We owe Teresa’s ‘bruncle’, Daniel Samuels* a deep and heartfelt debt of gratitude (to be expressed as a consignment of real ale!), for lending us the wheels that enabled us to be part of Teresa’s cousin Oliver’s wedding.
* Bruncle: brother and uncle; uncle – Jean’s (Teresa’s mum!) youngest brother – but brought up, by Jean, as one of Teresa’s siblings!
At the wheel of a diesel in’t Smoke!
We drove down on Monday. And stayed in a B&B, over a pub, in Hounslow. Thanks Teresa, for booking that. It was weird being in London again. Most of London is sooo ugly and depressing! Thank goodness we got out when we did.
Confetti and kisses outside St. Barnabas.
That said, there are some really beautiful parts. And Oliver and Alexandra were getting married in one such area, Molesey, south west London, close to the Thames.
Teresa took this lovely pic, outside the church.
The wedding was held in St Barnabas Church, with a chap called Richard* presiding. Both Oliver and ‘Lexie’, as he calls her, are musicians and teachers. So, unsurprisingly, but nevertheless wonderfully, the music was great.
* Actually, no word of a lie, the Rev. Richard Biggerstaff… or, more familiarly, his eminence, the right Rev. Dick Biggerstaff!?
Lexie looking lovely.
As the bride walked in, a guy played Bach’s famously beautiful Suite #1 in G major, on solo cello. Gorgeous! And the final piece, before everyone left the church, was Eric Whitacre’s I Carry Your Heart, sung by a small choir in the upstairs gallery. Beautiful close harmonies, with densely voiced chords.
After the ceremony, which was lovely and quite moving, there were tea and biscuits next door. And then we all headed to High Billinghurst Farm, Godalming, for the reception.
Hops and chandeliers at the fab barn.
The reception was terrific. It was nice to get to know folk from both sides of the union, the Wellbournes, and the Sarkar-Samuels, and all their kith and kin! There was booze aplenty, including, rather unusually, a lovely single malt to toast with. And the dinner was a terrific Indian curry.
Oliver’s drums.
Oliver is, like me, a drummer. Sadly we had to leave about 7.30pm, in order to be home at a reasonable hour (got back at 10.30!). So I didn’t get to see or hear him play. But I did get to see his little jazzy ‘jelly bean’ kit. A Canopus snare, no less! Wish I’d have tried it out, to be honest.
Janet, Andrew, me ‘n’ Teresa, and Ida, St Barnabas.Teresa, Janet and Andrew.The reception.Linda, Alex and Teresa enjoying the pud’!
Knowing we had a long journey home, I had to be very careful about my booze intake. Especially as there was so much. And all free! Thankfully I managed to be very restrained.
The wedding day was a mixture of sunshine and rain. Fortunately for Oliver and Alexandra the rain only intruded a little bit into their celebrations. Or at least that part of them we were at. Later on it rained really pretty heavily; for over two hours – so over two-thirds – of the homeward drive!
But we got home safe and sound. It was lovely to be greeted by Chester on our arrival! What a cutie.
I recently read something on radio DJ Ken Bruce going from the BBC to Hits Radio. The ‘key note’, or take-away (eugh!) point was money. Bruce is just the biggest shiniest cog in the wheel of what is essentially a money-making machine, built on advertising and listener spending.
At one point the article says words to the effect of ‘the main purpose of such radio stations is to generate money through advertising’, or something similar. Well, yes. That’s so transparently obvious. It’s part of what makes so much ‘mainstream culture’ so utterly shite, and lacking in, um, well… culture.
As a model for how to live ‘the good life‘, such a state of affairs sums up, for me, the malaise of ‘advanced capitalism’. It has no soul. Indeed, if it has any spirit it’s the avaricious spirit of piracy. In such a society, or rather ‘marketplace’, culture is just an arbitrary interchangeable ‘token’, to be used to extract more cash.
Not sure who the artist is here…… but I do love the shirt.
With such cheery thoughts in mind, the constant assault of advertising via social media (and elsewhere) takes on a darker more forbidding aspect. And yet, despite my loathing and aversion, I’m often suckered. For example, the artsy shirts pictured in this post, which appeared in my FB feed, are very tempting.
There are many more designs than the two I’ve shown here. Some modern (Kandinsky), some older (Caravaggio). Some I like, some I don’t. But just take a look at some of the other stuff that comes up via Facebook:
The ‘ISAKOK Penis Prank’!
Want a bigger willy? Very few men don’t wish they had a bigger cock. Howzabout 2’6”? Maybe the ISAKOK Penis Prank is for you? Or perhaps you don’t have enough hands/digits to tell everyone to fuck right off simultaneously? No problem. There’s the Fucktopussy!
The ‘Fucktopussy… I kid you not! Fo’ real!
Walk through a busy British town centre nowadays, and you’ll be hard pressed to find any free amenities. But you’ll be relentlessly assaulted by messages urging you to purchase tat you really don’t need. That’s the sort of ‘choice’ delivered by Thatcherite Toryism.
Probably like most of those of us whom Western Civilisation has turned into social media approval junkies, I’d prefer to be using my blog (and other ‘social media’) to showcase what an interesting and successful person I am.
Sadly, at present, it’s operating more as a journal/confessional, in which I can let off some of the pressure that comes with the introvert’s tendency to internalise suffering.
As things currently stand, I’m unable to communicate directly with my mother. We had a bit of an emotional scene last week. It could’ve been a breakthrough, or it might’ve just been a breakdown? And since that time I simply can’t take any more of what’s gone before.
So, not knowing who to turn to in such a situation (I have shared this with my dear sister, Hannah*), I’m posting this:
Mum seems of incapable of offering help without at the same time attacking/slighting or otherwise belittling me. I’m not sure she’s even aware she’s constantly doing it.
I can’t take it any more.
I’ve got enough on my plate without having someone who I feel ought to be supportive whispering in my ear constantly ‘it’s all your own fault’.
It’s sapping me of the tiny reserves of energy I have left. Someone needs to have words with her, as it’s having a very powerfully negative effect on me.
* Which, of course, I feel bad about, as she has enough on her plate without me adding to it!
I’m not actually listening to this Lennon-penned Beatles number, except for strains of it that are playing in my mind. But the lyrics are particularly resonant for me right now.
When I wake up early in the morning Lift my head, I'm still yawning When I'm in the middle of a dream Stay in bed, float up stream (float up stream)
Please, don't wake me No, don't shake me Leave me where I am I'm only sleeping
Everybody seems to think I'm lazy I don't mind, I think they're crazy Runnin' everywhere at such a speed 'Til they find there's no need (there's no need)
Please, don't spoil my day I'm miles away And after all I'm only sleeping
Keepin' an eye on the world going by my window Takin' my time
Lyin' there and staring at the ceiling Waiting for a sleepy feeling
Please, don't spoil my day I'm miles away And after all I'm only sleeping
Keepin' an eye on the world going by my window Takin' my time
When I wake up early in the morning Lift my head, I'm still yawning
When I'm in the middle of a dream Stay in bed, float up stream (float up stream)
Please, don't wake me No, don't shake me Leave me where I am I'm only sleeping
Over the years I’ve thought a fair bit about why I often prefer sleep to wakefulness. On some levels it’s a rather worrying phenomenon. Basically I’d rather be unconscious than conscious.
And it ties in with the suicidal and/or self-destructive aspects of my nature, I guess. Death being ‘the big sleep’, n’ all that. Preferring oblivion to existence does seem rather bleak!
Since the ‘year of Covid’, now just over three years ago – lockdown kicked in, March 23, 2020 – Teresa and I have not had much in the way of holiday.
The only real break we’ve had – and by break or holiday I’m talking specifically about time away from home – was a short family trip (four or five nights?) to Wales, in October, 2022. The only reason that one actually happened, as opposed to all our cancelled plans, was that Simon and Claire paid for it. We just had to get there.
Every single break – mostly just one or two nights away – that we’ve attempted to take (and there have been precious few, four or five attempts, perhaps?) has had to be cancelled. Except for one or two occasions – like now – when lack of transportation added to our problems, this has been solely due to lack of funds.
The latest in this small but frustrating string of disappointments is a night away this Monday coming, for Teresa’s cousins’ wedding. On this occasion the chief reason is no wheels (my car is in for repairs; and we’re getting it back later than anticipated).
To add insult to injury, we usually lose a bit of money when cancelling our AirB&B reservations. Plus we have to beg the host not to blacklist us as bad AirB&B folk!
We can’t afford car hire or public transport. I’ve asked family and friends (the latter via Facebook) if anyone has a vehicle we could borrow. No dice.
I think I might’ve posted this video before. Regardless, I’d be happy to post it many more times. How many more times? As Led Zep once asked! Who knows?
Anyone reading my recent posts will know I’ve been having a tough time. Amidst such travails, a blissful musical epiphany is a welcome and unexpected thing. But, whatever (or why-ever, or ‘wherefore’ as Shakey’s Romeo puts it), it happened!
I’ve had a few over the years. And what I’m calling an epiphany some might call some form of meltdown, perhaps? I had a very memorable one dancing around a pal’s living room to Santana and McLaughlin’s Life Divine, way back, in my mid to late teens.
This one came over me whilst drumming to Scary Pockets’ amazing re-envisioning of Tears For Fears greatest track, Everybody Wants To Rule The World. It was partly a spliff, taking my consciousness out of its usual ruts. But it was more the act of drumming, and freely and passionately, that really popped the lid off.
Just as with my pogoing-round-the-lounge to Devadip and Mahavishnu, it was very largely purely eargasmic; a response to music that mainlines to my pysche. But it’s also partly loosening the shackles on some part or parts of myself.
And on both of these occasions I wept like a gale! What I feel this tells me is that I have a lot of feeling(s) within me, that need to find proper outlets. This kind of moment reconnects me with that feeling of freedom and transcendence that great art can sometimes provide.
And with music, as a collective thing, there is sometimes that blissful synergy that can make one feel so connected to others, spiritually. Which, in a world so relentlessly materialist it frequently grinds one’s soul to ashes and dust, is refreshing.
I’m having a mental health crisis. not because I’m some kind of lame ass wuss who cannae tek’ the pressure. But because nobody can take pressure past a certain point.
I’m well past that point. And I’m looking for help. Naturally I’m trying via my GP. But it’s a month – to the frickin’ day – since I hit a meltdown crisis point. And despite trying a whole alphabet soup of organisations, I’m not getting any help.
A whole FUCKING MONTH!!! And nothing has been done. Despite repeated calls to my GP, NHS 111 (option 2*), and a host of other organisations.
* As I type this I’ve passed twenty minutes in a queue. What does this daily experience teach me? That I am utterly worthless in the eyes of society. And why am I utterly worthless – along with all the other schmucks subjected to this living hell – because I’ve already been taxed to oblivion, and overcharged beyond credulity, and there’s nothing left for the vultures.
I’m beyond despair. Entering into the territory of rage.
I finally passed the 40 minutes mark, and hung up. I’m growing ever more certain that people will have topped themselves in that queue! It’s beyond fucking unbelievable.
Having got the ‘art’ bug again, as well pursuing Abbie and Dan’s commission, I’m trying to pick up where I left off. Here I’m attempting to resume my Manolo series.
The left sketch is his face, melting ever further into abstraction. At right it’s the backdrop again. The cloudscape. This time the yellow is overstated. And some former parts of Manolo are introduced, via masking off the background.
Manolo, Spread#4, right, 2nd state.
One thing that bugs me about my methods, is how, in trying to superimpose layers, things often get too busy, and something breaks down. The above would be a case in point. Trying to combine the figural abstraction and the background, somehow neither seems right.
Manolo Spread #5, the ‘Silent Era’.
This frustration prompted me to further ‘worrit’ these ideas. But now in black and white only. It’s another way of trying to reduce and knock back the noise! Of the two I think the pastel effort, at left (and below) is the better.
There’s mileage in this’un. Less sure about this one.
Running the same ideas through all these iterations allows me to explore different ideas via varied mediums.
Ultimately I’ll probably explore these ideas further – or not, if I abandon a vein, thinking it a poor prospect – in one of two ways: black and white prints, or full colour paintings.
Esp’ with the latter, whether it’s going to be acrylics or oils, the opacity of the medium adds yet another different facet to the process. And I can of course do monochromatic paintings and colour prints.
This little series of miniature abstracts was born of spell of mental ill health. I hate that phrase, and I don’t think it really accurately captures what I was going through. But anyway, whatevs, as they say these days!
I was, rather amazingly, prescribed a short series of therapeutic art classes. As is so often the way with me, ornery curmudgeon that I am, I didn’t play by the rules – adopts Saxondale manner – this lone wolf rides to the tune of a different drummer (face-slap!).
My raison-ing was that, given I’m already a trained, even professional (occasionally!) artist, I didn’t need to do the ABC type stuff my group was doing. I just needed a quiet corner in which to pursue already established trajectories. Fortunately I was allowed to do just that.
The net results were this little serious of four mini-abstractions. They began life as an evolution from sketches of a stained glass window. In fact somewhere I’ve got an image I really like, showing how these little artworks evolved. I’ll stick that up here if I can find it!
To those with a bit of art or art history knowledge, some of my influences might be discernible? Perhaps ironically the single greatest influence on my own art isn’t really obvious in these series. That’d be Picasso. More on his influence to follow!
Some of the major influences on this approach, however, are Willem de Kooning, Philip Guston, and to a much lesser extent, some of Brice Marden’s linear stuff. There’s even a bit of Georg Baselitz in there (thanks to the influence of an old – and much missed – pal, Ben Carter). And then there are less obvious folk, like Turner, and even Caspar David Friedrich.
These aren’t the best photos. You can see the shadow of my head on them! It’d be nice to have much better lit and positioned photographs, but these’ll have to do for now!
I hate Toryism, Conservatism*, Capitalism, and their rabid pooches, aka the right-wing media.
[* Small ‘c’ conservatism is fine. I’m all for preserving what is good. Ironically large ‘C’ Conservatism, far from conserving what is good, takes a wrecking ball to it.]
It is my firm and unshakeable belief, based on the evidence of just over fifty years on this planet, that the Tories have presided over (masterminded is just plain wrong, in such instances) a sustained campaign, not just of thievery – the ‘plunder of the commons’ that has always been the m.o. of any rapine ruling elite – but vulgarisation.
This is what passes for culture in Toryland.
Toryism not only takes from the many to enrich the few, it also seeks to destroy the very soul of any cultures not wholly compliant with or supportive of their base greediness. Modern mainstream TV and the commercial Muzak Industry are typical exemplars.
Some of the many other ways in which all of this is apparent are: the growing ubiquity of gambling, the wall to wall encroachment of advertising,* the disintegration – dismemberment is a more accurate term – of public institutions (be they councils, schools, the BBC or NHS), and the shifting of care off government shoulders on to those of the charity sector.
[* Sadly adturds.co.uk has stopped. That was always a good place to have a laugh about how ghastly contemporary ad culture has become.]
Scary. Ironically, I am myself a Lloyds customer.*
[* Orwellian times, indeed, when a soul-less parasitic money making machine spends millions (whose money are they spending on this, I wonder?) lying to its victims, er, sorry, customers, to persuade them they are our friends. Appalling!]
Descartes ‘I think, therefore I am’ has been replaced by ‘I shop, therefore I am’. Even healthcare has its own dedicated lottery. And of course more and more people are ever more reliant on charity, because our government clearly doesn’t give a f*ck.
Most government policies are nakedly self-interested. That’s the whole raison d’etre for Brexit; escape EU control, deregulate, and pillage.
And if it’s not brazen greediness, it’s pandering to their Daily Mail reading zombie supporters. Examples of this range from their attitude towards immigration and refugees, to protests, the homeless, and the recent introduction of ‘antisocial behaviour’ legislation to stop the recreational use of laughing gas.
Good God, Steve Bell is terrific.
Regarding Tory pandering to the gammonry, it’s blatantly clear they don’t care one jot about expert opinion – from the laughing gas ban to their ‘plans’ re energy and the environment – or the fact that their moronically myopic policies are far more likely to damage more lives than they’ll benefit.
It’s not just that no cost to the plebs is too great. It’s that naked self-serving egotism, elitism and greed are so central, so fundamental, to the Tory outlook (I nearly said mindset), that no cost to the masses will ever be enough.
With record numbers of millionaires alongside record levels of food bank usage, and declining life expectancy amongst the poorer, the sheer existence of billionaires, whose wealth is beyond obscene, shows us that ‘western man’, so to speak – at least in the ruling elites of the UK (and US) we’ve been subjected to since the ‘80s – is a morally bankrupt species.
And it’s a horrifically all pervasive and highly corrosive form of chemical cultural warfare that has long been being waged, not just via the murderous eugenics by neglect of things like ‘austerity’, but in allowing mainstream media to be nothing more than another opportunity for rapine commerce, dumbing everything down such that nowadays celebrities frequently take obvious pride in being pigsh*t ignorant. Even a modicum of intelligence is something to sneered at and derided.*
[* ‘This is the first period in my life where ignorance is something to be proud of’ said Mary Beard, in relation to Trump vs Hilary Clinton. For the hoi polloi this translates to celebrities on game shows revelling in their own vacuity.]
One of the biggest ironies in amongst all of this is that it’s Capitalism with a rod of iron for the lower orders, but Socialism for the best off. That’s what Tories and their ‘neo-liberal’ allies have done time and again: nationalise loss, and privatise profit.
Bail out the fat cats with public money, and let Tory MPs charge £10K a day for their privateering, whilst denying the sick and elderly due care, because ‘we can’t afford’ £7K per annum for those oldies, who worked all their lives propping up the ‘trickle down’ empire of their betters.
These entitled right wing parasites have been rubbing their hands with glee at Covid: more chances to steal from the public. And even better still, they can sit back and enjoy the ‘culling of elderly dependents.’ Hitler called such folk – the human cattle elites so happily consign to poverty, suffering and death – ‘useless eaters’. Our current day capitalo-fascists are cut from the same cloth as Nazis. That’s not hyperbole.
Nye Bevan, founder of the NHS was absolutely right when he said that Tories are ‘lower than vermin.’
FOOTNOTE(s)
A Guardian headline I saw recently seems apt for recording here: ‘In the post-Brexit wreckage, just one Tory strategy remains: the theatre of cruelty.’ The article (which I didn’t read in full, btw) appears to take issue with the current Tory efforts to deflect the public’s attention from their catastrophic misrule by kicking the helpless in the teeth. Nothing new there. Yet the Gammonry will fall for it. Again.
On a different yet related line… Quora seems like a cesspool of mainly right-wing dumb-shittery. But I did see one post, click-baitingly titled along the lines ‘Is the Left responsible for the decline of the UK’*, which was actually quite good. In it, someone going under the name Sage, says, quite rightly:
‘The British class system and anti intellectualism (my italics) are major reasons for Britain’s decline in the 20th century.
Take the example of Frank Whittle. He published a paper in 1929 outlining the design of the jet engine. No one took him or his idea seriously because he had not been to a public school (curiously this means a private, fee-paying school in the U.K.) and had been a mere RAF apprentice. Even when he produced a working prototype many years later, no one listened. (“Not our kind of chap…a bit of a one-off boffin”).
Eventually, when it was clear that the Germans had two flying jet planes about to enter service, the Ministry for Aircraft Production got the message and invested in Whittle’s idea. However they basically swindled Whittle out of his invention. The British post war aircraft industry could have been world beater but the Americans weren’t hampered in the same way. They didn’t mind Whittle one bit, and saw only his genius.’
Must read this!
I have a book I have yet to read, pictured above, about the intellectual lives of the British working classes. Must get around to reading that. Oh, and then there’s also The Plunder of The Commons to be read as well.
* What a preposterous idea! In a virtual one-party Tory state for the best part of 75 years, in which for Labour to get in they had to become ‘Tory-lite’ (under Blair) (before going beyond Tory, under ‘Broon’), such ideas are beyond risible. Out of reach even of satire.
Akin to the infamous oxymoronic (or rather just plain moronic) ‘left wing economic establishment’, such ‘ideas’ display so stunning a degree of obduracy to facts and intelligence one would have to conclude the Tories relentless dumbing-down had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. So much so that in a moment of mental or philosophical acid reflux they themselves are swallowing their own bile, and believing in it.
Bell, brilliant as evert.
The most corrosive form of Tory Rot really set in and bit deep with Thatcher. An appalling excuse for a human being, whose two key achievements, in the words of Reuters were that ‘she crushed the unions and privatised large swathes of industry.’
A farce far worse than any black comedy.If only this had been true!
Thatcher’s legacy, again, acc. to Reuters: ‘The woman who became known simply as “Maggie” transferred big chunks of the economy from state hands into private ownership.’ That’s Plunder of The Commons, right there.
Brilliant! Smell the sulphurous stench of Modern Toryism. Spot on, as ever.
