Chameleons

As humans we take things for granted. We assume that we are the ONLY species that is capable of thinking about things... capable of being discerning, creative and original. For example, take fashion. Clearly we have been creative in this respect and have evolved over the years. We do our fashion shoots and as a result 'top models' make a career on the 'catwalk' (with apologies here to cats). But, the animal kingdom is right on it. Take chameleons. I'd love to go to one of their fashion launches. As another top chameleon model hits the 'catwalk' there would be cat calls galore.

"You showed that last year... err, didn't you? Yeah, the blending thing... I'm sure ,y'did."
"Nah, it's different, innit. Just a different kinda blendin', maan."
"Really? But didn't you do 'blending' last year... and actually, the year before that... oh, and, yep, you 'blended' the year before that, i I recall correctly."
"Fuck off. Roll with it. We're chameleons, innit. You just don't get our style, man, yeah. You wait ktil them cats get up here who don't give a fuck. And, I know you're used to them dogs who wanna please everybody all the time, but, maaaan, we is right on it. We blend, y'getme?"

Bar Presence

I walked into a local bar, one I’ve been to several times before. I made that eager face - you know, the face that says I’m next so serve me now before I pass out with thirst - at one of the girl’s behind the bar.

She approached me and said, “Sorry, I can’t serve you.”

My brain did a ‘what the feck’ blush type thing as it tried to recall what the hell I had done last time I was in that bar. I’m normally well behaved... well, for a Capricorn who has an alternative side. The bouncers weren’t moving so it had to be something else. My age! So, yeah, I get mistaken for younger... I’m used to it... but the only reason they don’t serve people on the underage ticket is if they are less than eighteen and I know that, even with the assistance of a top Hollywood specialist effects make up artist, they’d struggle to get me within ten years of that. I was momentarily lost for words, an odd occurrence, like being short of oxygen for a second, but the young lady then declared that she was simply a glass collector and at seventeen years of age, was not allowed to serve alcohol. I swallowed my paranoia, styled it out with a shrug and waited patiently for an adult to take my order.

Patience was required, for sure. The bar was busy. It always is. So, in a busy bar I expect professional staff *, you know, ones that are on top of the situation and in control. There were three bar staff trying to deal with a baying mob of eager drinkers... or non-drinkers since we were all waiting to be served. To test my patience further one of the staff finished with one customer, then addressing the slavering body of parched customers in front of her said, "Who's next?" What sort of frigging question is that? Everybody thinks they are next!! This is 'wild animal at a watering hole after three days on the search for sustenance' territory. So the mob leans forward, en masse, arms outstretched, the aforementioned 'eager-face' look now fine tuned to Oscar winning level. And then, randomly, the bar staff member just picks some guy she's nearest to. You could feel the deflation, like a pricked balloon, as the crowd sank back on its heels again, clinging to the hope that the lucky punter wasn't going to go through the cocktail menu for fifteen friends on a stag do! So much for bar presence!

*Professional staff - someone who sizes up the customers at the bar, clocks the order that they have approached in and indicates quite precisely to three or four of the people waiting, "You're next, then you, then you. Be right with you guys." So, even if there are ten at the bar, that alone gives the customer confidence that somebody's 'got this.' A reasonable expectation? 

  

Technology!

I bought a new toaster. I like it but we are still trying to understand one another! The main issue is that it has nine (9) different levels of ‘toastability’, and I’m still trying to figure out which one works for me... and for the bread!

Based on a single slice, Level 1 has such a light touch that the bread practically regresses and comes out in an earlier form of its baking cycle. Level 9 (the Nuclear level) produces something that would not look out of place amongst the ruins of Pompeii. Everything in between is... well, in between those extremes. I haven’t experimented with them all yet as I’m just taking a random approach, but I know that Level 3 (Snowflake) is one where the toaster doesn’t want to offend the bread and just gives it the softly, softly gentle touch, whereas Level 7 (Caribbean) is like having a beach holiday in Barbados for three weeks using only paraffin as sun screen.

I even tried the novel approach of reading the instruction manual, a publication which is thicker than one of those old telephone directories (mainly because it is translated into 483 different languages, the first three pages of which is English, my native tongue and my preferred one (well, for reading about toast anyway) but it goes on about the heating effect based on any combination of slice numbers inserted, and even the need to consider the type of bread used. 

Th toaster has four 'slice' compartments. I am no mathematician but I worked out on the back of a fag packet (I found it in a pub - I don't smoke) that that, surely, must give you only a maximum of 16 combinations i.e. each compartment takes one slice of bread and there are, as mentioned, four compartments. (I suppose, if you added up all the slice cooking options - which I haven't! - there could be 30 'variations'!). This suggests that I need to dial down, or up, the time/heat factor depending on the number of slices in the toaster at any one time! So, for example, two slices might mean somewhere around 'Snowflake plus', but four slices should be in between 'Caribbean' and 'Nuclear.'  I still don't know what Level 9 (Nuclear) is intended to do. The final result is not edible in any slice combination.

Breakfast should not be so complicated. I’m going back to cornflakes!

The UFO

A UFO was spotted over Holland recently and some interesting footage was recorded culminating in its rapid exit from the skies. What has not been released, however, is a transcript of its communication with Amsterdam air traffic control. Although the content was heavily encrypted, a translation code was sent by the UFO. The content can now be revealed....

"Communication medium - Earth language, common usage categorised English.

We came, we looked. For you, you measured time... something called thirties, forties, sixties... decades you say. For us, it was a moment, contained in light travel. We scanned your planet. You called us UFOs in all that time. In your limited system no doubt we are. But that is unimportant. What is important is why we came. To seek other inhabitants of this universe. It is vast so we know that others exist. Already we have found others in distant galaxies. We discovered you, people of the place you know as Earth. We wanted to interact with you, to create what you call friendship and we call the ‘Amicitia Programme.’

But we cannot pursue this with Earth, for you are still not civilised and will be unable to blend with our principles. You fight, you kill, you have deities, numerous deities and you cannot agree on why. And you kill one another because of this. You have many timeframes to pass until you can relinquish this behaviour and, until you do so, you will deplete your planet, the only place you have in this universe. You try to explore. You go to your moon. You want to go to asteroids in your system. You will never know the universe until you open your eyes. Your physical formation is known as homo sapiens. You are the all the same on this planet. But sapient you are not, for you display no wisdom.

If you look to what you call the ‘sky’ and wish to go there, relinquish your petty beliefs in things that are not real. For if you do not, you will destroy yourselves and not see the grand vista that is above you. Your ‘gods’ do not exist. You made them, created your existence around them and subjugated your species because of them. This is not behaviour that will see you advance as a species. This is not behaviour that will open your mind to the universe as it really is. For as long as you see your gods as the beginning, creators and rulers, your minds will remain limited and you will continue to destroy each other.

We will make no more contact. You do not fit. We will look to see how you develop over time and if you develop higher wisdom, we will return.”

Humans

I overheard a conversation the other day between two spiders. (I have acute hearing.... can hear things that even dogs can’t hear!). It went like this.

First Spider (FS): I have a confession to make. I have a phobia about humans.

Second Spider (SS): Humans? Why? They're harmless!

FS: You sure? I saw one the other day and it was HUGE. That size!

SS: Don’t exaggerate. They're never that size.

FS: I’m telling you. It was..... and the legs.... uuurrgh... it only had two legs and was moving so fast.

SS: They do move fast especially when they see one of us. Did you know they're scared of us?

FS: Scared... of us? Don’t be stupid. They're waaay tooooo big to be scared of us.

SS: Trust me. They are scared. That is why they move so fast when they see one of us. Some of them even stand on those chair things when they see us. I am always worried they're going to try jumping on me.

FS: Blimey.... I often wondered why humans do that. My cousin tries to put them outside when he sees them but can never catch them.

SS: Yeah, it’s not easy. They run so fast. Always scurrying. I thought about trying to trap them in a box and put them outside, but to be honest I could never find a box big enough. And the other thing is, if you do manage to put them out they always seem to get back in again.

FS: I know. It’s creepy. If I had a spine it would make it shiver... uuuurgh. I can’t bear to think about them.

SS: Have you tried therapy?

FS: No... do you drink it or eat it?

SS: No stupid.. It’s a learning thing. Learning how to overcome your fear of humans. They teach you that your fear is irrational because humans are just as scared of us spiders. They even get you to a stage where you can happily pick them up.

FS: Pick them up? Blimey! What, do they send you on a weight training course for four years?

SS: No. It's a mind over matter technique. They show you how to cope with your fear. You could always try hypnosis... and, no, it’s not another drink.

FS: I don’t know. I don’t think anything could make me overcome my fear of humans. You know what I hate most?

SS: What?

FS: Their houses. They build these places they live in that trap you in them. Very cunning I think. I mean, why can’t they have webs like we do?

SS: Yes, you're right about that.... hang on.... here comes a human now.

FS: Oh... god... I've gone all shivery. I know it’s bad but I think we should just stamp on it!

The Seventh Day

It had been declared a Public Holiday. The seventh and final day of the creation. God had sent one of his angels to announce it, so pleased was he with the results of his efforts over the previous week. Now animals of every species were lined up awaiting the news as to what their role was in this new world and what tasks they were to be given.

A family of beetles stood in anticipation as the alpha male beetle walked back to the group after his audience with God. His slow gait was unnerving one of the older females, anticipating some less than exciting news, but the young ones were hopping about excitedly as youngsters do when even a short period of waiting is about to be completed. A couple of the older adolescents stood slightly to one side, feigned moodiness on their faces not fully hiding their eagerness to hear the news too.

"So? What we got? What'll we be doing in this new world?" asked the female, stepping forward.

The male scratched his brow with one of his spindly legs, slow to respond as if contemplating his answer.

"Well…it’s like this –"

"Just heard that big yellow thing with the long hair saying he's been made king of the jungle," interrupted one of the young ones excitedly. "What’s a jungle dad?"

Ignoring the question the adult male cleared his throat. "Well, we… uh… we're not quite going to be kings. We're… uh, dung beetles, apparently," he said, looking up and taking in the faces of the family.

"Dung? Dung beetles?" queried one of the spotty adolescents, "What’s dung?"

"Dung is… " the alpha male beetle paused, looking around him as if seeking some sort of assistance. "You see that big hippopotamus over there," he said pointing with an antenna at the large beast to his left that had its tail raised high in the air. "Well that stuff falling from under its tail is dung."

"Whaaaat" You're having a giraffe," cried one of the adolescents, a look of incredulity on his face. ‘That’s dung? You're telling us that that is dung? It stinks!"

"What’s a giraffe?" queried another voice.

"It’s that very tall thing over there that keeps banging its head on the trees,’" said the female. "So take no notice of your brother. He overheard God say he was going to have a laugh ‘cos he had loads of DNA left over and he’d make a giraffe. Only trouble is it seems he had quite a lot of it and used it to make that long neck. He thinks it’s funny –"

"Yeah, we think this God geezer’s mucking about," piped up another younger looking female. "He painted them horses over there with black and white stripes. Don’t even go with anything. Anyway, this dung thing, dad. You aren’t serious, are you? What are we supposed to do with it?"’

The alpha male beetle stroked his chin this time, as he carefully chose his response.

"Well, we'll be recycling it. Use it to live in…err, eat it and…well roll it up into balls and push it about a lot."

"Uuuurrrgh, eat it," several voices exclaimed at once.

"Look, don’t panic. God told me it was good for us and we’d be doing the whole animal kingdom a useful service. We’d be very important in the big scheme of things. Think of it as a... a… well… a community recycling animal project. So us dung beetles would be really useful."

The younger female stepped forward.

"Well I don’t fancy that dung thing. Not good for the image. I mean, you seen that stuff? What did you say they called it? Community re…re…whatever you said, dad."

"Community recycling animal project. It’s the name for the role we have been given. The name of the work we will be doing so – "

"CRAP then! Community recycling animal project. CRAP is easier," said the older female. "We eat crap, live in crap and push crap about all day. We got the CRAP job!"

"I s'pose so," agreed one of the adolescents. "Could be worse I reckon. That baboon over there has had his arse shaved and painted red! and ain't nobody told him why yet!"

An Ordinary Night Out

It was just an ordinary night out with a good friend until we decided to visit an old haunt for nostalgia reasons. A trip down memory lane to an establishment which, for reasons that will become apparent later should you decide to persevere with this narrative, shall remain nameless. I had been to a formal black tie evening earlier and was dressed in a dinner suit, although I had now removed the bow tie. My friend was dressed smart and casually as you do for a Saturday night beer.

It was midnight when we made the decision to visit a club we had not been to for over ten years. That’s the point of trips down memory lane. To revisit and see what has changed, if anything, and bring back the feel good moments that we have stored in the mind having completely blotted out all the crap nights we probably spent there too. The first thing that had changed was the security. On the approach to the club the pavement was strewn with an array of metal barricades set out in that ridiculous way that you find in post offices where they decide to filter you around the room in a snake like manner instead of letting you take a direct walk straight to the counter. Another form of crowd control that we accept, I guess, just like religion. Anyway, the pavement was set up in the aforementioned post office style queue control method, although the general imagery was that of preparation for a riot rather than an inviting entrance to a desirable establishment where a convivial evening was to be had. Stationed at various points along the circuitous metal walkway were a number of bouncers dressed in what appeared to be riot gear topped with fluorescent jackets, headphones clamped to their ears and radios crackling importantly on their shoulders. Each of these guardians of the metal walkway were just under seven feet tall, the same width as the pavement and sporting commando haircuts, although ‘haircut’ is perhaps a fatuous term since none of them actually had any hair.
Our first direct encounter with one of the walkway beasts was when we were stopped and told it was a ‘mixed night’.
‘A mixed night,’ I said, more out of trying to comprehend the term rather than actually asking what a mixed night might be.  Helpfully, the bouncer’s method of explaining what he meant by a mixed night was to repeat the phrase saying, ‘Yeah, a mixed night.’
I had visions of men, women, aliens and animals all turning up for this innovative mixed night.
‘Do you mean that we should be with women, or something,’ I said by way of trying to get an explanation.
‘Yeah, women,’ was the response. It was clear we were not with any women and this was just another barrier, to support the physical metal ones, designed for making entry into this establishment more difficult than the Twelve Labours of Hercules. At the moment he said it I spotted a group of girls negotiating the complex security system in the distance, led by a young lady in heels that could only be designed to aerate a lawn, a dress that was just about keeping her neck warm, purple hair and enough dark makeup to make Cruella De Vil envious.
‘Err...that’s my wife,’ I said, optimistically pointing out the lead lady.
‘Are you with a party?’ the bouncer responded as he tried to come to terms in his head with the possibility that the guy in the dinner suit in front of him could possibly be in some sort of matrimonial relationship with the girl from a science fiction movie walking towards him. Fortunately my friend had the presence of mind to say that we were with a party and they were already inside.
‘You got any ID?’ the bouncer asked.
ID? ID, I thought. Why would he ask us for ID? Was it not apparent that both of us were not far short of 107 years old for god’s sake?’
The bouncer saw the quizzical look on my face. ‘A passport or something like that with your picture on it,’ he said to clarify matters.
Who brings a passport with them to go for a beer on a Saturday night in suburbia? I thought passports were for allowing you to get on aircraft and fly off to some exotic overseas destination. Not for allowing you entry into Club Guantanamo. I fumbled in my wallet and was relieved to find my driving licence. It had now become a test to beat the system, hence my relief at being able to find the licence and match the next test. He looked at my picture for several seconds.
‘That’s not you, is it? He said.
Of course it’s bloody well me, I thought. Who were you expecting to see? Did you think I’d be carrying Muhammad Ali’s driving licence with me? I know that we often make a split second decision to have a formal photo done in one of those station booths and we don’t always look our best, and I know on the day in question that I had had a stressful day at work and it was pleuting down with rain as I ran to the booth, but you didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to see that the picture did bear a passing resemblance to the owner of the licence.
In jest I replied, ‘Of course it’s not me,’ and that seemed to appeal to his sense of humour. He turned to my friend who did not have a driving licence with him nor, oddly enough, a passport but was holding out a credit card to identify himself.
‘It needs you picture on it mate,’ the bouncer said, a look of self-satisfaction appearing on his face at the realisation that he may have found a legitimate reason for preventing entry. My friend pointed out that if he flipped the card over he would see it did indeed have his picture on it. It was one of those gold plated credit cards for which you would normally need two police motorcycle outriders accompanying you, to be allowed to take it out in public. From a Swiss account, that required it to have a photo, my friend could have actually bought the whole building that we were trying to get into, such was the card's credit limit. It was no lightweight ID.
‘It doesn’t have your address on it, ’ was the next impediment to our passing go, ‘I will have to check with my boss.’
Of course it doesn’t have his address on it, I thought, otherwise Neanderthals like you would be straight round there looting the place. As we stood awaiting the decision from on high as to whether we would be ‘lucky’ enough to be deigned entry into this salubrious establishment, it crossed my mind to pack up and go home. Who needs the aggravation? Just as I was about to make the suggestion we were given the green light by the ‘boss’ to proceed to the next round.
 
On we went, around a corner of the building, to encounter the next stage of entry. An airport style security scanner complete with trays to put all your personal affects in, was positioned straight ahead of us and manned by two more flak jacketed, florescent coated bouncers. My wallet, phone, coins and everything else I had in my pockets had to go into a tray and I walked through. Inevitably something, it could have been the cuff links on my shirt, set off the detector and I was frisked down, criminal style, by one of the wannabe militia. I had nothing to declare nor had my friend and eventually we  were allowed through to the front door of the club. After a tortuous screening process we had made it to the point of a trip down memory lane. Entry cost us £8 each when in reality we should have been given £8 each, in compensation for being treated like terrorists.
 
Inside much was the same. The same carpet after ten years and the same lay out. What was different was that beer was now served in plastic bottles, presumably so that my friend and I could not smash each other to a pulp should the contents of the bottle interfere with the normal hardwiring of our brains and we, uncharacteristically, suddenly developed a propensity for extreme violence. The clientele was different too. The average age was now somewhere just over twelve or so it seemed. It wasn’t that they all looked young but just that they all behaved as if they had just got out of primary school after a tough first day sampling acid. The women were dressed as if they had run out of cash on a shopping trip and could not quite afford the whole outfit. That is not normally a complaint from a bloke but it was clear that some of these ‘ladies’ should wear a lot more clothing, just to avoid some of us suffering post-traumatic stress after being exposed to such visual discomfort. The general standard, which at one time, given its original varied and mixed age group, had been easy on the eye, had now slipped to several degrees below ogre level.
 
Once we had managed to negotiate a bar melee several bodies deep from end to end and walk away with our plastic bottles, my friend and I decided to find a quieter location in the bar and stick to it. I wasn’t quite prepared for how literally that intention would play out. After several minutes I realised I could not move my feet. I attempted to lift my right foot and then my left and quickly became aware that, as I did so, the carpet was rising with them. Over the years the club had, unwittingly through a combination of spillage and body fluids, invented a very powerful form of adhesive that, if they can only realise its potential, will enable them to shut the place down and enter a new market selling industrial super glue. With some effort I managed to unstick myself from the carpet, with the realisation that I would at some point need to have both my shoes resoled since I could now feel the floor with my socks. I placed my plastic bottle on the bar, beckoned to my friend and we headed for the exit.

Sometimes curiosity makes you go back but sometimes going back should just be in the mind!