Back to the Future Past.

People often muse about where they might go or what they might do if they could travel back in time. You get the usual stuff ... you know, shoot Hitler; tip Catherine of Aragon the wink that Henry was having a little mumble with some bint called Anne Boleyn; show up at Wembley Stadium at about 5pm on 30th July 1966 with VAR; have a word with Jackie Kennedy to tell her husband, ‘it’s definitely going to rain later, darling, so let’s put the bubble top on the limo before we do Dealy Plaza,’ and maybe tell the driver to put his foot down as he passes the grassy knoll. 

All good stuff, I guess, but me, I’d go back to 31AD to the Sea of Galilee. Once I was there I’d ask where I could find this Jesus geezer. As soon as I’d been pointed in the right direction I’d introduce myself ...

“Hi. My name's Paddy. I’m not from around these parts ... I’m from, uh ... the future. But I guess you knew that. Phew, warm here, ain't it? I wish I hadn't worn these jeans. Anyway, look, sorry to interrupt your mission. I can see you're busy with these ... err ... multitudes, but I wanted to see if I could get five minutes ... I mean, a chat that is. Sorry, I know you and these twelve good guys don’t have watches ’cos they ain’t been invented yet. Anyway, it’s important.”

Now, Jesus, being the good geezer he was who made everyone welcome, would give me the time of day, so then I’d say ...

“Mate, I’m right on your programme. I agree with everything you say including that camel and eye of a needle thing, which probably confuses some – it had me puzzled for a while, I must admit. As for the love thy neighbour thing, yeah, I get that. I s’pose I’m more used to saying ‘your’ but I get thy mumble. And the poor will enter the kingdom of heaven, I get that too. And I know you’re not dissing the rich when you say that, not like they do back in ... I mean, ahead, in my time. I guess they got just as much chance as the poor to getting in if they, you know, lead a decent life. But, look, sorry, I digress, what I really came for is to ask a favour ... please.”

I am sure Jesus, with his incredible patience would allow me to make my request and I would. So, I'd say my piece ...

“Look, for Christ’s sake ... shit, sorry ... I didn’t mean anyth ... hang on, maybe that’s right ... for your sake, don’t ask Pete over there to start a frigging church! Trust me, they'll create all sort of power dynamics with priests, bishops and all types of charlatans making out they speak in your name. And ... and you know what, they’ll take everything you said and twist it and use it to control people and, frankly, take their money off them in return for doing bugger all! They will threaten people with damnation, indoctrinating little kids, making them fearful. A guilt trip. Making out that your ... your, erm ... well, God will punish them and cast them aside for eternity if they don't do what they say. That’s what’s happened to your message. These people have taken it and used it for their own ends, for power and to control the poor suckers that you're trying to remind about fundamental basic human decency. That’s not what you wanted, is it?”

Then I’d take a breath, worried that I’d hijacked a sermon on the mount or something and then I’d say ...

“Another favour, my friend, if you will. See this bottle of water? You couldn’t dish it up as a nice Chablis, could you? I could use a drink after that lot.”

Airport Woes

Is travelling by aeroplane getting more difficult instead of better? 

I am had reason to fly to Europe just recently and for the few days before my departure I was been bombarded with tosh saying… you need to do this, you need to do that, you need to fill in this form, your bag size must not exceed this, you musn't pack guns, knives, axes, tear gas in your hold luggage (I kind of guessed that without being told!) and you can't have creams, lotions and potions in your hand luggage; you need to check in before you get to the terminal or else… you must download your boarding pass (I would have if you'd sent the flippin’ things), you can choose your seat for an extra £XX (why would I want to? It’s a two hour flight to Turin so unless there’s an option to sit between two porn stars who will ply me with Champagne the whole flight, I’ll take my chances, and if I end up sitting next to the annoying family from hell on their first trip abroad, that's the luck of the draw. 

I got offered ‘priority boarding’ too. I said, “NO!” Priority boarding only works if you’re the only passenger to get it, otherwise you join the scrum to get on with fifty other ‘priority’ boarders who get on just before the backup scrum of the ‘no priority whatsoever’ bunch but who don’t give a toss ’cos they’re getting on the same flight and it ain’t leaving without them!

To top it all, just as I was leaving to drive to the airport, I got a text that had some bollocks that said you need to check in THREE hours before your flight for ‘security’ reasons! Three hours! What security reasons? Specify, please. You want me to dump my luggage and then sit for the next two and a half hours twiddling my thumbs? I mean, would you pitch up at a bus stop three hours before the bus is due? Then when you do finally dump your baggage you have to take off your shoes, belt, jewellery and empty your pockets to get patted down by some bored looking airport official just to get to level two of the airport game. And after all that hassle why can't you walk straight through to where the restaurants and cafes are so you can chill with a coffee or a drink? Yeah, I know you’re thinking ‘you can, I’ve done it.’ No you can’t! I said, ‘straight through.’ You have to follow a winding, circuitous pathway through an array of brightly lit shops selling you crap you don’t want! Who needs a litre of perfume before they get on a plane? Or a bottle of whiskey. Or a new jacket. If I wanted to go shopping I would not have pitched up at a flipping airport! 

It’s all nonsense to control the population (yeah, I nearly mentioned religion!). In future, I’m just going to turn up and say, “Look, I’ve done all that stuff you asked, right. Now, I’ve paid for my flipping flight, I’m the customer, I don’t work for your airline; you do, now do some of the work yourself. Oh, and stop looking at my bag as if you’re thinking, ‘nineteen point seven kilos! What’s he need all that stuff for,’ yeah! 

Let’s see how I get on!

Noise!

Have you noticed how new noises are creeping into our lives? I have had reason to hire a car. It's very new. It emits high frequency sounds whenever you do... anything at all! Like, select reverse, select drive, switch the lights on, look out the window or just breathe! It 'screeches' for the sake of screeching. Get tooooo close to another vehicle and it 'wails'. It makes a shed load of warning noises that are really unnerving in a "what the feck have I done now" sort of way. And it got me thinking about modern day sounds. 

You're on the high street and a pedestrian crossing starts bleeping; a lorry reversing emits a weird banshee screech; a dustcart truck goes into a high pitched bleep overdrive; an ATM machine plays the opening notes of an unfinished symphony as it dispenses your cash; your mobile pings to tell you you've got a new message; your laptop bleeps with a new email. Your senses are assaulted daily by different noises and your nerves are on high alert flight mode as a result. 

I feel sorry for dogs. I've no idea how all these man-made noises sound to them. Their aural sensitivities are programmed to much higher frequencies than those of humans. Modern cars emitting the sounds they do must be a nightmare. So, yeah, I know dogs will never have to drive cars because they're animals... although, having said that, a monkey once went into space in a rocket back in the sixties and seemed to fly that sucka without incinerating herself, so there's still hope for dogs once they stop pandering to humans who throw things for them so they can run and fetch them just to keep their owner happy. But dogs are never ever going to pass a driving test until car manufacturers get rid of car noises that ain't the radio, the horn or the engine. And how cool would that be if dogs could drive? No more need for 'walkies' because Rover can drive him/herself to the common for a dogging adventure. 

In the meantime, those of us of a timid, nervous disposition have to invest in a set of earplugs.

Man 'Flu

I have just visited the doc's with what I perceived to be the advanced stages of third degree man 'flu - man 'flu X, in my opinion. a new and virulent strain! I was checked out thoroughly by the lady doc and made to feel that I was only two training sessions short of a world heavyweight title fight! I left empty handed... no drugs, no sympathy, not even a cuddle!

In my disgruntled state I started to reflect. Man ‘flu? Who labelled it thus? Yeah, women. A dismissive term that suggests that at best a bloke is malingering and at worst a cry-baby who can’t handle a bit of discomfort.
 
But whose fault is it that men feel so much pity for themselves when afflicted by this illness? Who is responsible for the pity? Yeah, women.

Why, you might wonder. Okay, consider this.

Back in caveman days when gender roles were slightly different (all right, completely different) men and women had very precise tasks to carry out. Women protected the family, nurtured the children and made the cave dwelling comfortable and habitable. Men were required to protect this territory from rivals, assailants and wild beasts. But more importantly they were expected to go out into the wilderness and hunt, bring back food to ensure the survival of the little Neanderthal family. And if they couldn’t do that, and the other aforementioned tasks, the family was in trouble and under threat, its very survival at stake. And cavewoman knew this!

So, the moment caveman showed any sign that he might not be able to carry out his tasks to the best of his ability, cavewoman sprang into action. At the first sign of a sniffle, a sneeze or a cough she made sure caveman followed her rules. Straight to bed, underneath a pile of furs next to a blazing fire while she plied him with ancient herbal concoctions to stave off illness. Cavewoman knew she could not have her caveman incapacitated for any prolonged period. The family’s wellbeing depended on him being back in action and able to get on with his tasks. Even if he protested that he was okay, cavewoman was not going to listen and certainly was not going to take the risk. Caveman had to follow orders. So, he did what he was told and took to his bed.

And now, as a result of this type of survival programming, ingrained in the psyche of male humans over thousands of years, a permanent mindset has been created in men. And now, the minute they feel slightly under the weather or out of sorts they believe their condition is just a few coughs short of life-threatening. And ironically women have forgotten they are the cause of this mindset, and as a result of that forgetfulness, now have zero sympathy. In fact they have adopted a totally different attitude and a man complaining of winter cold symptoms is an object of ridicule.

So, in the light of the doctor's negligence, it's back to 'ancient herbal remedies' for me - chicken soup, garlic milk with whiskey (don't turn your noses up - it was my mother’s recipe and no, she didn't have Arapaho Indian heritage) and a positive attitude!

Social Media Posting

“Mate, don’t think you’re taking this Facebook thing serious enough.”

“Whatcha mean, serious?”
“Well, it’s s’posed to be for serious stuff, innit?”
“Serious stuff? Like what?”
“Y’know... uh, well, like... holiday pics and like what you had to eat.”
“I posted a pic of melon, didn’t I? People eat melons, don’t they?”
“Yeah, but it’s more about meals and that... like... well... like they post where they been and what they’re eating. Like, uh, Joe Bloggs is in the Dog and Duck and eating steak, yeah?”
“Why?”
“Whatcha mean why?”
“I mean, why does anybody wanna know that this Bloggs geezer is eating steak in some pub what nobody’s ever heard of?”
“It’s social, innit? People like that shit. And then pics of families doing stuff and… you know…”
“Stuff? Like what?”
“Like... like, I dunno, going out fer meals and that.”
“So Facebook’s s’posed to be about eating then, is it?”
“Nah... nah, mate. Yer missing the point. There’s other things, ain’t there.”
“Like... what?”
“Well, things like.... you go to an airport when you go on holiday and you post something like... Joe Bloggs is at Gatwick Airport and eating breakfast.”
“Yeah? This Joe Bloggs geezer likes flippin’ eating, don’t he? I stick a melon pic up and you reckon I ain’t being serious enough! But this Bloggs muppet’s telling everybody what he’s eating! Who gives a toss?”
“Yer not listening, mate, are ya? It’s more than that. You can post stuff about... well, loadsa stuff from other sites, telling people stuff.”
“Yeah? Like what? Stuff you made, or made up yourself, you mean...?”
“Nah, nobody does that. They download stuff... videos, posters, slogans and stuff and they show it to all their Facebook mates.”
“So they post other people’s stuff and just tell it to ya even if you don’t give a shit?”
“Nah, not exactly... well okay, a bit like that but they’re trying to, you know –”
“Nah, I don’t know. You said it was serious stuff they was posting and now’ya tell me they post stuff about what their eating and stuff that they never even made up themselves. And you have a go at me about a friggin’ melon pic!”
“Chill, geezer, I ain’t havin’ a go. Just trying to put’ya right about what’s expected. And it ain’t just that sort of stuff. There’s other stuff too.”
“Like what?”
“Will’ya stop saying that! Stuff like... uh... yeah, like people say they’re interested in going to an event near you.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that they’ve seen something they’re interested in and –”
“They are interested in?”
“Yeah, so they tell people.”
“Hang on. You saying they tell people who don’t give a toss that they’re going to an event just ’cos it’s near somebody, even if other people ain’t interested in that event?”
“Yeah... loads of ’em do it.”
“And what happens after they been to this event?”
“Eh?”
“I said, what happens after –”
“Yeah I know what you said. I dunno. Nobody ever says. Nobody ever says whether they actually went or not.”
“You’re having a giraffe, ain’t ya? Gimme that melon here. Fancy a slice?”

Christmas Shopping

I popped out to go food shopping just before Christmas. For me. One basket, that’s all. Big mistake. The ‘mindless’ were out too. In droves. Stopping for no reason in an aisle for a chat; wandering around in that ‘I’ve no idea why I’m here’ gait; staring at shelves as if they haven’t seen any products in shops before. (“It’s a feckin’ yoghurt. You never seen one?” I wanted to say to one woman who seemed to have gone into a fixated stupor in one of the aisles); pushing trollies around with unfeasible amounts of totally unnecessary food in them as if Armageddon has been announced and that’s the end of the world’s food supply.

Meanwhile, I’m in ‘commando shop mode’ (get in, get it, get out); if any one had been looking at CCTV footage the scene would have looked like one of those sci-fi movie special animation shots where the masses are in slow-mo and the alien is whizzing about like a dervish on high-grade amphetamines.

I survived but I’m not sure I provided the perfect Christmas spirited response when the checkout person asked, “You ready for Christmas?” when I replied, “Shut the f**k up and gimme a bag. I ain’t a bleedin’ juggler.”

Dry Cleaning

I went to the dry cleaners. The assistant said, “Can I take your name.”
I hesitated and then replied, “Well, not really. I need it.”
She looked up from the PC screen. “I meant, so I can look you up.”
“Oh, I see,” I said. I gave her my surname.
“Sydney Road,” she said, after a few seconds.
“What about him?” I said.
“Uh… sorry. I meant your address. That’s where you – ”
“Live. Yeah. It is.”
She tapped in some more ‘stuff.’ It took a while. Perhaps there was a ‘comments’ box. Then she said, “Monday lunchtime?”
“That’s really thoughtful,” I said. “But, uh… look, I hardly know you.”
She frowned. “Sorry… I mean your dry cleaning will be ready then. Is that okay?”
I nodded.

I’m not going there again; well, except for Monday lunchtime. Too many bloody questions!