Dr Joe's Joy Basket

Leaving more things

2006-06-27T20:56:00.000Z

It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you
Without a strong rhyme to step to
Think of how many weak shows you slept through
Time's up, I'm sorry I kept you

Sorry about my lack - I'm on dial-up and I've been the busiest bee... but more of that some other time... I started this post almost 2 months ago!

...................

So, it has been a while since we left the house in Grantchester, and we have just about sorted out the final bills, deposits etc and so the game is very nearly completed.

Leaving as we see in the physical and fiscal realms is also a subject for cleaning in the emotional / spiritual realm. Things should be cleared up before we can move on.

Importantly resolving the past with the future affects different people in different ways; some get very stressed and emotionally insecure about moving, whilst others thrive on the momentum of change, and others get left to clean up.

But importantly leaving means a new start, and a freshness - it was the spring and fittingly it was a spring cleaning. For John and myself there was a beautiful day where we cleaned, and then cleaned out.

To clarify: a few years ago I was given an old Disco DJ desk, complete with two turntables, shiny knobs, a bendy metal light and bendy metal microphone holding arm which, at a couple of feet long, would allow one to DJ with both hands and compere into the mic at the same time.

If it worked properly, even though the turntables had very poor pickup and there was no crossfader, it would have been quite good fun. However, the belts for the turntable drives were warped and proceeded at non-constant speed, adding a sort of drunken effect to all records played. Replacing them would not be so easy, in fact it would be easier to just move house with it, carrying the quite heavy and sizeable box, (which also had a broken hinge, so fell to pieces) from place to place rather than deal with its future.

I had moved house twice already with it, but there would be no third time - I was not going to take it to London.

I assessed my options: take it to a pawn brokers and get a few pounds; dump it at a charity shop; give it to someone who would love cherish and care for it; OR something else. As we were actually in the moving out process, then time was tight and the 'something else' option grew into the most likely - but what was it? Dump it in a field, or even outside Jeffrey Archer's house? Hide it, maybe up a tree? Bury it beneath the vegetable patch? Put it in the phone booth?

After discussing matters with John, he immediately decided the matter, with the following simple and to-the-point question: "Why not just smash it up and burn it?"

So that is what we did;

I hit it with a spade (angle on) - buried deep through the DiscoBox exoskeleton. A very effective manouevre, with good satisfaction factor. B+
John threw the cast iron boot scraper at it - smashing straight through the outer case. Simple, and quite primitive but exceedingly effective and enjoyable. A-
I stabbed it with the garden fork - the prongs went through, but then got a bit stuck. Disappointing. C
John hit it (angle on) with the other spade. Same results and score as above.
I hit it with the sickle. It the only time I've ever hit anything with a sickle, and me oh my, was it good. It went like a knife through butter, straight though. Unbeatable! A++
John hit it with the pickaxe (I think) - high damage. A-
I hit it with the sledge hammer. After a few turns between us, this resulted in total devastation of the Disco Decks - super. A

We sadly lacked the perspicacity to take a picture of what it looked like in its full glory, or any of the intermediate stages, all that you can see are images of the end result.

We then felt it best and only fitting to cover it in white spirit and light it dangerously close to the garden trellis and within scorching distance of many plants. The smell was awful and the smoke was dense and black - just as though we were burning plastic and rubber at the same time, which we were. Our neighbours cannot have possibly failed to notice, but being good sorts and that, they didn't say anything.

I do realise that some people reading this will find it morally and emotionally offensive. But all that I will say is that it was not just what we wanted to do, it was the ONLY POSSIBLE OUTCOME. It's inevitability will hopefully console you, but I doubt that.

And then we set fire to John's shoes.

End of an age

2006-05-31T15:51:00.000Z

It was indeed the end of an age; the last day of May in the year of our Lord MMVI, was my last day of work as a Geneticist. The other day I calculated that I first worked in the lab back in Jan 2000 on my final year project, which totals nearly 6.5 years, or 24.53% of my life to date spent working in the same lab.

Obviously there are things that I will miss dearly, and also things that I will miss with rejoicing. There have been some great people and some not so great, and some great times and many not so great.

For the sake of leaving, it was a great day in and of itself. But it became one of the best days of my life when I got an email from someone I had not seen since 2000 and who, to all intents and purposes was dead. Hearing from them made my year, in fact, they made my millennium.

But the thing I am still really struggling with is why I did it in the first place. I don't understand why I did it and I cannot help but feel that this time, at least as far as work is concerned, has been a waste. I really want to feel differently about it, and out of the blue people strangely prophesy that I will, but all I know is that I do not, and have not for a long time.

But work is over, and I am signed on for the first time... a whole new big adventure awaits.
I'm not sure what will become of this Blog, whether it has any place in the future, or whether it is destined to wilt and fade away.

Time will tell...

Backpage News

2006-05-26T15:42:00.000Z

It's rare that I appear in the national press, but this week I was on the back page of Wednesday's Guardian sports section, which was unexpected but welcome.

Last Saturday Sam, the captain of my football team in Cambridge - City Life, had a reunion of his mates from college including a football match in the morning. As a few people dropped out last minute, I agreed to go and play... it sounded like fun. The trouble was that the match was near Woods Green in London, and kick-off was 09:30 hours.

Friday night was the end of season City Life knees-up, involving a pub, then a curryhouse, then another pub, then a club, and eventually Sam and I got back to his house at 3am. After under 4 hours sleep in the garage, and a remarkable lack of hangover, I got up and we caught the 07:28 to London, along with Sam's dad (62) who was coming too to make up the numbers, with a Latte for breakfast.

Simon Hattenstone - who doesn't talk like how he looks, was one of the opposition defenders in a team of middle-aged middle-class suburbanites. They looked quite old, but the problem for us was that only 2 of our team; Sam and myself, had ever played in an 11-a-side football match before, and there were only 9 of us. We did get an extra player: Brian, who a member of the opposition who had come along only to watch, as he had done his knee in.

There was history as they had played City Life (also referred to as "The Muscular Christians"), a few years ago in a friendly, and had lost 7-1. However, this was not really City Life - this was "The Indigos", and less muscular and less christian. In fact I was the only one who fulfilled both criteria, and even then I do not exactly have an Herculean frame.

It was an end to end game, but experience, and a teenage winger won out in the end and we lost 0-4. But there was nearly a bit of everything needed for a great football match: goals, diving headers, sliding tackles, me getting kicked and a head injury - naturally, one player (Sam's brother) didn't feel a thing, while the other player involved had his eyebrow split open and blood everywhere - the only surprise was that it was not Sam himself who was involved.

Time for a rest and a bit of banter. When the bleeding slowed they taped the wound up with yellow electrical insulation tape and he watched from the touchline before eventually going to hospital to have 4 stitches and massive bandaging.

I talked to Simon Hattenstone in the pub afterwards - he's a lovely bloke - and very gently spoken. One of his team-mates Richard (Ricardo? surely) was an italian restaurant owner and we discussed cooking fish. It was at this point that the poster of 'Sea Fish' which I had got free in the Guardian earlier in the week, and which was in my bag came in handy, as I was seamlessly able to offer a previously unavailable visual aspect to the conversation - "Oh, so that's what a Brill looks like."

Stephen hates these educational wildlife posters - he's been in London too long and I think that the sight of a butterfly or fish unduly affects his sensibilities: scared by anything that is not a starling or a pigeon. I have many more stories about them but I'll not tell them here.

But this wasn't the only time I was in print this week - not only was I in the Guardian, but I have also had my first general publication - "Antagonistic activities of Klp10A and Orbit regulate spindle length, bipolarity and function in vivo" published in the Journal of Cell Science. I'm not sure if you can read the whole thing without access, but if you really want then I could send you a copy - I sincerely doubt that you do though.

Frontpage News

2006-05-25T17:36:00.000Z

Why does this happen? Maybe this is why...

"Hey, we have a story about clamping down on binge drinking during the world cup, but we don't want to put a picture of binge drinking types on the front of the paper, as it will seem like we are glorifying them and condemning the local government."

"What should we put there instead?"

"Hmmm..."

"Hmmmm....."

"Hmmmmm, hurrrrr....."

"I know, something which shows a positive thing..."

"Yes..."

" - something affirming and hopeful,"

"yes yes I like it,"

" - like the spirit of the worldcup, but with a healthy spin... I've got it!"

"Bingo! Great thinking, I like it... "

"Thanks"

"But what is it exactly?"

"Well, let's put up a picture of school children enjoying a healthy lunch from their new and Jamie-fied school dinner menu. That will in no way look wrong."

"Brilliant! You are correct that it will not look completely ridiculous and like we, the people at eastendlife don't know what we're doing! I love you, you are so great!"

"I know, I can't help it - these ideas just 'come to me', out of the blue y'know..."

"Wow"

A Final Hubcap Crusade...

2006-05-19T17:32:00.000Z

So, a number of people have commented; verbally, on my blog and also by e-mail that I haven't written anything for ages, and "is everything ok?" All is well, indeed, but busy. I am still up to no good and sowing seeds of chaos like before, but living on average somewhere between Cambridge and London (maybe at Stanstead), like myself, my schemes have become somewhat de-localised. I continue in my current job for a week and a half and then I shall have plenty more time to write things...

We moved out of Grantchester over a month ago - and there are many loose ends to tie up: we haven't received final bills or got our deposit back yet, but there are other things that must be explained. Here is one of them.

Many people have asked me what became of John's hubcap nursehome when we left. Unfortunately hubcaps, it seems, do not travel well.

The whole expedition nearly started in a terifying and horrendous accident, when John got on the bike he was borrowing from Matt Lee, and, thinking that he'd put it in reverse, cycled it straight forward into the pond. Oh dear!

Luckily John was able to fling himself free from the bike before it capitulated into the water, and was saved from drowning. However, the bike got wet and also got some weed on it. We never told Matt as we knew he'd get really angry and, sometimes, if he's been drinking John is scared of him.

Later John and I embarked upon the Grantchester to Ashvale half-pint pub crawl/cycle, with John gently girdling his hubcap collection in his arms. At distinct points along the way they (the hubcaps) seemed to become reawakened to who and what they really were: where they had came from, and the life that they had once known. John was powerless to stop them as, one-by-one, they sprang out of his grasp and onto the road or pavement to continue their hubcap lives anew, in a new and exciting set of adventures...

There were tears in John's eyes as we cycled away - "I know it's the best thing for them, but I love them so! And what if they get scared, or bullied? I hope they'll be alright" he blubbed, "Woe is me! Woe is me! Take me now Lord!" (more tears).

After a few drinks, and some gentle words, John was fine and got over the whole thing remarkably quickly. In fact we then had to stop before the next pub so that he could chase a pheasant through a field.

John had come to the same realisation that I had: we had done what few people thought possible - rehabillitated 3 down-and-out hubcaps and successfully released them into the wild to fend for themselves. And for this we should rejoice.

But I still have mixed emotions about it: unbeknownst to John, who was cycling in front, when the second hubcap (nicknamed "Cappy" by John) self-ejected to discover the great wide world, I ran straight over him and broke him in two. I never told John; "what was that noise?" - "oh nothing, probably kids, messing about...". I'm not proud of lying but I had to do it to protect him.

I'm not sure I will ever be able to tell him now...

Spawn U Like?

2006-04-11T17:58:00.000Z

It is spring, and this is the time for frogs to make baby frogs. A few weeks ago was just such an occasion in the pond in our back garden, and pictured right you can see frogs making frogs - but interestingly there appears not to be just mummy (middle) and daddy (bottom) frog there, but on the top is 'uncle' frog. Apparently this is normal for frog-kind, and the males are competing to fertilise the females eggs as she lays them. You can see the front feet of the daddy frog slapping uncle frog in the face...

Obviously she was some hot frog

There was obviously a numerical imbalance between male and female frogs as unfortunately the little fella shown below wasn't seeing any of the action...

And here is the results of all their efforts - spawn! And it was a late night musing conversation with HMJ on the subject of spawn, which leads us to the focus of this sorry business... I suggested that it would be interesting to see what it tasted like - and that he should collect a bit to sample.

I received a phone call from HMJ the next evening which roughly followed these lines: "Hiya, I got it", "Got what?" "I got it, I got all of it... all the frogspawn. I got it all" "All of it?" "Yes, it's in the freezer, and I washed it too". Rest assured he had not taken all of it, just from the small pond, and there was plenty in the other, which was replenished by more frog-making in the days following.

So, later that evening, after a stressful days work we went to the supermarket for supplies to act as the basis of our spawn feast. Seeing as frogspawn is froggie eggs, then we would try cooking spawn in the same ways as eggs are often cooked to see if they show similar properties and taste.
And, back then it seemed like a good idea.

First up we had to defrost the spawn as HMJ had thought best to freeze it. The defrosting process was arduous and tortuous, and it turns out that the spawn was pretty much unaffected, although probably even more difficult to separate. HM V joined us in this venture, although she was quite dubious about it to begin with.

First up, just to ease us into the evening, and reduce our let's-not-eat-frogspawn inhibitions we started with a few classy g&t's ala spawn, with a slice of lime.

It was not clear what frogspawn cocktails should be called: Frogtails, or Cockspawns? HMJ cleared up the issue by suggesting Cockspawnfrogtails. It's legit. Anyway they were alright, and the g&t was reasonably unaffected by the introduction of frog eggs.

(SCORE=7.5/10)

Our first course was to be a fried bacon and spawn roll. So we heated the pan and fried the bacon and eggs until they were nicely done. It should be noted that by this point we had defined the smell of frogspawn, which now permeated the whole house - that of SWAMP.

However much the frogspawn was fried it maintained it's original form, and rather disappointingly it did not go white like proper eggs do when you fry them. When is was well fried, we put it in a roll, with optional pickle, and divided it betweenst us three.

Here's Vicky chomping into her bacon and frog-egg buttie... I have to say that it was alright, excepting the bits with fried frogspawn in, which weren't all that nice: it's not that it tasted that nasty, but the swampyness of it, in addition to the horrible slippery consistency combined to produce a non-desirable flavour sensation. My use of pickle to mask flavour and consistency was tactical, and I came out of it the better for it.

(SCORE=4.2/10)

Our second course was to be a frog omelette - so we took frogspawn, some actual egg, a splash of milk and blitzed it together... only that such was the cohesive strength of the spawn jelly that much of the spawn remained intact and unblended! However, enough was blended to lend a slightly unsettling grey colour to the omelette mixture... Also, having learned lessons from the first course, we tactically added high intensity flavours in the form of onion, garlic, pepper and salt.

We cooked the omelette in the normal omelette cooking way, but making sure to burn it slightly just in case eating burnt frogspawn was better, and lets be honest it couldn't get much worse, than unburnt frogspawn. Finally it was ready and we sprinkled some grated mature cheddar on top, with more pepper, just in case, and served on a bed of fresh green cabbage.

Hmmm, bon appetit! And here's HMJ yumming it up.

In fact it was alright, and we finished the whole omelette of our own free will, except for HMV as she is apparently allergic to omelettes. It was alright, however, this may have been due to the extra flavours we had introduced.

(SCORE=6.8/10)

Thinking about it, Round 3 was in many ways wrong. Not just that we were eating frogspawn, which is arguably wrong enough, but consider that combining them with bagels, which are Yiddish in origin and you have broken some Law. It's like having a bacon bagel - nice, but wrong.

Anyway, here are the bagels formed by the hands of Vicky (fore) and John (rear), and don't they look tempting? They were grilled, and then sampled. HMV's sparse use of spawn and experimentation with different flavours meant that hers was quite disgusting, yet easily manageable. HMJ's heaped-spawn method however, brought out less favourable effects. When Vix tried John's it came straight back out, luckily into the bin. JW, shown below looking less than impressed with his own handiwork, almost gagged, but held it down, and as you can see in the bottom picture he is in no way traumatised by his experience...

Then my turn, and the picture below still brings me a wave of nausea. It went into the mouth ok, and I was fine even when chewing it, although as we have established, spawn is not really chewable as it maintains its form and consistency. It was when it came to swallowing it that the difficulty started - it felt as though it had maybe become a frog and was trying to hop back out of my gullet - perchance there is something inherently and quintessentially frog already in the spawn, giving it hopping capabilities, even when it has no legs.

It tried to jump out, but then my constitution took over and consigned the spawn to the stomach. It was unpleasant and spawn bagels are a bad business.

(SCORE=0.4/10)

Next up was boiled eggs - and so as to recreate a natural egg boiling environment for the spawn we took a broken egg shell from the omelette making, and filled it with frog eggs, taped it up with electrical tape (all we could find) and without further ado, plunged it into the fiery cauldron for about 10 mins.

We then put it into the closest eggcup homologue we could find, broke it open at the top and HMV was straight in there with the toasty bread soldier - she didn't throw up after this, but did come close enough that JW and I had no hesistation in foregoing the boiled egg completely. We felt quite ill already.

Again it was disappointing that the egg did not go white, and it did not harden either. Not good.

(SCORE = 1.5/10)

Then we get onto a close relative of the boiled egg; the poached egg. By now we had lost the inertia that this was a good idea and just threw some spawn into a pan of boiling water. Approximately 30 minutes later it looked exactly the same, and our hunger had deserted us to the extent that none of us even tried a morsel of it.

(SCORE=0/10)

While the spawn was poaching, we indulged in what was the most foolish and ill-advised event of the whole evening - Spawn shooters! So, a shot of spawn on the hand, a measure of the worst alcoholic beverage known to eastern europe in the other hand, and blessed relief in the form of a slice of lime.

The strange thing was that the worst bit was not the raw frogspawn, but the Liszt. Nobody knows where it came from but it was left in Portugal Place years ago, and no-one drank it, not even at parties. It is apricot brandy - this sounds like it has the potential to be nice - apricots are nice, and so is brandy. But do not be fooled, in fact take the worst things about apricots and brandy and then add them together and leave to go rotten, and you have the national drink of Hungary. Almost all of the Hungarians I have ever met have been really miserable people, and it is easy to see why when you taste their patriotic tipple - it's enough to make anyone feel unhappy.

See here: John before Liszt and then below a subtle harrowing of the face after drinking Liszt...

Anyway, the shooters were observed by reenacting scenes from films. John did the Lion King, I did the Deerhunter and Vicky did Karate Kid 2.

This was the worst round and this was due entirely to the Liszt.

(SCORE=-3/10)

All in all it was a bad business, however the one benefit is that we are still alive, even though we all felt slightly queasy the next day, and thus are able to warn the likes of you not to try this.

And in many ways this was unsurprising... It even sayeth in the Bible -

9 " 'Of all the creatures living in the water of the seas and the streams, you may eat any that have fins and scales. 10 But all creatures in the seas or streams that do not have fins and scales—whether among all the swarming things or among all the other living creatures in the water—you are to detest. 11 And since you are to detest them, you must not eat their meat and you must detest their carcasses. 12 Anything living in the water that does not have fins and scales is to be detestable to you."

... which is SPOT ON! Eating frogspawn was detestable to me. It's got an answer for everything!

Pimp My Life

2006-04-11T16:25:00.000Z

Last month I was in Germany as part of the CLC European Prayer Weekender... and we stayed in John and Inge's house in Ittlingen, in der nahe von Heidelberg. I had been there before, and on the previous occasion had helped Heinrich change a dark dirty garage into the shiny white kitchen you see pictured below.

Bex has already written a good precis of the trip, which you can read here if you like. Here is a picture of Jason, having just beaten me in a race up the steep cobbled road to Heidelberg castle: yeah Jase, yeah! I am getting old and can't quite keep up with the pace of young whippets like Jason, who runs regularly and gets up early in the morning, neither of which I can boast.

Anyway, on the first night we were there, Jana drove us to a nearby town where they were having a friday night worship thingy. I really enjoyed it, especially as the talk was by an american dude who didn't speak german, so it was everyone else who needed a translator! On the way out we found leaflets for their youth outreach meetings, and here it is here:

"Pimp my life" - Pimp of course is an acrostic: Prayer, Integrate, Mercy, Praise and Salvation, which is handy, as it doesn't mean pimp, y'know.

Joe & John vs. Animal Kingdom

2006-03-27T22:37:00.000Z

Round 1 - Joe vs. Black Swan

It all started the other night as I wheeled my broken bike home after midnight. Passing the Mill Pond, I was rudely accosted in the dark by a large black swan, which obviously thought that it could get away with it as it was in the river, which was also dark. It didn't make a normal swan noise, but a sort of sneering noise - probably mocking my lack of transportation... but we can never truly know.

Swans are quite aggressive but this one overstepped the mark and certainly had no idea what it had let itself in for, as I was in a mood not to be trifled with by neither man nor beast! So, out with the camera, *on* with the flash, and 3,2,1 - BOSH! Midnight Wildlife Flash Exposure (aka MidWiFE) was born as an artform. (In actual fact I pioneered the technique in 1995 while in Venice, using Venetian cats as my targets, but this passtime was observed before the midnight hour.)

As the pictures show quite nicely, during the first flash the swan appears to be confused and probably entering in shock... which is understandable. By the time I took the second picture cocky swan was cocky no longer, and had realised the error of its ways. It put its head under the water, hopefully having a good long think about what it had done and how it should do things better in future. Lesson learnt methinks.

Round 1 - Joe Wins

Round 2 - John vs. Evil Woodlouse

When I got home, I encountered John, armed with a lighter and a can of air freshener on his way to the bathroom to exercise some rough justice. He had found the woodlouse he believed most likely to be responsible for the lack of central heating in our house - it was lounging around in the bath, and he was going to give it what for!

As the following rapid acquisition photo series shows, the Evil Woodlouse of Central heating doom was no match for the wrath of John and capitulated beneath the crushing force of truth and righteousness.

Mr Woodlouse certainly won't be breaking our central heating ever again. He's learned his lesson the hard way. As we can see from zooming in, he was well and truly fried... that will teach him to take on the big boys.

Round 2 - John Wins!

OVERALL RESULT - JOHN & JOE WIN 2-0

John's New Hobby Cont.

2006-03-27T16:49:00.000Z

...so to update: last night, whilst wheeling my punctured bike back into town from the station, I found a new hubcap for John. This was lucky for him as had my front wheel not been flat I would have taken a different route. He happened to be up and about when I got home about 1am, which was good as he got his new present all the quicker, and let me tell you he was delighted. Here is proof.

It is easy to see why many would consider this to be the finest 'cap in HM J's rapidly burgeoning collection - it is more intricate than the other 2 and boasts shiny stud nuts (non-functional) which, while adding measures of machismo and street credibility, are not overstated to the point of opulence. It plays a diplomatic role between a normal, down-to-earth wheel mounting, and a more extrospective and socially aware statement of consciousness: bold yet caring and sensitive. In short, a fine hubcap, all the more pleasing for it's well considered balance. (8.2/10)

John's New Hobby

2006-03-24T22:35:00.000Z

Last week John discovered the new hobby I made for him - collecting hubcaps. (NB these were not found on cars, but rather abandoned by the roadside): I found one on the first night, and then I found another the next, and so far he has 2 whole hubcaps. He is very happy with them. Here they are pictured below, first a smooth and roundy one, and then then a more acute and dynamic one, attractively displayed on the light:

One unresolved issue is what will now become of these lovlies - we could try and trace their real owners and give them back, or we could sell them on ebay, OR, we could make them into a battle-robot to participate in the popular TV show RobotWars.

I think that a Robot that bats the others with hubcaps could be a real contender. It would look a bit like this...

... however, the real problem would be coming up with a suitable name to strike fear into the hearts of goth/engineer opponents.

Dental Provision

2006-03-22T16:42:00.000Z

I was very happy yesterday as it was a New Toothbrush Day. It is a mysterious joy to buy and use a brand new toothbrush and be able to feel the difference in tooth hygiene that comes only once in the life of any toothbrush.

The old one was beyond its best and slightly splayed, it was no longer fully capable of doing its job. Don't get me wrong, it was a fine brush, and had been a worthy companion in 3 countries, but its time had come. So, upon by return from Deutschland I had one last brush with it yesterday morning, before throwing it into the bin and hence forcing the purchase of a replacement high up in the list of priorities.

Later on I was there, in Boots, buying more linctus cough juice nectar, which contrary to specualtion I am not addicted to - I can give up whenever I like. I may not have a cough any more, but I'm just being thorough. Anyway, with part 1 of the Boots mission complete, it was onto mission 2 - toothbrush acquisition! But there was an unforseen barrier -

While I am not a creature of strict habit, there are a number of instances when I will resort to the same simple thing even given a wide selection of possibilities some of which could be better. I do this mainly, I believe, because trivial choice scares me and can be overwhelming to the point of abulia. The toothbrush type I normally buy is great: easily manoeuverable, nice and firm, durable and most importantly offers very effective teeth cleaning. I have no reason to change.

But, as you may have guessed, there were none of them there! Oh, yes, there were many 'Medium' bristle strength ones, for small children, spinsters and people with inferior gums... but no 'Firm'ly be-bristled ones. I had 4 options: a) just leave and never buy a toothbrush again, b) ask one of the ladies if they would go and search for some firm ones in the stock room, c) leave, walk to another shop and look there or d) risk eveything and buy a different toothbrush model.

After carefully weighing up all of the options I decided that a-c) were overreactions and that d) held the one true path for the future. And joy unbounded! There was a 2 for 1 offer on! Hurrah. Problem solved, and I ended up with 2 brushes, when I had needed but one.

However, the Lord had a plan of provision. It turned out that HM John, when he returned from Spain late last night, had left his toothbrush there, and would have to have fetid teeth all night. The coincidence was too much for me and I gave him one of my 2 new brushes.

So happy was he that he quicky opened the packaging and had a good old brosse-a-dents as you can see from the following pictures:

In everything it appears, the Lord provideth.

Grace In Refuse Collection

2006-03-10T18:54:00.000Z

So, last night is, if you look in the Parish Newsletter, the night to put out the black bins, which are for normal, non-recyclable waste. I got home I think at about 2:30AM, and remembering that it was a thursday, and seeing other people had put their black bins out, I readied myself to do the same.

A few times recently I have not bothered to put the bins out, a) because we as a household do not produce much rubbish, b) because I doubt my housemates would notice as they don't know where the outside bins are and c) because I couldn't be arsed. However, yesterday I determined to be good and do it. And, imagine my surprise when I saw that my housemates had taken the rubbish out of the bins and put it into the black bin!

They had also confusingly put lots of empty plastic bottles into plastic bags... and I'm really not sure why - probably masonic.

Anyway, this must have thrown me, as putting the plastic bottle-filled plastic bags into the bin, I then forgot to wheel the black bin to the front of the drive to be emptied at the discretion of the binmen the next morning!

Having suffered from a diapause, my body stole 10 hours of my life in sleep, leaving me to get up at 1pm. When I looked out the window onto a bin-less drive I realised my error. Oh dear. The bin was full and in 2 weeks would now surely be overflowing.

After breakfast I prepared to leave only to see the dustcart come past the house! It hadn't really been to late, and it could be too late now, except for the fact that it had to go down the lane to turn around before coming back to the main road. So, quick as a flash I got the bin out the front and flagged down the Refuse Officials.

Thankfully, they stopped and after a mild berating took my bin and emptied it! Hurrah! Ask and it shall be given unto you. While they themselves weren't the most graceful amongst men, their accession was an amazing reminder to me, in what was still ostensibly morning, of GRACE and all that that represents - the undeserved-ness of everything I get everyday.

Great!

Fish Rescue Update

2006-03-08T03:33:00.000Z

Previously I have described the methodology for rescuing prize-winning Koi Carp from beneath a thick ice pall, namely to pour on hot water to gradually melt the ice, but REMEMBER, no smashing the ice, as the fish might have little fishy heart attacks and die.

In the recent cold spell the pond has, once again, become well frozen over, entombing the fish. It was with interest that I received a phonecall from HM J, having seen him just arrive home but moments before.

"Pond's frozen. Look," exclaimed he, and looking out the back window I saw that he was not mistaken.

I then saw him accidentally pick up the cast-iron garden chair (pictured left) and accidentally toss it onto the ice, "Ooops." Whilst the chair caused a ruction, the ice held firm, even when the chair was followed by the cast-iron table (below right) "How clumsy of me!". The ice cracked some more. However, none of the fish appeared, at least outwardly, to be suffering from a myocardial infarction contrary to what we had been lead to believe by the Landlady lady. Tougher than they look these Koi Carp.

So they lived through that one. But the ante was upped and things came to a head a few mornings later as the pond had been frozen for some lengthy period now - it was a time for action: something needed to be done...

So, HM J and I set about boiling pans and kettles to melt through the ice and free our scaly friends. This we did and formed a number of air holes. Success! Or was it?

It was not totally satisfactory: it was ok, but something was lacking - more was needed. Noticing this ozone of nonplussedness, HM J, sprang into action, and, quick as a flash picked up a paving slab (shown left) and set to work, systematically redefining the ice-scape on two sides of the pond, battering through the ice with Herculean blows. Bash bash wallop wop! ... and before you knew it half of the pond had been liberated!

Still, there appeared to be no signs of fish mortality, which merely served to encourage us towards further violent ice disruption: dredging out the newly formed icebergs, we propelled these with force at the remaining ice sheet. It took a while, but all of the ice became freed from its former bondage. And, even after some pretty major disruptions to their submarinal existence the fish not only did not all die, in fact none of them died, and as the picture below clearly shows, they actually appeared to be quite happy and showing signs of mild flirtaciousness.

So the old lady was lying, which was not necessarily her fault, but she had been mislead by an urban myth, which has been thoroughly and rigorously tested by myself and HM J, and proven to be untrue.

Go on, smash the ice. It's been scientifically proven.

Toilet Confusion

2006-02-22T19:19:00.000Z

So, Italy is a mad place for toilets. Indeed, in the public toilets between the Piazza Del Popolo and the Villa Borghese in Rome the concierge, if that is the applicable term, invited me, instead of waiting in the Gentleman's to use one of the two currently occupied cubicles when they became free, to advance into the Ladies, and use one of the ones in there.

I'm in no way ashamed to say that this is exactly what I did, and actually it wasn't the first time. It is probably of interest to many boys that the Ladies loos are generally very similar to the Gents, except for a distinct lack of cubicles (although there were none in the gents in the toilet in question), and a slightly more spacious, roomy feel. Other than that, very similar.

Another interesting toilet thing in Rome can be found on the Corseo Rinascimento. The sign, as shown above clearly indicates, in the universal language, that toilets are close. Note the Male sign, the Female sign, and the Disabled sign. Indeed, there are Male and Female toilets (the Male ones with an en suite tramp), in each partition two cubicles, one of which is for disabled persons. So, ostensibly the sign is correct. The one main problem is that the toilets are down here:

That's right, down 12 steep steps. Obviously not all disabled persons are unable to negotiate such barriers, but it does seem rather unfair.

Of course, if at the bottom of the flight of steps there was not a 90 degree turn and instead the toilets opened out straight ahead, or even if there was a luge-like curved wall, then at least the intrepid / desperate wheelchair user would be able to make it down there in case of absolute emergency. And whilst they may be trapped down there for an undetermined period of time, to my mind that's certainly the lesser of two evils.

Quite remarkable!

Normal Horse Serum

2006-02-22T18:29:00.000Z

Our Departmental Safety Officer came upon this and showed it to me:

The question is, is it serum which has been collected from a horse in the normal way (whatever that may be exactly), or is it serum from a normal horse, not a mutant horse?

I've injected some into my housemate John while he was asleep to see if it gives him normal Horse Powers, but as yet no signs of change.

Dirty Van Messages

2006-02-07T17:29:00.000Z

Winter is the season of the dirty van, accompanied by inscribed witty messages. After a non-exhaustive study, I have decided that these messages can be sorted into 4 main categories:

Cheeky
Dirty
Abusey
Exceptions

The wit category is dominated by variations of a few well tried and tested forms, for example, "Also avaliable in white", "Do not clean - test dirt" and the cheeky "How's my speeding?". Mention must also be made here of the 'pathetic fallacy' wit of vans which say "Clean me", or the more progressive "Plough me", as though the vans themselves were alive. They are not of course.

The second classifcation of dirty, is dominated by a single message - "I wish my wife was as dirty as this van" or somesuch similar. I heard that once someone had added "then I could write things on her back" to the original message, thus forming a 'category bridge' between cheeky and dirtyclasses. Impressive.

There must have been a time, when these were funny, but with time and desensitisation we have grown to almost completely ignore them. I like to think that each message arose in a single instance, and that all related messages form an evolutionary tree; an ancestry. Each new case carries forth the inheritance of the founding message. In each case, one person was responsible and they are the godfathers of all subsequent messages. Although tracing such people would be nigh on impossible, it would make a good programme for BBC4.

The third category is that of abusive messages and, let's be honest, they have not lost the potential to be funny - there is something constant and immutable about the comedy of writing "Hugh is gay" on, presumably, Hugh's van. I can also tell you that Los (whoever he is) Has A Hare Lip, and importantly that "John is a fat $£*%".

And so we reach the miscellaneous collection of exceptions, in which I shall include the art of Ben Long, who drew pictures by selective cleaning of dirt. I shall also include, as it is the inspiration for this whole post, what I saw the other day... On the side door of a BT vehicle, a roughly scrawn face comprising large circle for head, a sweeping smile and blobs for eyes. Beside this, written in a non-adept hand was "DAD IS COOL". And I thought that was really lovely and it cheered my day.

So, we can see that dirty van are not just a comedy institution, but also potentially a canvas for self expression.

I should also briefly mention that obviously winter is also the month of frost, and as such there is a whole transient message dimension... the best 3 are:

"I like your car"
"What would Freud say?" (must be written on a sports car)
"I know where you live"

Fun For Fur! Issue 1

2006-01-20T14:47:00.000Z

Upon visiting our country cottage, many people say "Yikes, what are those horrendous things!?" Not, of course, referring to my housemates, but instead to mine and 'Phantom' John's hand-made novelty decanters - a must for any serious gentleman.

Other, slightly less inspired questions follow, such as "are they real?", "what do you want them for?", "how could you be so cruel?" and "why? why? why??"

Some, people though ask "Dr Joe / John, how did you make them? - what is the secret?" And the purpose of this post is to recount in a photo-journalistic reportage style the necessary and requisite steps.

First you will need some RAW MATERIALS:

source of fur - best is a stole from an old posh lady or charity shop
bottle with replaceable cork stopper - port or sherry preferable
top notch glue (epoxy resin = good, pritt stick = bad)
knife for chopping, slashing etc

For ease, the bottle should be empty, but NB it is not wise to combine sharp knives, epoxy resin and the potential to give housemates fur moustaches while they sleep, with large quantities of port/sherry. Give it a day after finishing the bottle and then start is our advice.

First you should dissemble the fur from the stole or other fur source - use the knife for this part. You should end up with 2 piles - A) useful bits of fur, including heads, legs, tails, and main fur, and B) stuff which is not fur and therefore to be discarded. If you are unsure, please refer to the helpful pictures below.

So fur so good!

Personally, I would sort out the head/cork first - use of a large quantity of glue is necessary, as you wouldn't want if falling off when you are most in need of a restorative libation!

To form the head/cork, push the plastic top of the cork stopper firmly into the underside of the head section, and firmly adhere. Then fold in the fur edges carefully so that they curve around, but make sure not to stick them to the cork - that would be wrong. Ideally you want to end up with the top of the cork being masked by a rim of fur, which is important if you do not wish people, especially the very old and the very young, to realise that it may be filled with liquor!

With this achieved, you are free to start modelling your friendly animal decanter as you see fit. You may choose, as I did, to use a realistic style, arranging the fur in a natural way, running along the length of the body, mimicking a real animal.

Alternatively, you may choose, as John did, to stick it on any-old how in a capricious fashion for a more rogue-ish lovable effect. Either is great, but obviously do not feel restricted to these methods - experiment and come up with your own style...

If you make more than one decanter, then they can form them into a family -

Brandy - Daddy Decanter
Gin - Mummy Decanter
Rum - Uncle Decanter
Vodka - Teenage Decanter
Bitters - Small Child Decanter
Amaretto - Grandma Decanter

Obviously, being decanters, they should be filled with a decantus of choice e.g. brandy, which can then be readily and summarily dispensed. Here, because childern may be watching, lingonberry juice has been used to realistically mimic

the fluidity of assorted liquor types. And hopefully you can clearly see the effect of pouring.

There are many ways of customising your decanter for that personal touch. For example, the arms on mine are joined together facilitating a glass-carrying function. You may be limited in this, like John who only had short stumpy arms, which stick up all stunted and are incapable of supporting a glass. I should point out that this wasn't his fault though.

Although we have not experimented with making outfits for our decanters, I'm sure that if you felt so inclined, a hat, maybe a smart tie, or even a pair of dungarees could be constructed to suit, especially for a special occasion / themed event. The possibilities are unbounded.

So there you are; a handy guide which hopefully will have answered all of your questions upon this subject. I was thinking of contacting DeAgostini or some such similar publishers, to produce a fortnightly magazine -

But remember, while consuming alcohol decanted from a novelty animal decanter is indeed a great pleasure, that you shouldn't get carried away. That way lies drunkeness, sorrow and gout.
Also for those who do not consume alcohol, there is the definite possibility to decant a non-alcoholic drink instead - for example fancy juice, ribena or milk.

Weeds and Radios

2006-01-16T16:00:00.000Z

Last year I found out the answer to an interesting and important question, namely, how does Cambridge University Site Management cope with the problem of unwelcome inter-cobbular herbaceous growth (weeds that grow between cobblestones).

If you asked me how I imagined that such problems were handled, my top 3 answers would have been:

weedkiller
gardener with hoe / trowel
team of specially trained rabbits

All of these are good answers, but not THE ANSWER which, as I discovered by chance when I was walking towards town, was to employ the use of an industrial-size blowtorch and vapourize those naughty weeds. They won't be growing back in a hurry!

Initially I was struck by the 'nuke-them-all' overkill nature of such an approach, but then I realised that it's probably as fast or faster, and more effective at permenant weed despatchment than the other methods (with the possible exception of 3 in certain circumstances - e.g. specially trained rabbits using rabbit-size blowtorches).

'Why are you telling us this Dr Joe?' you may well be asking... Well, it is because this is the first of two blowtorch-related anecdotes, and I think it rare for one man to have two blowtorch stories in such a short space of time. The first was a warm-up for the second, which I shall now relate:

For Christmas some people grouped together and gave Debs a smart new shiny car stereo, as the previous one had broken, trapping a tape inside, and even despite efforts to fix it by stabbing it with scissors, it remained broken. Stephen had asked me if myself and Dave would fit it, to which request I assented, making clear however that I was not a Dr of Car Radios, no, and had never done it before, but really how hard could it be... Stephen, with poetic licence, told Debs that I was an absolute expert and had done it loads before - 'that Joe, he knows what he's doing!'

And indeed this positive thinking rubbed off and that day as I borrowed the keys I was anticipating a 30 - 60 minute procedure - 3 hours later in darkness and near-zero temperatures we finished with a working radio! Or did we..?

It took an hour to remove the radio from the dash, partly because of incompetence/taking too much care, and partly because the plastic clips holding the wire sockets in broke, locking them in securely. There were more problems as the previous radio had been wired in using only tape, which, with the passage of time, had degraded and fallen off. The car wires, which were now a mess were not coloured following a standard code. I then broke the glove compartment. It was very nearly sweary-smashy time until Dave arrived with a BLT+ (I can't remember now, but there was an extra specialness - avocado?, do remind me).

Off Dave went to get some more kit: his multimeter, a light to allow us to see, some tape, some solder and of course, the bit you have been eagerly anticipating, his blowtorch - a small and easily manoeuverable chef's one for making a crisp creme brule.

So there sat Dave and I, in a parked car in east London, with the windows all steamed up, a miner's light lighting our confuse'd brows, which were further highlighted in brief bursts of blue light as we used the blowtorch to solder wires together. To the casual passer-by / policeman it must have presented an interesting although generally non-remarkable sight. (Only one man was excited enough to make any form of inquisition - and that was by shouting "Alrigh tmate! Wokin hadd mon? Yeah", on both forward and reverse legs of his journey to the shop. I of course responded customarily "Hi, hmm, yeah!").

Being more accustomed to soldering with a soldering iron, using a blowtorch instead presented a steep learning curve for both Dave, who wielded it and myself Joe, who stood to lose a number of non-essential yet desirable faculties if Dave should err. After a number of failed trials, an effective blowtorch solution (EBtS) was arrived at, which minimised the production of noxious burnt plastic fumes, and also the frequency of Joe's fingertip burnings and molten-solder-on-Joe's-hand incidents. Even though it was a cold evening, my hands were, at least on average, at a pleasant temperature.

So we soldered the speaker cables and power cables in, and all was well, until we found that the double wire joints installed further up by the previous wirer were all faulty. So we had to start again, but with a much shorter dashboard clearance and consequently a much higher potential for flesh burning. Thankfully this was not one of Dave's psycho-days.

Refreshed by cups of tea (which reinforced the steamed window effect), we finally reconnected all the wires, and put the central dash back on, and slotted the radio in. And except for the glove compartment which was still broken) it was finished! Or was it..?

Off we went for some more tea, some cake and Lord of the Rings RISK.

However, this is not the end, oh no. For later that week I received a TXT MSSG, informing me that the radio had now ceased working! Disaster. The levity and feeling of fulfilment which accompanies the success of such ventures was dashed. We had not done the job properly, and naturally both Dave and I, being male, took this as a personal failure, and a blow to the old self esteem.

I am happy to say has now been resolved through the further use of a blowtorch, not only to solder some more wires together (dodgy fuse casing and connector), but also to melt/burn the glove compartment hinge for to embed reinforcing washers - in case you were interested. The infused molten plastic has mainly rubbed off my fingertips now, only to be replaced by a strange blackening associated with handling artichokes (another king amongst foodstuffs). So the job is now done, hopefully, and both radio/cassette player and glove box function properly.

In celebration Dave took me on a shopping binge - first to IKEA, where he ran off and got lost in 'Plasticware' and then blamed me, and where I purchased a tenderising hammer, a giant ice-cube tray and some candle flares to fill Dave's front room with smoke, and then a man and his ladyfriend attempted to appropriate my trolley so as to take my £1 coin, but I soon put a stop to their dirty tricks!

Thence to Tesco for victuals and wifey-treats. Indeed there was more excitement there as I, returning from a biscuit scouting mission, was told by Dave, already ensconced in the queue, to take his place as he ran off. The queue shortened and then it was 'our' turn and then time for me to pay for all his shopping! But then, like in Chariots of Fire, day came sprinting along in apparent slow-motion - bar of chocolate in one hand, pot of fancy yoghurt in the other... And all was well, until I filled his front room with flare smoke...

Cheese Inquisition Lady Makes Dr Joe's Day

2006-01-12T16:23:00.000Z

I have made a new friend today!

I have a cold. The first one I can remember for many a month, and I was going to buy throat sweets after buying fruit on the market - Vitamin C? check! drugs? lock and load!

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a survey lady, complete with clipboard advancing. In my experience, they get within 10 metres of me and then realise that this is not the CLASS X gentleman that they were looking for but some lower life form, and let me pass by. However, she appeared to have some kind of missile-lock on me and as I got closer I realised that she, unlike all her preceding survey-mongers, was not going to pull out! So I played it cool.

Survey Lady: "Hello, I'm doing a survey. I was wondering if can I ask you some questions?"
Dr Joe (aka me): "Yes"
Survey Lady: "Do you eat cheese?" (I like this style of survey)
Dr Joe: "Yes"
Survey Lady: "Do you ever eat foreign-style cheese, like feta?"
Dr Joe: "Yes"
Survey Lady: "...and how about brie?"
Dr Joe: "Yes"
Survey Lady: "Good. Now, what is the profession of the head of your household?"
Dr Joe: "Eh, what?"
Survey Lady: "Who is the head of your household?"
Dr Joe: "Well, I'm the oldest one, will that do?"
Survey Lady: "Yes dear, and what do you do?"
Dr Joe: "I'm a scientist..."
Survey Lady: (adopts quizzical expression)
Dr Joe: "... a research scientist"
Survey Lady: (still quizzical) "Really, are you sure?"
Dr Joe: "Yes"
Survey Lady: "Because you don't look like one!"
Dr Joe: "I'll take that as a compliment!"
Survey Lady: "That's how I meant it!"
Dr Joe: "Good"

It was at this point, i.e. when she said that I didn't look like a scientist that she became my "person of the day"! Hurrah! But there was more...

Survey Lady: "Now, do you eat milk?"
Dr Joe: (ignoring obvious pedantry)"Yes"
Survey Lady: "Butter?"
Dr Joe: "Yes"
Survey Lady: "How about cheese?"
Dr Joe: "Yes" (cheeky! - she already knew the answer)
Survey Lady: "...and yoghurt?"
Dr Joe: "Yes"
Survey Lady: "So, why are you so thin then?"
Dr Joe: "It's not my fault - I am trying to put on some weight" (pats belly)
Survey Lady: "Oh, I hate people like you!" (I think she was just joking)
Dr Joe: "Sorry!"
Survey Lady: "And how often do you buy foreign cheese products (list of options)"
Dr Joe: "B"
Survey Lady: "Now if you have a bit more free time, would you like to go into that building and you can have some free cheese and answer more questions about cheese?"
Dr Joe: "Maybe some other time"
Survey Lady: "Ok then, take care. We need more people like you!" (not clear as to why)

And I never saw her again. It has though only been 2 hours since. But more importantly I got back to the lab and found that I had not bought the drugs I had intended! All this talk of cheese eating habits had flown thought of throat medicine from my mind - she must have been a cheese siren, luring me away from hexylresourcinol-based throat salvation.

So I had to walk all back into town, but I have decided to forgive her, especially as she was so kind in her estimation of my appearance. Now I have the self-confidence to do anything!

Resolution

2006-01-10T15:10:00.000Z

Already it seems a long time since the turning of the year, which was celebrated in an unusual manner by running away, stomachs bursting from poussin, gumbo and baked apple, after setting off a firework on a roundabout on an M11 sliproad. The firework was strangely apposite as a metaphor for the year gone, as it didn't really leave the ground like it ought've to, instead it made a loud noise and exploded at ground level - exciting.

Well, you see, for the firework it was either there or through the letterbox of a neighbour as an opening gambit to meet them, get to know them better and all sing Auld Langs Syne together... I have now met 1 neighbour, and she is lovely, but I mainly travel under cover of darkness, and this is not the best way to meet neighbours, at least not in Grantchester.

Now, as we are in January, a month of looking forward and back, people ask me if I have any New Year's Resolutions. "Yes and no", I tell them cryptically but truthfully - following a rest and chance to think, I have a reinvigorated resolve to improve in both specific and general areas of my life, but then again these things existed before, and are not new but ongoing, and will continue to ongo. These things are the same things as last year, and the new year only serves as a measure of how much progress has been made or not made.

Instead I rather made a list of 2006 ACTIONS. Things that will be done this year - achievables, but not in an indefinite "I want to be a better person" type-of-a-way - these things must be done i.e. I have made them imperatives. As much as I have administation-itis, sometimes I like to tick things off on lists, or rather to scribble them out with a big pen.

But there is an exception, an important exception - a real resolution. To explain, let's backtrack to last year - September I think, and I was down in London on the Central line, which incidentally is my second favourite Underground line. There were free seats, but instead I contentedly perched on the misericord-like window seats at the end of the carriage next to the doors, you know the ones I mean. Interestingly and not entirely without relevance, misericord comes from the latin misereri (mercy) and cor (heart) - and means merciful. Anway, I was thus reposed, lost somewhere between thought and the stress of PhD thesis.

At Tottenham Court Road the doors opened and in jumped a young girl in a Leeds United football shirt, who shot past me, and was followed by a young boy, similarly resplendent in a white LUFC top. But the boy did not zoom past and stopping right in front of me, looked up at me through his specs and said "I want to sit there. Can I sit there please?" This made me really happy as it wrenched me out of my self-consumed torpor - "Yes, you certainly can".

His behaviour rather shocked his father, who had got on just after him, "What did you say?" he asked him, although I'm not sure if this was merely in reference to his use of the word 'please', or the fact that he was usurping strangers from their half-sitting-half-standing situations. And thus ensued one of the finest conversations I have ever had with complete strangers on the Underground - all about football and the fortunes of our respective clubs and the match they had just seen. Maybe it was because we were not Londoners that made this possible. They disembarked a few stops later, along with all talk of football, but what the little boy had said mysteriously stayed.

Later I prayed, asking God about what to do in a number of difficult situations, and all I heard was 'be more like that boy in the train'. Nothing more. I think it's about boldness, and asking for what we want. That boy was bold - bolder than I am - and he knew what he wanted, which was to sit where I was sitting. The fact is that his odds of sitting there were low - first, I was already sitting there, and secondly, he was small and had no real way of removing me, and third why should a big scary-looking man move out of the way for a small boy? Personally, I would have difficulty asking a man, who was as proportionately larger than me as I was to the boy, to move because I wanted to sit where he was.

But the boy was bold. He didn't see all the problems. He didn't appear to consider what I might think, say or do, or the complicated inter-personal code of grown up society. All he knew was what he wanted, and he asked for it, AND which is more, he got what wanted and asked for! "Ask and it will be given to you." Asking requires boldness, which is rewarded.

It is not currently fashionable in christianity to 'want' things - i.e. we should want God's Will to be done, and our list of wants and desires is not important, in fact it's probably dirty and wrong: for many piety outranks desire. Sometimes we want God to do everything for us and tell us exactly what to do and how all of the time, but we have free will, and our will counts for something.

It reminds me of The Godfather Part I, when Johnny, an actor, is rather pathetically and sycophantically asking Godfather for help;

Johnny "Oh, Godfather, I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do. "
Don Corleone "You can act like a man!"
(and then slaps him in the face)

Indeed, God wants us to -"in every circumstance and in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, continue to make your wants known to God." God wants us to want what He wants, but it is important that we do the wanting ourselves.

God wants us to follow desires, which if we are paying enough attention, should be generally in line with God's will, as they are part of who we are and have been put in us by Him, instead of always 'waiting on God' for divine intervention. Why not just get on with things? If they are in accord with God's Will they will go forward, and even if not, our boldness will be appreciated.

For example, looking back to the previous post on speed dating, the people there had made a positive move by saying "I have a desire to be in a relationship", and acting upon that. And, they are more likely to see that happen than if they had not admitted to this desire and acted so boldly. I believe that, while not necessarily resulting in relationship, such boldness will be rewarded;

"For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but of power and of love
and of calm and well-balanced mind and discipline and self-control."

I have many big decisions on the way in the next few months, and I am doing well at putting them off, but I want to be bold. I want to tackle things head on and boldly go where no Dr Joe has gone before, aiming forward, asking and, like the boy in the train, believing in receiving.

So my New Year's Resolution is to be BOLD. Bring it on..!

Freedom lies in being bold ~ Robert Frost

The need for speed?

2005-12-22T19:55:00.000Z

So, speed dating (italicised for go-faster effect)... it's just like talking to people, but with a few key differences.

I was not expecting to become a speed dater - rather, I was actually proceeding at a slow pace, in so many ways, before a sudden 'acceleration' into it. I was employed to DJ at the Getogether in Blackfriars, and after a morning in Cambridge, I assembled my heavy record box, and off I went on the train to the Big Smoke itself. I got to North Grenwich station - I no longer get confused - in the afternoon and was met by Deborah to go and pick up the PA.

Now, here, if this story wasn't exciting enough, a whole extra dimension was grafted in... while at N Gren, I found a wallet in the car park - really quite full of cards and moneys (£90) just before Christmas, which I then handed in and I hope they got it back and the Underground staff didn't steal it, like they sometimes have been found to do.

After suffering exposure to solvent abuse at New Life, off we went, PA on board! We then changed cars; disembarking, unloading, reloading, reembarking. Then to Blackfriars - The Evangelist Bar, which is quite a swanky joint, and really quite nice. Here, I unloaded the PA, again, and set it all up. Hurrah!

The story now truly begins, as people start arriving. I was quite tired, after all that, and sat down to eat my tasty tasty food at a table with some of the Speed Daters. And wonderful people they were - I'm not entirely sure why they were single. Anyway, as I sat there I thought, "My, this is nice, and I don't have actually do anything for the next hour", and slipped into mental neutral.

In fact and w.r.t. my imminent future somewhat embarassingly, when people asked me if I was doing the speed dating, I said "No. I'm just DJing", which some people took offence at, thinking I was deriding the essence of speed dating, which I wasn't... and this was fair enough - things may have been carefully organised and who was I to disrupt the balance? It's not that, unlike many christians (especially ones in Cambridge), who may mock and stigmatise it, I have any problems or issues with speed dating, in fact I have a lot of respect for it and the people who do it, if, as indeed it was done at GeTogether, it is done in the right way and with the right atmosphere.

But, like the coming of spring things changed, and changed with blithe rapidity! Before I knew it Bukky had me in an arm-lock - "We need more men" she said. It turns out that some of the men had paid, but not turned up. So in a flash I was deposited infront of some young ladies who I had just told that I wouldn't be involved in the speed dating... One of whom was already rather unimpressed when I said that I didn't have a car, only a bike, and that any children would have to be transported by towing them along behind, either on a skateboard or rollerskates depending on their size.

Now, unfortunately, this quick change of pace, which was similar to the solemn and tortuous task of waking up each fresh morn, left me at somewhat of a disadvantage - still being in mental neutral remember - whereas my co-speed daters, were already mentally up to speed as it were. Nevertheless, I am not so easily beaten, as those who have seen me get up when the impending loss of breakfast is at stake, and I quickly got into the swing of it! Nitro!

I enjoyed Speed Dating although I have to admit that I was a charlatan and a cheat. The other people there had paid good money to be there and meet potential future partners, whereas I was getting paid to be there and did not really have any desire to find a potential future partner. I can talk, and I can talk about pretty much anything with pretty much anyone - albeit generally at a slower pace than that optimal for speed dating - and this is indeed what happened. But at the same time I knew that I was cheating; it was easy to talk, because I was putting nothing at stake, whereas they had put a lot at stake especially emotionally. I was taking no risks, contrasting to the many they were taking. All I can say is that certainly if I had been in a conducive partner-seeking gear, then I would have thoroughly enjoyed it, no problem.

Then I retreated off and hid behind the DJ table for the next 4 hours until 2am. However I was not "safe" there, especially from the probably gay chef, who bought me drinks and told me that he started DJing aged 8 and is famous in his home town as the 'little DJ'. Maybe he was just being friendly. Maybe it was friendly when he ruined my mix too...

The Last Laugh (Part 2)

2005-12-20T18:30:00.000Z

This became longer than anticipated, for which I appologise, however, I have included pictures and tea breaks along the way... skim reading is not advised.

I think that working with youth turns you towards wit - it is a sure way of generating respect. Most youths make very good use of their wit(s), and use them often upon suspecting or unsuspecting youth workers, and everyone else, to challenge, shock and show dominance. Wit works by making fun of people and knocking someone down a few pegs... If it is reciprocal then it is termed banter. If it is unreciprocal it may be labelled bullying.

Some people I know would say that wit is due to the "intellectual arrogance", and arises mainly in universities, especially Oxbridge. This is toss in my opinion - they've never worked in a factory or on a building site where, from my experience, banter is more prevalent than I ever saw in university. Yes the most famous 'Wits' are often posh intellectuals like Oscar Wilde or Stephen Fry. However, what about rap music, where battling, as exemplified by Eminem in 8Mile, is all about out-thinking and out-witting your opponent. What about Ant and Dec?(!)... hmm.

The truth is that wit is an integral part of our society (both high and low), from the X-factor, to The Weakest Link, to "Should have gone to Spec-Savers", to happy slapping; people are actively shamed. But where does it come from? - some say from insecurity or feelings of inferiority which causes people to try to push others down and elevate themselves. In some cases this is true, indeed Aristotle said that "wit is cultured insolence". However banter is a responsive process - if you give it you must be able to take it - which is far removed from ideas of personal elevation, and suggests both companionship and humility.

There is a third possible source of wit, stemming (as Dan aluded to in a comment on the previous post) from a morbid refusal of happiness. Cynicism and irony create a bitter humour, through which we laugh comparatively: if we are miserable, then the traumas and troubles of those around us can become funny either in a sadistic fashion (because we are not them, and we are glad their suffering is not ours) or in a masochistic fashion (because they are not us, and their suffering is incomparable to, and therefore less than, ours).

Indeed, while we term certain things tragi-comic, almost all comedy is basically tragic and that the reason for its comic value is the pity we feel. Charlie Chaplin (who I never realised did a film where he played his lookalike Hitler!), was described by Bertolt Brecht as embodying the pathos of the human condition - Chaplin films introduce a tragic figure e.g. the Tramp, who we then laugh at through their misfortunes, not out of spite but out of sympathetic pity (hopefully). Similarly, most comedy is composed of unfortunate characters, who we sympathise with because they are either stupid, innocent, incapable, abused or, ever more increasingly, because they are shamed.

Shame is the root of most negative self-concepts and dysfunctional roles. Tap into shame and you can destroy someone. While it used to be too risque, Hollywood comedy is embracing shame as an increasingly 'safe' source of laughs, e.g. Something about Mary, American Pie etc. These portrayals of shame are remarkably easily resolved by a bit of laughing, which is facile and crass. But is the comedy of shame necessarily a bad thing?

Anybody is capable of laughing at other people, but not many can laugh at themselves. Between people that can do both, there become fewer inhibitions and less 'sacred ground' - which can lead to openness and even accountability. There can be a social function to persiflage and verbal ribaldry! But the problem is that this can only happen if both parties realise this - it is certainly not everybodies' cup of tea. In fact wit can be extremely damaging if misunderstood or used inappropriately by second or third parties - "Wit is a dangerous weapon, even to the possessor, if he knows not how to use it discreetly" - Michel de Montaigne; "Wit without discretion is a sword in the hand of a fool" - Spanish proverb.

Not only should wit be used circumspectly, but also only as an enhancement, not as the basis of communication - "Wit is the salt of conversation, not the food" - William Hazlitt. Also, as Thomas Fuller observed "the more wit the less courage" - i.e. wit can replace real conversation and communion, but as such it is shallow and timid, removing the bravery needed for relationships.

Maybe Fuller knew this all too well about himself, as his friend Coleridge said in a eulogy: "Wit, was the stuff and substance of Fuller's intellect. It was the element, the earthen base, the material which he worked in; and this very circumstance has defrauded him of his due praise for the practical wisdom of the thoughts, for the beauty and variety of the truths, into which he shaped the stuff."

So wit can greatly bias peoples' view of you and what you say and do, and as such alters relationships, leading either to being ignored or even ridiculed. While wit, as described above may have some positive aspects, it can not only damage other people, but also disinherit and alienate the Wit him/herself. We are now left with the question "What is the role of wit in a constructive and forward looking society?" and even "Wit and Christianity: Discuss." Was Jesus witty?

The problem is that wit is a loose terminology, and can be taken to mean both positive and negative things depending upon your point of view and semantics. For me, I think the most constructive answer to the wit question comes from Lewis Carol:

"While the laughter of joy is in full harmony with our deeper life, the laughter of amusement should be kept apart from it. The danger is too great of thus learning to look at solemn things in a spirit of mockery and to seek in them opportunities for exercising wit."

"So Joe", you ask, or maybe even "So, Dr Joe", but this is not necessary, "why all this stuff about wit? What's the point, and what's the link between this and Part 1?"

Well, recently someone told me that I was 'quite witty'.

Given the thoughts, elucidated here-above, that were in my mind, it's no surprise that I found this slightly disturbing. I don't know if it was meant as a compliment or otherwise, but I didn't take it as one, rather as an indictment...

This is where I shall end Part 2; on a knife edge! Find out where I am going with this in Parts 3 and 4, for which there is still plenty think-writing to do. Tune in next week...

A thoroughly post-modernish conversation

2005-12-16T14:15:00.000Z

En route between late-opening smoky jazz pub drinking after playing football, and cheese-bacon burger at the Van of Life (for we have no food at home; I had a slice of cheese and cup of tea for breakfast) just around half midnight I was cycling apace down Chesterton Road. Walking on the pavement in the opposite direction was an old man, quite baldy, who was looking at me. I returned his gaze, when, much to my surprise, he smiles and says "Hello!" in a genuinely hearty and happy way.

I barely had time to collect myself and return his greeting with an "Alright mate" before shooting off into the night, towards cholesterol. I hope that he got a sense of the joy and gratitude I felt.

Thinking about it, it could have been a thoroughly post-modern conversation, devoid of any real meaning except that it happened at all. But interestingly it wasn't. It was a thoroughly pre-modern conversation - back to a time before modernist cynicism and mistrust invaded the community spirit. It mirrored in post modernism the emails sent by people who don't know me and generally dont want to, but it was not spam... there was an essential difference. He was a real man, who really wanted to say "Hello". And that was all he wanted. He didn't want to sell me anything or ask for change, which is the only time other strangers greet me in the street. 'Just a quick "hello" and off to bed.'

I was genuinely happy. Such things happen when I'm back home in the country, but not in central Cambridge. Maybe he was a madman. Maybe a Loch Ness monster from times gone by when people innocently believed in community. Or maybe a freedom-to-say-hello-to-whoever-I-want fighter, rebelling against the cold lack of soul in the city.

Maybe I imagined him. I hope not.

The Last Laugh (Part 1)

2005-12-14T19:09:00.000Z

My paucity of recent posting testifies to the slow brewing of ideas. It was Dave Howey's fault; he started it off. He did it without realising, and won't know until he reads this! Anyway, the scale of the process has become great and as such, like Dickens I intend to post in installments - I think 4 should do it...

Dave confustigated my thinking as he commented on nothing less than this very Blog here. He sayed:

"But Joe, your Blog is so serious, and you're never normally serious"

...and thus started the process at hand, (This pre-dated the Fish and Blind People posts, which were experimental - intended to not be serious; writing for an audience) in order to investigate what is ME, what is NOT and what is IMPORTANT.

The inconsistency can be described thus - I appear to not be generally serious when with other people, in fact the opposite, but when on my own I appear to be very serious, and not very funny at all. My thinking initiated thus - I rarely spend much time with any one person; either at work or at home or in London, or somewhere else... none of which involve the same people - a patchwork of loosely joined mutually exclusive events. This is what makes up my coat, my outer layer - Joseph's coat; which is aptly both amazing and technicoloured in nature.

Having a technicolour coat for an identity is quite easy, as it is self-sustaining, and formed as it is from a multifaceted illusion with respect to any individual, it is self-conceptual. Survival is simple within a cocoon. Who was Joseph with his coat? His father's favourite son. And without it? he was a slave - a man not known, at least for a few years. This dispossession deprives Joseph of his inherited identity - his bloodstained coat represents his death to his father, and his lack of coat makes him unremarkable.
Now, Mark Twain once said (before being plagiarised by Freud) that inside each man there are really 3 men;

the man he thinks he is
the man other people think he is and
the man who he really is

And I would redefine the third as the man who God has made me to be, which makes sense. The first two of these can overlap to varying degrees with the third and also with each other.

Identity has become an bit of a buzzword - I think people talk about much about "my identity" without understanding what they mean by that: it encompasses not only the 3 ideas listed above, but also the relationships between these. Small wonder people use it so liberally indeed. I prefer to think in terms of the individual ideas, y'know... for clarity. This is what I shall do.

If I start to dissimulate the ideas of who I appear to be along these lines, then what happens and what am I left with? At least partial answers and much more in the next episode... to be continued.

The Blind People of Doom

2005-12-12T17:08:00.000Z

I have many reasons to be paranoid, but it seems as if THEY, whoever THEY are, which for all I know most probably includes YOU, appear to have recently stepped up a gear in their campaign.

Blind people: we all know the dangers - they can be particularly vicious, but even I was astonished the other day by their voracity and cunning. I was walking through Kings X Underground, deep in contemplation, sticking to the sides, going against the large bulk of people coming in the contrary direction. "It seemed like just a normal tube journey, but little did I know what was about to happen."

I chanced to glance up as all of sudden, from the populous contraflow of a wide-enough passage, sprang a couple of apparently blind people, given such appearance by the presence of Wonder glasses and white canes, brandished like scimitars; long white scimitars. Their direct introduction into my path, one at 12 noon, the other coming in blindside at 10 suggested only one thing: ambush! I was trapped - solid walled angry Londoner bustle to the left of me, solid wall of wall to my right, blind assassins dead ahead and here I was stuck in the middle, like a pig in a basket.

Thinking quickly I realised that these were probably not blind people at all but sheepdog style ambassadors of doom, being controlled by the "come bye" and "away lads" of an unseen force, hell-bent upon my personal destruction. The realisation of their pseudo-visually-impaired status gave me a vital trump card advantage, which bought me the time I desperately needed to avoid a blind beating. I knew that they hunt in packs, and this gave me a plan - I had only one shot at it, but it was that or death/badly bruised shins.

I stepped even futher in towards the wall, on a direct collision course with Blind Man Noon, which also had the desired effect of drawing Blind Woman Ten O'Clock across into a flanking position; seeing me seemingly even further ensnared and at their mercy, she swooped in for the kill. But then, remembering everything Jason Robinson had taught me, I gave them THE STEP. For non-initiates, THE STEP involves a fake to one side followed by a powerful step to the other, sending the tackle of your oppositioni the wrong way, leaving you free to accelerate away.

It was a joy to behold as they, driven forward by their brutal and malicious lust, collided while I, receiving only a glancing blow to the trailing leg ankle from Blind Woman's stick, stepped sideways around them and thence thrust forwards into freedom and the thankfulness that only narrowly averted physical violence brings. Behind me I could hear the curses of dispossessed hounds as I, the fox, not only escaped but revealed their true nature for the world to see.

This was but one of a number of recent incidents, which are too numerous to individually expound upon, and also all too similar for comfort. For example the Tale of the Mad Woman with the Poisonous Suitcase, the Story of the Sinister Leg Rubbing Beardy Man, and the Intrigue of the Queue-Jumping Beardy Misery Man.

I'm living life on the edge, oh yes. I have given them the slip for the moment at least, but I am writing this from an undisclosed location as documented evidence that someone or something is plotting against me. If I never post again, you'll know why, especially if YOU are one of THEM.

I'm Jenga'd

2005-11-24T20:54:00.000Z

I'm Jenga'd. It feels like everyone is taking bits out and then piling them up upon my back again. They remind me of spines do Jenga towers, and mine is currently all a bit unstable. I'm not blameless in this, in fact I can't blame anyone but me: not sleeping enough, doing too many things, not saying 'no', staying in 4th around tight corners. Mea culpa indeed.

Personally, I adopt the 'No quarter' approach to Jenga; a mercenary style, whereby there is only one tactic - to make the tower as unstable as possible - generally by removing the outer blocks, especially on the bottom few rows. If you don't lose, someone else will quite soon. It's an aggressive gambit, and I play pool in the same way: I'd rather lose an exciting game than win a boring one. Go for broke. It is only a game.

The trouble is that approaching everything in a similar way, not just unimportant trivialities, means that life becomes Jenga-fied and right now I'm feeling that collapse is imminent. Life isn' t always a game.

Is this merely the embodiment of 'Live Now, Sleep Later' 24-7 culture - searching, and searching ever the more frantically as more and more things turn out to be not what I'm looking for?

I appreciate that rest is important and good, but I'm restless, and cannot help but push on, going to nitro where necessary and living life to try and optimise; carpe diem, although living for the day is too shortsighted, and it should be living today for today and tomorrow. The fact is that I can not only survive living in this 'free-form' organic way, but manage quite well... It's a mighty-fine balancing act, but it's more exciting that way, or is it just less boring?

It works well until bad things happen which were not factored in. Today I heard that a friend of mine from home has died of a heart attack - he was 26. In many ways it makes me want to do even more, to speed up and achieve things that I think are worth something, something which I currently cannot claim for the last 5 years. Maybe one day I'll see it differently.

I have passed the milestone of one third of my life expectancy, and what have I done of worth? It has been a time of learning, but now must come the time of doing, or the learning was of no worth.

The only way out I can see is in and through God, and I don't know how that's going to work, but without God my tower's coming down baby! I need God to help me walk and not get weary, but it is easier to say 'feets don't fail me now' than ask for that help. I also need wisdom on asking for the right things... means needing to know where I need help... means admission of weakness and failure.

Hopefully then the Spirit will infill my Jenga'd spirit and expand to support it when bits are removed, a bit like cavity wall insulation or Mr Muscle Foamer. Thus reinforced, life can go on apace. I'm quite possibly the first person to describe the Holy Spirit as the cavity wall insulation of my Jenga tower, and whilst people may obviously misinterpret or be rather confused by this, it works for me.

FryingFish

2005-11-24T18:27:00.000Z

"Curiouser and curiouser!” Cried ~~Alice~~ Joe for when he cycled home last night, there was neither housemate, nor housematess to be seen, and they did not make any appearance. However there, in the drive, surmounted upon the gravel, preventing the customary skid to be undertaken by anyone who has brakes that work, lay a new thing. All shiny and silver it was, and Hyundai Atoz by name proclaiming itself to be (if I drove it that might make me "Atozzer"). A car... but no housemateses. The car keys posted through the door were, though not addressed to myself, I admit, a great temptation - cruising in the Fens! Grantchester, burning past Geoffrey Archer, then to Trumpington, and on round, circling Cambridge in delirium... It could have been. But I showed incredible strength of character and resisted.

Instead I ate smoked mackerel on toast (not just one but 3), which I'm sure must also have been profligately consumed by King Henry VIII and as such is worthy of the title of a King Amongst Foods. Rich in Omega 3 too, so I won't need any of that fishy-milk.

This constituted a revenge upon the fish population of the world, as I had been cheated by their almost unbelievable cunning earlier in the week: pretending to have become trapped in the pond beneath the ice for over a week they cried insincere fish-tears, and begged for deliverance from their anoxic envirmonment. The note left by Mad Old Woman (landlady) talked a lot about fish husbandry; making, clarifying and reiterating the actions to be undertaken in any situation, conceivable or otherwise, and it mentioned that should the pond become so frozen, that breaking the ice was to be strictly avoided as it caused the fish to suffer 'heart attacks'. Aww. The empiricist, the anarchist and the madman within me all combined, wishing to test this using first the sickle and then the pick-axe... and then maybe the wrought iron garden chairs. (Here is an artists impression of what it may have looked like).

However, 'Good' Dr Joe won through by a small majority and followed the instructions set out, involving saucepans of hot water. It took about an hour of combined kettle-and-hob action to get through the 2 inch thick ice using hot water to create a large enough hole for koi carps in abundance for be liberated. Hurrah! I thereupon took the title "Dr Joe, Captain of Koi Carp Manumission". However my vanity was shortlived - as that night, the increase in ambient temperature lead to all of the ice in both ponds completely melting. My efforts had been a waste! And, although I cannot prove it, I am sure that the fish knew that this would happen and conned me into unnecessary action. I am unsure as to why they did this, maybe it was a trap gone wrong, or the other fish were trying to break in the front door and steal the stereo while I was occupied, or just a test of my malleability in preparation for a grander and darker scheme.

So to teach them a lesson I ate 3 of their fishy friends! Revenge was mine. Even though they did not directly witness it, partly because they are in the pond, and I was in the kitchen, and also because it was at night time, and consequently dark, I know that they knew! I doubt that they'll try any such thing again, and if they do, I'll be ready and waiting... with a pick-axe.

If I eat them, then Landlady Woman will never know.

Slow Puncture...

2005-11-21T18:45:00.000Z

My housemate is a disappeared agains. Last week he stole my bike pump away to London to constantly assuage his slow puncture, whereas he knew I needed it to fix my rather more rapid and aggressive puncture. This resulted in my acute displeasure and culminated in me sending him an email to the effect that I was tempted to break his legs and then steal his wheelchair tyre pump, whilst concurrently employing ASBO-boys to deflate his tyres on a regular basis... I have not seen him since he received this message. I even have looked in the small cupboard/refugee room in the house, with negative result.

In fact my other housemate, or housematess as she may be refered to also failed to come home last night... maybe it's a trap! I'll change all the locks, and see how they like it then...

I was saddened this morning when I realised that one of the greatest jokes ever, indeed a personal favourite of mine, has in the current state of the world become victim to comedy fate and become less funny; now it is more of a statement - and it goes a little something like this...

Jokemaster: What do most birds die of?

Jokefool: I have no idea. Please tell me.

Jokemaster: Flu! A-ha ha haaaaaaaa

Not so funny now eh? And while it never really worked for flightless birds such as penguins, emus and kiwis. It certainly doesn't work with H5N1.... just sinister.

2005-11-16T18:51:00.000Z

So, it turns out that my house mate still exists - he maintains that he had bird flu and was incarcerated in a small cell in a secure military hospital somewhere in a boat and forcefed Lemsip until he was better. In any case, his return is a good thing because I found, last monday, while rooting around for records in a charity shop - much akin and showing many similar behaviours to a French pig rooting around for truffly goodness - a wonderful grey Pringle-patterned cardigan... which I intend to wrap and give to him for Christmas. As he does not know of this blog the surprise should be effectively maintained - and if he finds out then I am blaming you. He has his own blog - here - which charts his alleged infection, amongst many other, more serious and important issues.

The oversized courgette received the stuffing it so needed - that of a bolognese style sauce, with an additional 'special' sauce, the result of a culinary war waged, which however was not only remarkably edible but "just right" as a drizzled dressing before a layer of mature cheddar cheese was overlaid and further baked. Tasty tasty, oh my. THIS WEEK - no idea. I think eating as many different types of things, especially different animals is what I want to do at the moment, and I think wild boar is top of my list.

I have also been on may more trains in recent history and it is remarkable how much easier I find it to identify with certain writers - especially Thomas de Quincey in Confessions of an English Opium as he outlines his 'Preliminary Confessions' and later on in 'The Pains of Opium', (read online here) and also the poems of R.S. Thomas which are stark and hard, covering isolation and the silence of God (e.g.s here). I think this ties in with what I mentioned before... below...

Was Marvin Gaye right?

2005-11-09T18:25:00.000Z

Imagine that one has not seen ones housemate for a while, at what point in time does one give in and phone them to see if they are still alive? Myself I sometimes spend 4-5 days away generally unannounced, behaviour which I find acceptable, however others do not. The general consensus appears to be to leave it between 1 and 2 weeks before giving in, so I'll give it a few more days and then we'll see.

In other news, this is the week, Thursday to be precise, when I am going to do some cooking again. I shall be cooking the giant courgette; if they are left upon the plant they can grow to the size of a marrow, and it is of course very important that we all are capable of distinguishing between these two vegetables. Question is how do I cook it? Stuffed, or more likely 'rammed' appears to be the discerning gentleman's method, but as that question closes, confusion over what I am to stuff it with has erupted! Mince? Chorizo and couscous? Chicken and white sauce? I shall of course be keeping the entire inter-web-net informed of all such crucial decisions.

This culinary expedition #3 follows hot on the heels of #1: making quince jam, and #2: skinning and stewing rabbit. Which strangely require almost identical recipes, apart from all of the ingredients - cut off the bits you don't want, chop up the rest, stew for a long time.

Trains for brains...

2005-11-01T12:49:00.000Z

The question for us all today is why I feel more inspired to be, do and create while on the train, excepting the Tube? Maybe it is mere time spent doing nothing, resulting in a vacuum subsequently invaded by creative mind juice. Or perhaps the motion and movement - the transient nature of your relationship to your surroundings elevates you mentally - but why? I think because the train is an enclosed space - it surrounds and shields but also distances and prevents contact. I am travelling through a thousand situations in that train but I interact with few if any of them; I fail to engage and I fail to experience... Perhaps the creative urge rises from within me as a reaction to this. A reaction which demands some form of interaction... be that mental or spiritual... to substitute for the interactions of which I am disavowed by the train and its metal walls.

Is my soul demanding more? Demanding a greater reality. Demanding to become more like the person God created me to be. Like Rubin 'Hurricane' Carter said

"It is very important to transcend the places that hold you... ...When I started writing, I discovered that I was doing more than just telling a story. See, writing is a weapon, and it's more powerful than a fist can ever be. Every time I sat down to write, I could rise above the walls of this prison. I could look out over the walls all across the state of New Jersey, and I could see Nelson Mandela in his cell writing his book. I could see Huey. I could see Dostoyevsky. I could see Victor Hugo, Emile Zola. And they would say to me, "Rube, what you doin' in there?" And I say, "Hey, I know all you guys."

Natural Born Blogger

2005-10-28T13:34:00.000Z

So, under 24hours into my new role as Capn Joe - Blogger extraordinaire, I have hit the creative despair of Blogg-block... I just don;t have anything worthwhile to say. In fact, i'm not entirely sure why i began upon this whole thing in the first place - merely to fill in the time i spend not doing other things? maybe more as a catharsis, or just as an ego-centric satisfaction that in my own opinion i;m worth listening to.

Something to consider as i continue this fine day. I'm off to the sunshine