish.

Ireland, in a tide of patriotism, rejected the Lisbon Treaty, which meant that they were flooded with lobbyists (well done for not joining), EU pressure (you better join or else,) and as if the God's themselves had a hand in their fate, they were held hostage by a flagging economy during the worlds economic torpor (you have no choice but to join), so it surprised me very little, to learn that in their referendum, they voted for the treaty, and with Poland and other dissenters about to follow suit and enter the warm and ever vigilant embrace of the Treaty, a referendum may no longer be an option in the UK as it would be seen as "stalling developments" because the treaty would have been ratified by the 27 member states, a majority rules principle, democracy, yay!

But while democracy may have won the battle, politics has won the war, for David Cameron, who may well be one of the smartest operatives since the SMERSH organisation, has managed to satisfy multiple political bases, both at home and abroad and will never have to act on his original manifesto. Politics well played Sir.

David 1
The Country 0

In the name of Evelyn Beatrice Hall

Since gaining seats in the European Parliament, there has been much speculation and debate surrounding the BNP and its leader Nick Griffin, with the words 'racist' and 'hatred' making frequent appearances, to the point where it appears that all other British political parties seem less concerned with their own agendas and increasingly infatuated with the advances their far-right counterpart has made.

History has shown that Europe, on occasion has a tendency to embrace the far-right and even in it's current state, parties with so-called 'extreme' views are steadily clawing their way up the polls. But isn't this democracy in action, allowing the electorate to choose a party they believe best represents their values, one that will lead their nation to prosperity?

The illusion of a multi-party political system has been demystified and in the eyes of the press and public opinion, Labour, Conservatives and the Liberal Democrats, are the only parties worth a mention. So much so, that there has been much time coverage expended in debating whether Nick Griffin, MEP, should even be allowed to appear on the nations' favourite political Punch and Judy show, Question Time. There are talks of audience members protesting, of camera crews refusing to capture Mr Griffin on screen but these all seem like futile attempts. Surely, if we are so against the values of a party, then having the leader of said party, in the presence of his peers, subject to questioning and open debate, would be a much more interesting idea, one that would allow the electorate to become informed and make choices accordingly, and the party to be exposed as nothing more than thugs masquerading as politicians in badly made suits - if that be the case.

I am no supporter of the BNP and their values, but if you are a registered party and have had siginificant support and success, then no matter how absurd your views, you have earned the right to express them, one of the main staples in a democratic theory that this nation so eloquently preaches and tries to enforce the world over, but if we are prepared to abandon this principle, simply becuase we disagree with another's viewpoint, then maybe we have sleepwalked into some Orwellian landscape filled with censorship, blind allegiance.

The Mother of all Memories

// sorting through your trinkets, climbing through your clothes, looking at what's left and it don't come close, almost forgot how you would look so grand, surrounded by your stuff,in the past I stand, memories are too strong, I'll put my head back in the sand \\

The manifesto?

///more boy than man, no clue no plan, sat still doing nothing, while the rest, they ran, his own worst foe, of this he knows, still trying to find a role in life's great show, they tell him leave, they tell him lead, his heart is in it but his mind, it leaves, and so he stays, from them he strays, head down, dealing with internal frays\\\

At times like this

Jean-Paul Sartre one said that "hell is other people," which once can interpret to mean that time spent with people other than oneself, equates to a stint in hell and after many years of working with others, trying to form relationships with others and of course sharing public transport with others, I can wholeheartedly agree with Jean-Paul. However, of late, my mind has been ruminating on that said dimension of hell and how it came to pass.

Today is one of those days where I believe that the hell Sartre referred to may not stem from the grating annoyance of other beings, which I admit, can be a thorn in the side for even the most tolerant and exuberant of humans, on the contrary, I believe that the dimension of hell he began to explore, is born out of the self-doubt that has a tendency to breed in the minds of the timid in social situations, simply put, that if you lack self-belief, being in the company of others does nothing except highlight how much excess confidence other people may possess, causing a hellish sensation to develop and a sense of inadequacy to linger in the back of ones throat and in the forefront of ones mind.

I guess all this is nothing more than a preamble to me wrestling with the nature of isolation, that maybe, in times of solitude, one often conjures up les illusions de grandeur, creating a sanctuary free from scrutiny or honesty, a realm of which you are master, but when one is thrown into the company of others, that illusion, that false identity, can become eclipsed and in times of woe, burned to the ground.

I'm sure this line of reasoning is far from new, in fact, I think I may have heard something similar in an episode of Chucklevision, but still, at this time, this is one of the thoughts that occupies my mind.

Existential Orthodontia.

Nothing quite says defeat like caving on your own principles, having values and convictions, arguing them with vigour and virtue, only to be bound by consensus, resulting in the reversing of your position in the blink of an eye.

I suppose we all do this at some point in our existence, but I always held true the sentiment that the older a person becomes, the more experience they acquire with themselves and the world, then the chances of back-tracking and self-doubt will diminish, but it appears not to be the case.

For some reason, the aforementioned sentiment does not take into account a persons' maturity, their level of will, their knowledge of self or even the principle itself which leads me to believe that sentiment is as sentiment does.

Still, to look in the mirror and confront yourself after such a battle is not unlike a trip to the dentist, full of pain and reflection, all the while laced with the hope that we will do better next time, that the power of insight will not allow us to make similar blunders. We hope.

aw shucks...

/// you asked I gave, you pleaded I caved, yet you and happiness went separate ways, you left I stayed, I was in it, you strayed, I fell flat, but still I long for yesterdays, when it was all smiles, when it was all wild, those memories are stacked somewhere in a pile, but nothing stays the same, part of us is stained, but if I had the choice, I would do it all again\\\

Chapter 3

He worked as an insurance broker. He had always wanted to be an insurance broker but of late, he had found it be nothing more than a chore, work by both definition and sentiment.

"Can you make sure that the Reynolds account is signed off today?" came  a voice from over by the door, suddenly interrupting his thoughts.

"Sorry" he replied, slightly bewildered.

"The Reynolds account, you ARE still the go-to-guy on that account aren't you?

"Yeah, yeah, of course, sorry my mind was.."

"Look, I don't pay you for your mind to be anywhere other than here, so snap out of it. We need the account done and dusted before the end of business today or the boss is going to chew your arse. Comprende?"

"Sure."

"Thank you!"

And with that, Steve O'Reilly sauntered back into the corridors from whence he came.

Steve O' Reilly was one rung above him on the corporate food chain. They had both been up for promotion but Steve clinched the position and the board members attributed his victory to his opponents lack of professionalism and a failure to understand the importance of team ethics at Courtauld Insurance.

He looked away form his familiar computer screen and stared blankly at his co-workers, caged in their respective quarters, with their headsets and novelty mouse mats. "Now Mr Smith, have you ever thought about accidental death insurance...an extra £50 a month is a small price to pay to insure the well-being and security of your family...good morning, this is____ from Courtauld." This is all he could hear, panoramic inane, scripted babble from the people he worked with, people who had missed their true calling in their lives, who had deffered dreams of being a vet, an astronaut and the many other vocations that are encouraged in  times of youth but easily abandoned once a person becomes too entrenched in the perils of adulthood, these people had sold out the very promises they made to themselves many moons ago in order to sell "peace of mind" and "what ifs." He placed his headset onto his desk and began the all too familiar wander past the minions. Some twiddled their company pens, some stared at screens, trying to decode the reems of figures that jumped out at them and others surfed the net, in a voyeuristic haze scrambling for a connection with a world outside of their current one, but all of them trapped in their hellish cubicles, adorned with random personal artefacts. He refused to keep anything personal at his desk. He saw photos of partners and children as nothing more than futile prompts for talking points, ways to entice and captivate passing co-workers into uninteresting, awkward and short lived conversations about trips abroad, the joy of parenting and the importance of being a breadwinner, and he wanted no part of that. Truth be told, he secretly believed that these these artefacts, that stowed among monitors, keyboards and an assortment of post-it notes served only as a reminder of things that were once great, of past acomplishments. He was convinced that these people hated their partners and wished they had worn a condom on that magical night of conception. But not him. His memories, his personal decoration was not for public display or consumption, it was kept to himself as a growing collection of ideas and exchanges that he held important and that validated his time spent in the world outside of Courtauld Insurance.

He returned back to his desk with a cup of milky tea and a napkin full of Hob Nobs, enough supplies he thought to see him through til lunch. That's when he would lift his spirits. That's when he would talk to her.

RING! RING RING! RIN..

"Hello?" a surprised woman answered.

"Hi, love, how is your day? he enquired.

Silence.

"Why are you ringing?" she asked.

"To ask how your day was of course. Steve is on my back again." Can you believe it?I swear, that guy is.."

"Your boss, He is your boss, not the ultimate boss, but on some level he is your superior and you his junior, so suck it up already will you." She had had enough of his whining. The silence that followed allowed her the time to summate to herself that a person who moaned was a weak species but a person who moaned and did nothing to better themselves were by far an even weaker species.

"So, how has your morning been?" he asked, trying to obliterate the silence.

"Fine."

"Sure?"

"Yes." 

"Only you sound annoyed,"

"Don't over analyse what I say. I said I am fine."

Silence

"Did you ring for anything in particular or was it just to exchange pleasantries?" she asked, clearly devoid of all patience.

"I.."

"Look, I gotta go, I've got a conference call but I'll see you at the flat later I suppose."

"Great!. What did you want for.." CLICK. The phone went dead and the hum of having being disconnected wailed in his ears.I must remember to have more to say to her, he thought, overdosing on politeness never gets a person anywhere. He was sat on the steps outside of Courtauld Insurance which overlooked the city's busying financial district.

It was a little after 1pm, so lunchtime and the theatre that ensued was well underway. Men and woman paced through the streets, carrying brown paper bags loaded with baguettes and ciabattas, this was the meal of the serfs, those that had jobs but not careers, those that earned a fair salary but it was far from enogh to allow them to partake in the true hedonism that comes with working in such sectors, while the true victors indulged in liquid lunches, their faces and stomachs bloated with delight and satisfaction, for among the employed, segregation reigned, both inside and outside the workplace. As he tolerated his prepackaged sandwiched, his eyes scrolled left to right, absorbing the culture, commerce and corruption of his surroundings. He was neither fascintated nor intrigued by any of it, so much so, that his landscape became nothing more than a blurred vision, lacking definitive shapes or objects, just colours, a smeared canvas of blues and greys, some that were still, some that ran, some that crawled, some that stood tall and some that bled into the backgorund. Greys and blues. These were the colours that occupied his vision.

Chapter 2

He had made her breakfast, as he always did, coffee, toast and the bowl of 

muesli she could not start her day without. He leered at her, longingly, lovingly, 

this was his definition of beauty, her lenghty black hair and the way it grazed her 

shoulders, oh her shoulders, that was where the true essence of a woman's 

beauty lives, not in her breasts or her buttocks, but in her shoulders, with their 

sturdy and curvy demeanour, a junction that held pleasure at either end. He 

smiled to himself as he inhaled her greatness and exhaled sighs of jubilation and 

promise. Oh how he loved her. He couldn't restrain himself from telling anyone who would 

listen to how amazing she was, how she was simply the best thing to occur in his 

life. Ever.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP BEEP! The snaring overtones of her alarm clock 

overpowered his thoughts. He watched as the corpse-like figurine inbetween his 

sheets squinted and let out grunts of unease, slowly showing signs of life.

"6:40 already?" she yawned. She rubbed her eyes and sat upright, legs akimbo, 

making her presence felt at all corners of the bed, her eyes fixated on him, his 

smile, his willingness, his glow of child-like compliance and obedience.

"Mornin sleepyhead," he said, brimming with the joys this February morhing could 

offer. She stared at him, squinting, frowning.

"Do you have my breakfast?" 

"Oh yes," he said, remembering what it was he was he held in his hands. "It's a 

few minutes old but the coffee should still be hot and sweet, just like you."

"Gimme" she barked. With haste, he handed her the tray of nourishment then 

stepped back and resumed his place. "Wow," he thought even the way she eats 

is amazing, who knew eating muesli could take on a sensual yet god-like quality.

"Did you sleep ok?" he asked. "Only I know you were having trouble sleeping and 

I wanted to know how the new pillows and matress were..."

She looked up. While wolfing down the last of the muesli, her eyes met his, his 

eyes bursting with devotion and affection, her eyes full of contempt.

Silence.

She placed the tray onto the floor and sprang out of bed and began busying 

herself with the necessary regiments that would prepare her for a day at the 

office, all the while remaining silent.

The soundtrack of the world outside suddenly became audible. He noticed the 

the chirping of the birds, whom today seemed to belt a melancholy number, the 

distant rumble of trains and the silent cries from the communters on board, on 

their way to share carpet and teabags with people whom they neither love nor 

loathe, the sound of cars, the sound of people, the sound of life. This overture, 

with its banality and routine filled the room but was unable to topple the 

staggering silence. 

The city was officially awake now. The stains of a night well enjoyed were washed 

off the pavement. The sins of the city no longer hid in darkness, they no longer 

cowered in corners, they were apparent. The homeless slept in alleys, fermenting 

in their stench, litter sprawled across streets and avenues, mini-skirts and thongs 

were replaced by power suits and blouses, cocaine and alcohol were substituted 

for coffee and energy drinks, sexually charged banter between the young and the 

hip was gone, all that remained was silent stares in tube carriages, escapism 

came in the form of Ipods and Blackberrys, the bravado of the night before was 

hidden behind newspapers and supermarket approved literature, there were no 

friends, no lovers, just inhabitants, people unified by geogrpahy and divided by 

everything else. Yes, the civil disguise of the city was here.

Conversations.

A small part of a larger conversation I had with myself.

..you still cling to an outdated model, if you hopped aboard "the now" you might be driving full throttle, silly kid, you better off spinning the bottle, instead, you tread in the past, what a predictable bobble..

..what do you mean "the now?" Man, forget those trends, you must be one of those cats who cultivates false friendships, sorry, I mean "cyber friends". "Change is the world's constant," blah blah blah, I get it, but surely the past is just as important yet the world loves to forget it...

...the past is important, I agree with you there, but to ignore modern advances, I ask is that fair? Next you will be telling me that you despise MP3's and that you question the necessity of Sky HD, that we should tune in the wireless to Radio 3, rather than download a podcast or play a CD...

...I rarely partake in modern trends, if I do its in the form of voyeurism, besides, a lot of these advances reek of pure hedonism, time saving? maybe, but its what we do with that excess time that concerns me...

...entertainment is everything, luxury is paramount that's why we consume over-stimulation in mass amounts. I hear your point old-timer and part of me agrees, but unless you have something that can rival my Blackberry, that can offer mankind amazing internet speeds, or can at least curb my habit of having my needs met instantly, I suggest you park your rear and take 2, plus 3...

...but is it necessary to be able to browse the web on your phone, can't your spam and junk mail not wait until you get home, must you be able to poke and tweet from wherever you roam? 2 plus 3 equals five, I'm impressed you knew that, rumour has it that your generation didn't master basic maths, maybe you calculated the answer on an iPhone app...

Chapter 1..

Every so often, I write something. Usually it is opening chapters to things I rarely finish, or small anecdotes about the banality of my existence, or sometimes, when I am feeling a sense of jubilation about something, a poem of some sort. Today however, is an opening chapter.

The chaotic city spun freely, without boundaries or purpose. Neon lights littered the darkened metropolis, with the promise of entertainment and excess. It's inhabitants galloped through the night, in search of love, in search of lust. In search. All the while, time running towards them and eventually past them. This was how nights were spent, in the pursuit of happiness, seeking respite and distraction from the crippling underbelly of social distress and isolation that plagued the city.

Alcohol and moral corrosion oozed from the soiled pavements, covering everything in a potent musk of underachievement and fear. This was the city, a place of dreams and horrors, of success and failure, of wealth and distress and it was these attributes that shone bright and echoed through the blackened alleyways. Luxury cars paced the narrowing streets, carriages to the rich, driven by the poor, a salute to the capitalism that engulfed the minds and actions of all. Toxins bled from the exhausts and cigarette smoke spilled out of the cracked windows which when intertwined created a mysticism that hypnotised and blinded onlookers.

In the northern-most hub of the city, traffic was replaced with tranquility and the blinding lights were dimmed in an attempt to convey a district in slumber.From where he sat, he observed rows of houses, alike in style and colour, all of them closed to the public. He liked that. He liked that people were able to cocoon themselves away from the outside world, bury themselves in the things they thought mattered, all manner of things, from the trivial to the momentous. They all did it. Whether it be an army of literature that resided on dust covered shelves, or the heaps of backdated newspapers and periodicals that lay strewed beneath them, like the house at Number 22, or the memorabilia of a past life, of past places, of post cards and china plates with the names of capital cities emblazoned on them like at Number 18, her loved it all. Oh how he admired the residents of Hudson Close and the way in which thet all possessed the ability to personalise their space, stamp their brand of habits and customs on a property that called home.

His eyes ran across the houses and stopped at Number 26, with its gate ajar and the protruding shrubbery that had seen better days. He stared through the downstairs window. From where he stood, he could clearly see the flicker of a televison set that had been left on, the only source of light in a room that was naked, bar the solitary beanbag and table that lay rest adjacent to the television. With familiarity his eyes closed in on the room. He remembered the many days and nights spent sitting on that beanbag, staring at the walls, contemplating her whereabouts, endlessly flicking through the televisions limited five channels in a weak attempt at passing the time. All that time. Wasted. He could clearly recall the amount of scuffs and scratches on the surface of the table in the room, a skill he had acquired on one particular evening while he awaited her call. The memories. From where he stood, the room seemed as empty and as alone as he had remembered. How he wished he had claimed ownership over that space, decorated the whitewashed walls with trinkets of a life lived, with literature, music, memories. Instead, the emptiness of his life was now staring at him.

"Sod it!" he thought. "I'm going home."