The Word Cloud

Been thinking about blogs, how the experience differs for the writer and for the reader; how far they may end up from their original purpose and which ones fly.

To be clear, I’m not meaning the kind of blogs that are more like interesting essays or the kind designed to impart proper information. I’m thinking more of the interactive kind. The kind that doesn’t present a finished state, that initiates discussions, that welcomes a resolution.

Consider, if you will, the analogy of a dinner party. It’s made up of two words – dinner + party. i.e. the physical substance you eat in the setting it is, plus the company you dine with. It’s collaboration.

You need the starter fuel – the idea, the premise, the observation, the query, the food; then you need the people who will run with it: take it beyond what it was and morph it into something else, so that we’ve all learnt (been nourished), had engrossing conversations, and gone home sated with new understandings, new possibilities, new ideas and something to tell our friends.

If the host tries to control the event too much, the guests feel excluded, chat amongst themselves, make their excuses and leave (‘You must try this raw kidney and blueberry sauce – it’s divine; no, I insist.’ *slops it on*).

If the host makes no discernible effort, provides no stimulus or entertainment, then the guests can’t be bothered either and wander away grumbling (‘I schlepped all this way for some dinner, not a pot noodle and a peanut; I even had a bath.’).

Some meals may be more formal than others, the gourmet restaurant rather than the greasy spoon. Most of us would enjoy either at different times as long as they don’t pretend to be what they’re not. Hey, sometimes all we want is a plate heaped with cholesterol and calories, other times we appreciate the artistry of a matchbox-sized steak, a teaspoon of jus and four flirty chips nestled in a posy of exotic salad. Well, in the right setting, we might.

The spelling and grammar, structure and logical flow – that’s the courtesy we extend to our guests, to show we’ve made the effort, that we value their company. It’s finding the crockery that matches, putting out the best glasses, making sure there aren’t crusty bits between the tines of the forks and cleaning the loo. Oftentimes our guests don’t particularly notice what we’ve done, but they notice when we don’t.

Which isn’t to say that you can’t have a cracking party when the wine is served in coffee mugs, you’re eating charcoal and compost off a paper plate on your lap, and the host sits in their pyjamas as their cat’s sick in your shoes; it’s just a different type of party. You might grumble at a hair in your soup if dining Chez Heston, but shrug when round your mum’s.

It’s to do with authenticity, I think; and expectation. But above all, it’s about collaboration. It’s not about the host showing off their cooking skills (well, sometimes it is), nor the guests out to impress. It’s about tasting a morsel you haven’t tried before, getting involved with something that you don’t need to control, that will have a life of its own, that may grow up and leave you.

Without that give-and-take, that interaction, it’s hard to succeed. With it, it can fulfil all participants.

What leaves a nasty taste in your mouth? The person who won’t let others get a word in edgeways? The host who starts washing up when you’re still on the coffee and pondering a liqueur? The guest who doesn’t contribute very much and leaves with their pockets stuffed with your amaretto biscotti and takes away the unopened cheap wine they brought, having drunk all yours?

Despite what we think when we’re hosting a party, it’s rarely the food that people remember; it’s the company, the ambience, the expanding minds, the thoughts stimulated, the new understandings; the warm camaraderie, the mutual generosity, finding your secret worries aren’t so unusual after all; the surprises.

‘Thank you for having me.’

‘Thank you for coming.’

Like a good meal, a blog is more than the sum of its parts; it’s an independent entity, created by all. I think. And everyone goes home with a gift. Don’t you think?

Her-indoors came home with this gem from her office...and its true.....

 Some things to ponder:
It takes 7 seconds for food to pass from mouth to stomach.
A human hair can hold 3kg.
The length of a penis is 3x the length of the thumb.
The femur is as hard as concrete.
A woman's heart beats faster then a man's.
 Women blink 2x as much as men.
We use 300 muscles just to keep our balance when we stand.
 A woman has read this entire paragraph.
The man is still looking at his thumb...

You know, there was a time when I could go down the town with a couple of quid in my pocket and come back with two or three shirts, a pair of jeans and something for dinner.

Bloody CCTV, it's everywhere these days.

Literature comes from the upheaval in a writer's soul. If that upheaval isn't there, it should come from the works of another writer that is handy and easy to adapt.

Happy New Year!

This is just a friendly reminder about drink driving over the festive period, I went out last night and left the car at the pub and took the bus home. I was so very proud of myself this morning as i have never driven a bus before.

Wailing Wall in Jerusalem...



Wailing Wall in Athens.

An old German Shepherd starts chasing rabbits and before long, discovers that he's lost. Wandering about, he notices a panther heading rapidly in his direction with the intention of having lunch.

The old German Shepherd thinks, "Oh, oh! I'm in deep shit now!"

Noticing some bones on the ground close by, he immediately settles down to chew on the bones with his back to the approaching cat. Just as the panther is about to leap, the oldGerman Shepherd exclaims loudly, "Boy, that was one delicious panther! I wonder, if there are any more around here?"

Hearing this, the young panther halts his attack in mid-strike, a look of terror comes over him and he slinks away into the trees.

"Whew!," says the panther, "That was close! That old German Shepherd nearly had me!"

Meanwhile, a squirrel who had been watching the whole scene from a nearby tree, figures he can put this knowledge to good use and trade it for protection from the panther. So, off he goes.

The squirrel soon catches up with the panther, spills the beans and strikes a deal for himself with the panther.

The young panther is furious at being made a fool of and says, "Here, squirrel, hop on my back and see what's going to happen to that conniving canine!"

Now, the old German Shepherd sees the panther coming with the squirrel on his back and thinks, "What am I going to do now?," but instead of running, the dog sits down with his back to his attackers, pretending he hasn't seen them yet, and just when they get close enough to hear, the old German Shepherd says...

"Where's that squirrel? I sent him off an hour ago to bring me another panther!"

Moral of this story...

Don't mess with the old dogs... Age and skill will always overcome youth and treachery!
Bull Shit and brilliance only come with age and experience.

Twas several weeks before Christmas….

 

 

So here we are then, just twenty-one drinking days left before Christmas….

 

Soon we will have the inevitable blogs by people who probably eat nut roast for Christmas dinner, about the commercialism of Christmas, the follow-on blogs about how Christianity is now just a mass marketing tool and actually based on myths and that in our multicultural community, Christmas is actually prejudicial and insulting to those living here legally or otherwise who ascribe to other faiths and cultures and have come here to inflict (share) their customs on us.

 

The nativity plays will once again be morphed into some politically correct crap and our youngest grandson will be asked to play Bin Laden in their playgroup play.

 

Joy….to the world.

 

But I will ignore all of that and pursue Christmas on my own terms. And if anyone attempts to express their right of freedom of speech and tell me I am insulting their culture I will invite them to fuck off.

 

And now… to the prezzies,   Her-indoors will take some thought this year. Last years gift of a £200 voucher at Ann Summers was not exactly received with enthusiasm. I am thinking perhaps a case of Crater Edge Riesling from South Island New Zealand.  Who knows….I may get the same results…….

 

The daughter will be getting a book on personal finance and perhaps a self help book on finding a decent spouse. If either of these books have any positive effect, my life will be improved.

 

Son will be getting one way airfare to Columbia with a t shirt saying “Hostage” in Spanish.  That will hopefully give him a new adventure to pursue for the next several years…..

 

And now the grandsons…Number one will get a holiday with his mates in Magaluf. Travel insurance and private medical on his return….

 

Little one wants the old Massey Ferguson out the back. I will also get him a set of Calloway pro irons which I will look after for him until he is old enough……..

 

 

 

And what will Father Christmas put in your stocking?

Now moved on good advice to the Forum section. I will remove this from Blogs later today...... Part of my book, presently being edited.

The setting is French East Africa in a remote 130 man post  of the French Foreign Legion near the frontier with Ethiopia and Somalia.  We had just returned from several weeks of patrols for refit.  

Along time ago...in a land far far away?

CHAPTER SEVEN

GARRISON LIFE JIM

...but not as we know it

 

     We had settled back into garrison life at Oueah. Most days would start with some sort of Physical Training, a run, the obstacle course, or on more relaxed days, football, volleyball or basketball.  It all sounds relaxed until you take into account the idea of playing football with serial killers.  Almost every event ended with a punch-up of some degree.  After the morning sport, those not on a guard or service commitment would usually descend to the maintenance bays to work on repairing and maintaining platoon equipment. This was very relaxed and the drill was to get all of the work done quickly before it became too hot and then drift off until the mid day formation.  Weekends were adjusted to living in the Middle East and Friday was the new Saturday.  Weekend passes were available and baring any major incidents in the week, usually given freely.

     One of our two platoon medics, Radic, was on the weekend pass list and he shared a taxi with us all down to Djibouti City (DC). He had his own plans and we would not see him again during the rest of our stay.

     DC had several areas off limits to Legionnaires and one of those was the diplomatic zone where the embassies were all located. This area included nicer bars and restaurants as well. We had no interest in these areas and we found our amusements that weekend in the main district of DC.  Our weekend passed without incident and we returned to camp forty-eight hours later skint, diseased, happy and hung-over.

 

Dinner for one....

     Radic did not make the first formation the next morning and it was soon announced by the Sergeant Majot that Radic was en Taule (Jail) for crimes committed over the weekend.  It seems Radic was lonely for the company of western women and after a few beers he staggered off into the prohibited embassy area in search of True Love. Radic had avoided all of the PM  (Military Police) patrols but had blown all his money by the time he bar-crawled there.  Not being the materialistic sort to let lack of funds get in the way of a good time, Radic blagged his way into a fine Chinese restaurant and ordered himself the banquet set meal for three.  He washed it down with several large whiskies and two bottles of fine red wine. 

 

     By the time the bill arrived Radic was a catatonic drunk and a total mess.  The management soon realized they had something they couldn’t handle and they called the PM’s.  The PMs arrived and were led to Radic’s table. Radic was by this time on the floor with his uniform trousers around his ankles, his knob out, and was pissing on the carpet while entertaining the rest of the customers by singing “Le Boudin” at the top of his voice.  The PM’s got him on his feet and began to drag him out when the head waiter pointed out that the bill has yet to be paid.  The corporal-chef of PM’s had to stump up the funds for Radic’s jolly. They were not amused and by the time Radic was returned to us in Oueah he was sporting a broken nose and a black eye.

I never heard if they left a tip.

A few weeks later...

The Great Dope Deal.

     Radic drew his pass and this time was accompanied by the platoon buffoon and chief stuntman, Gorgh, on his trip to DC. They had a fair bit of money, and a forty-eight hour pass so they decided to get a couple of rooms in a shitty hotel near an off limits area known as Quartier Deux.

 

    The Gorgh and Radic emerged from the lobby of their hotel after just arriving and a PM(Military Police) jeep pulled up to them and asked to see their IDs and passes.  They duly showed down their documents and the PMs could find no cause to pull them in.  Just as the PM’s jeep drove off, a large envelope dropped out of it at Gorgh’s feet.   Gorgh picked it up and opened it and showed the contents to Radic. There in the envelope was large amount of cannabis.  They couldn’t believe their luck. They were thinking they will get stoned, sell the rest and have a great weekend for virtually nothing.

 

     Just then the same PM jeep rounded the corner having circled the block. The jeep pulled up in front of Gorgh and Radic and the sergeant of PMs asked them “What’s in the envelope, lads?”.  Gorgh’s reply that the envelope fell out of their jeep a few moments before was met with a truncheon to the head for resisting arrest. Gorgh and Radic were arrested twenty minutes into their forty-eight hour pass and driven off the Gabode military police station.

 

     They were put in the cells and tortured/interrogated for the next two days.  They were repeated asked about whom their connection for the drugs is and their reply that it was the sergeant of PMs was met with even more torturing.  Gorgh and Radic being men of Eastern European origin are not fazed by the injustice of torture for no reason.   These boys were weaned on electric shocks.  The PMs became bored after a few days and they were released without charge.  Radic was reminded on his way out of the cells that he still owes the PMs for a Chinese meal. It dawned on him that this whole episode was probably in retaliation for his previous fuckup, that or it was a slow day down at the dungeons in Gabode.

Radic, a true Legionnaire of the ER, invited them to go fuck themselves.

When Radic and Gorgh return to our unit and relate their misfortune neither of them can understand why we are all laughing hysterically at them. I conclude that ironic humour is not common in Eastern Europe.

Mental note to self….Don‘t go on pass with Radic.