Something Inside

I been reading a book titled Darkley Dreaming Dexter, it's from the TV series called Dexter. In this the reader is treated to a first person perspective of the dark devil who lies within Dexter and how this Devil's thirst is satisfied. In quite a moralistic way, he is an unlikely 21st century hero. Like the TV series the book reads as a continuing narrative and is quite entertaining. I'm enjoying it.

What it makes me think of is the elusive trait of motivation. How this thing is difficult to find. But how on other occasions it is a complete mind set, a devil lying within with a purpose, and in the right circumstances pretty useful. I think of the time I had spent going to evening classes and the years past in gaining additional education. How it was my persevering devil who strode against the odds. As time passes attendees to classes would drop. Near the end of an academic year the class of 30 plus is down to 10 or less.

I consider Long Haired boy, and wonder what could motivate him. If there is anything other than Art. Art is OK, don't get me wrong, but the reality of this world is, Art is an easy opt out for anyone who can't do anything else. Because at heart we each and everyone of us are artists. To me Art is a common thing and only extra ordinary people actually get anywhere in life making it a living. Art in the pure sense of the word, not may I add as an interior designer for example. So it can be useful, but only if it leads on to something else.

So although I like Art my thoughts of it as providing a career or bread and butter are somewhat circumspect. Tracey Emin and her alleged pieces of work turn the world upside down, because she actually gets money for them. I know I can do just as well as her, I could ring up a gallery and ask them if they want my unmade bed. Even say I puked in it and had the flu pretty bad, which I'm sure would add to the value. Unfortunately my name's not Tracey. Yes, she's an artist, a con artist at that. The rest of us who see her stuff as art well, you have to ask of the children's story. The one where a king is in his-altogether. Was he in his-altogether? Now have a look at her unmade bed and seriously convince the world it is art.

The thing which lives inside comes out when there is an insatiable desire needing met. Dexter's is the homicide of homicidal maniacs, mine was for a while improving my own education. If only I could light a match an begin an incandescent flame for Long Haired boy. Incite his desire, his motivation, see a different side to him, one where he shines and his very presence inspires the rest of us. Perhaps I ask too much. Perhaps I ask to see the passion. For the dweller who lives inside is the epitome of passion, they sit side by side, eat similar foods and if true persevere till their thirst is satisfied.

Catch up Homer

Got to speak to Sparkling Eyes and feel a lot better for it. She'd been dangling me on a chain, swinging it about and then putting me through a mangle. No doubt i deserved it. She's probably nodding her head right now. She told me how she'd got a bargain on 600 doughnuts for 15 pence, but they had to be eaten today. My eyes widened so I asked if she could put a few in the freezer for me. Then I got told off for thinking of my belly. Seems to me I'm going to start looking like Homer Simpson. Well, if you gotta have a hero why not Homer I ask.

The pigeons are still there, though I have fantasized about dressing up in a Ninja outfit climbing up the wall and knocking them off their perch. But real life don't happen this way. It rained pretty hard this morning so I expect my feathered nemesis's decided to stay in for an extra long snooze. A small part of me is wondering if i'll get pigeon-fancier-lungs, I hope not.

Got a ticket to see Sparkling Eyes, can't wait. We're going to see a rock concert of some kind as well. The Twang. As long as they sing quitely and I can hear myself think i'll be ok. Hmm wonder if they like doughnuts?

No ringing

I sit and wait. Sparkling Eyes should be ringing me but the phone don't make a sound. It's there on the desk. Silent. Am not going to will it. It's not up to me.

Saw Long haired boy and Dancing girl this evening, they asked for some help with their homework, so a sprinkled some fairy dust on it. Which washed away unneeded words. I left their work all in the words they used, just fewer of them. Yet reading much clearer. Little Monster Boy had no homework to show me. Considering last time I went round he got upset with me putting him on the naughty step. I became the big bad uncle. It took longer getting Monster Boy to do his homework by his avoiding it, than the time to complete his homework. So much energy gone to waste. I wish I'd had an Uncle like me who made me get on with my work and gave me help when I needed it.

Went to bed early last night after all. Must of slept for 11 hours. When I hit the hay my head felt like a steal band had tightened around it and was crushing my brain. I'm taking ecineacia pills as well. Hopefully they will help.

OK looks like I'll give up on the phone. So I can't be important enough. Oh well what can I say, not much apparently.

I'm not well Achoooooo

I really shouldn't be at the Fish Factory. I don't feel well, my head is splitting, I sneeze every 10 minutes, cough and am sure I'm running a temperature. But I sit there at the Fish Counter passing on my germs to my colleagues. I've noted a couple of the very big fish are sneezing as well. The lurgies is going around, by the middle of next week they will all have it and I'll be feeling better. I hope so. There's nothing like spreading your own germs around. As long as they don't mutate into some other worse germ and come back to bite your ass all should be fine.

At the Fish Factory they have a sickness procedure, it's a bone of contention with the Ritz people. The thing is, if you're ill, it's not your own fault. You should not be made to feel you have to come into gut the fishes. So when you do come into work, you hardly work at all, take a short day if possible, and make everyone else ill. Tell me there isn't something wrong with it? Because there is something very wrong with it.

I left the Fishes early and went to the pub. I don't know what it is but after a couple of pints of Guinness I felt a lot better. Though I'm sure it's not a recommendation the Quack would give. For a couple of hours I was almost normal. Well, as normal as I can be.

Sparkling Eyes is on my mind each day. But I'm waiting for her to contact me, if she don't then I'm obviously not important enough. I'm ill I need comforting, but Sparkling Eyes would go on about how women are a lot stronger than men and have to keep going through hurricanes just to make sure the chocolate biscuit tin is full. She made the choice not to let me talk to her, it's her decision now. I'm too ill, and am almost contemplating an early night. We'll see. Someone hand me over the tissues.

Northern Rock gets government garantee - Achoo

The big thing lately has been the effect of America's Sub-prime mortgages on the rest of the world's banking systems. I don't know why it is, but it would have to come from the U.S., I'd of thought having an embarrassment like Bush was bad enough. Nope, they throw another spanner in the works. So now Alister Darling has given Northern Rock a guarantee to fund all savings held in accounts. It is without president a judgement made by Darling 2 days late. Shares in N.R. have dropped ridiculously. Here is an instance of Darling's incompetency as a new minister. If he had any real brains the decision would of been made on day one. Looks like Gordon should go back to the drawing board and choose his cabinet with a little more savvy.


Savers in N.R. have acted like a frightened hysterical bunch. They actually put their savings in more jeopardy by panicking and taking out all of their life savings in a oner. They have followed the crowd, been sheep, been afraid, look out there's a wolf. RUN. RUN like your life depended on it. So they all did. I heard of one instance where a 94 year old man had cued up for several hours outside one branch. Here's someone close to pushing up Daisy's and he spends very valuable time queuing. Has he not got friends, family, or anyone in his life he could tell how much he loves, or just sit and drink tea. Quite frankly were I 94 years old, I really wouldn't give a damn.

On a moralistic note I heard on the radio how N.R. had been so philantropic. How it had given away millions of pounds to good causes in the North. It's sad such a noble company is having to run the gauntlet of panicked investors.

I'm not feeling so bright eyed and bushy tailed at the moment, having come down with a case of diphtheria. I'm sure it will pass in a day or two. As my smallest nephew once said "my nose is leaking" achoooo. I sure hope it isn't bird flu. Fortunately there hasn't been a case of it in this part of the world. But it always starts with one, achoooooo.

Pigeons, Zimbarbwe, being missunderstood

I've now rang up a pest control company and tried to explain to the the position of my pigeon problem. I told the man on the phone, the pigeons are under they tiles. He didn't seem to understand. It was like I was talking to someone who would of been a post-operative candidate for a lobotomy. He asked if there was access to the loft, I said yes, I explained Mr Travolta Pigeon's harem was under the roof tiles, and he asked if the whole roof was being replaced. I could of put my hands around his neck strangled and carried on strangling him, though I'm sure he would of still not understood. Force would not of enlightened his I.Q. even if it would of made me feel better.

I'm getting a little attached to my pigeons now. The last time I threw an old plastic plant pot up in the air at about 6:45 a.m. it scared them. Then I saw with new eyes how a flock flew around the houses in a big circle. They were beautiful. I don't want them to be harmed. I just want them out of the roof. A little like when Sparkling Eyes went on about her giant garden slugs which she'd called Bert and Ethel. She'd got attached to them. But there's a difference. Slugs aren't quite as big as pigeons and are easier to deter. Coffee works wonders.

I caught the news when in from the Fish Factory. Zimbabwe was a main item. Once called the 'bread basket of Africa' it is now a poverty stricken country where a loaf of bread costs a week's wages. Mugabe is a dictator of the worst kind, because his dictatorship is under the guise of democracy. Where in fact there is no democracy. People are tortured if they don't vote for him. He even has his own elite younger members called the 'Green Shirts.' They remind me of the Hitler youth. Anyone who does not vote Mugabe in the next elections will be killed, if not by his army then by the Green Shirts. He is without doubt a homicidal, megalomaniac, starving his own kind. If we consider there to be no God in this world, such a crime becomes worse still. Because the poor, the suffering of this world find solace in their belief. If there is no God, then they would have their fears and the choice of doing something and dying because they acted, or dying as a victim. But this is easy for me to say, I don't live there, I don't have their suffering.

In 10, 20 or 30 years from now, I wonder if my nephews and nieces will remember me? Of any influence I may of had in their growing up. Whether I was a stable individual in their life, someone who was around while they were young, when they needed it. Someone who helped when he could. And I hope made them laugh. I can't help it if my words are misinterpreted, but it's the view of the reader and this is what I meant in my last blog. Unfortunatelyl reading a passage can be interpretted in different ways. Wherever I am, in 10, 20 or 30 years time, I hope they smile and remember moments with me in affection.

I think I'll check up on studies by Thorndike, he trained pigeons to do some pretty complex tasks. Like getting out of cages by a series of levers, or receiving pigeon food. Psychologists in those days were called behaviourists. I could train my elite squadron of pigeons (Mr Travolta Pigeon permitting) to visit Zimbabwe and crap endless tons of pigeon excrement on Mugabe. Or better give them bandannas and they could become suicide pigeons, for the good of Africa, the one mission, take out Mugabe.

Unfortunately my humour button doesn't seem to work at the moment. If I were a pigeon, now that would be a different story.

Reflections on the week

The roofer has given me a quote, it's got to be done, I realised this morning it took about one hour for the pigeons to wake up from under the tiles and make their way to the local breakfast bar. I can take a conservative guess there's probably 20 of them up there. Mr Travolta Pigeon must have some pretty pungent pheromones at work. My only worry is if the roof repair is done a couple get trapped under the tiles and then become mummified. I'll have to check out the British Museum, I wonder if they have any mummified pigeons?

It seems the list of expenses goes on. One thing after the other. Roof, porch roof, guttering, central heating, porch wall pointing. Double Glazing. I had a short MSN with Sparkling Eyes she's worried about her mortgage with Northern Rock. The brief conversation descended into a swopping of worries.

When I think about may family's effort put into wishing me a happy birthday I'm a little dissappointed. Little Monster Boy didn't even draw me a card, Long haired boy just sent me a text and he couldn't turn up at the tea Big Mama had made. And Dancing girl didn't actually give me a card or do anything either. My other sister Mrs Talkative and children sent a card. Again no personalised little drawing from Angel girl, and besides the Not So Talkatives boys signing their cards no effort from them. Big Mama slipped 20 squids in her card and gave me a box of chocolates which were too sweet for my liking. So I'm now thinking about how much I give to my own family and whether they are worth it? I could try and put them on eBay, the problem would be I'd have to pay someone to take them off my hands.

Silly Sophia has started going to the pub again and she takes little monster boy with her. He stays up till late at night and is always complaining about not getting sleep. At 6 years the poor little might is not getting the caring he should have. Sometimes I can't think it's unfortunate some people are allowed or given the chance to have children, especially when they are not emotionally mature enough to handle them. To be responsible for their own life let alone a child. I can see myself stepping into the world of Eugenics. A place where Hitler once went, except it's not an supreme race of nazis I'd like, just a race of parents who cared for their children and understood those needs. Perhaps the problem with a free world, is it is a free world. Free to make our own mistakes, and continue to make them if we want. We all do the best we can,, of course given the chances of our own up bringing and nurturing environment. Given also the chances of a silver spoon.

The answer I expect is to say "none of it is to do with me." It's not my responsibility to bring up support or help my sisters children. Further "never have any expectations" for expectations of reciprocal support or caring don't happen. I suppose if i really did have my own family, my own children, then I could indoctrinate them into my world and my wife's world. Make them as degenerate or respectful as I felt the need. Children are such vulnerable creatures unlike the pigeons in my roof. Children need some kind of stability. I hope, I provide a small bit of stability. Being around, being here, but I don't know. I have no idea if anything I do has any effect. Only in 10, 20 or 30 years time will it show.

On my wall I have an old picture Sparkling Eyes sent me. It's of a bright yellow sun smiling out. Although it probably took only ten minutes to do and cost absolutely nothing, it is one of my most precious possessions. It's personal, it shows an effort. It's like receiving and writing a letter on paper. It takes time, effort and love to do. One thing I do know, if one of those 6 little sprites I call my nephews or nieces had done such a thing I'd be in tears. Money really don't mean a thing against love, effort enthusiasm and a glowing bright sun of happiness.

Birthday morning

Well it's my birthday. The pigeons being so kind must of decided to give me the day off from listening to their dancing practice. Or perhaps Mr Travolta Pigeon is to knackered after getting his leg over so many other lady pigeons. So it seems even pigeons have to have a day of rest.

Life is so short, so precious and it's journey is a learning expericence, just as I get to understand more about it, another year comes round. Wont be too long before I'm pushing up daisys.

Went to the pub last night and had my limit of 3 Guinness's, they tasted great. Even tried to ring Sparkling Eyes twice, she said she knew I'd been drinking because I always try and ring her. Further, I was so predictable. Not sure if I like being called predictable. Reliable, punctual even a rock not predictable.

I sit in waiting for the roofing man and wonder about opening the incredibly large pile of birthday cards. All 3 will probably take a good hour or two. But the day is nice. Sun out. Yep it's got potential.

Bits and pieces

It's been a bits and pieces day. Where nothing large enough has taken up my waking thoughts to dominate my BLOG, except of course for a very recent discussion with Sparkling Eyes. Who said I'd been unfair in my birthday blog. Because she had put up with me for 10 years. Were I to have written a full blog I'd mentioned it would of taken up 100 pages she said more like 100,00 pages. And called me boring. Yes boring.

Great.

I rang a roofing contractor up, they are going to come round and have a look on Wednesday. I wonder if he's got his own Tommy gun. It's the quick old way of getting rid of pigeons. Watch this space. Had a comment on a blog which suggested the story was clever. I hope it is not thought as fictional because it's real. The hob nailed booted pigeons are still there. I checked them again this morning, after again waking up to the clatter of roof tiles.

The Team Leader Fish to our fish pool is leaving. Shame coz he is actually a nice bloke, someone who you can talk to and respect, although he talks to quite a lot of people and hardly ever sits in his fish chair doing his fishy business. He's still a nice bloke.

Birthday soon looms, such is life. Someone shoot me. No, someone shoot the pigeons then I'll sleep thru the morning, thanks.

Travolta Pigeon has a hareem

It's Sunday morning, I expect to lay in, take it easy, snooze and get up late. It's one of those relaxed days. Or rather the expectation of having a nothing-day, just to enjoy. So the picture is painted. But was this going to happen? Not on your Nelly. For Mr Travolta hot foot dancing pigeon has other ideas. Ideas which he shares with his pals.

So at 6:00 a.m this beautiful lazy Sunday, the tiles began to move. Like a cow walking down the slates in successive footstep each tile banged and made a progressively low to higher pitched bang. A percussive symphony to which I am sure many a rock drummer would have appreciation for. Except I'm not a drummer. As for rock, on a Sunday morning I have no place for it. But the dancing Cow, no I mean pigeon, no I mean pigeons plural had woken up. In their turn they woke me. I thought the slates were going to be falling off the roof. I envisaged having to call in a roofer and it costing thousands of pounds because if one is dislodged at the top it will then dislodge all the others in the sloping column.

Mr John Travolta Pigeon must of been really successful in his dancing lessons, because by 6:20 a.m. I then went out in the garden, wearing my PJs to have a look. I glanced up at the side of the house and there looking down from the edge of the roof could have been no fewer than 50 or so pigeons. This is worse than I thought. It wasn't just the banging roof tiles which were the clue as I woke. It was the flapping of wings, from my bleary eyed sonambulance I heard a flock. When I looked up from the garden I saw a flock. Picking them off with an air rifle would of left a pile of pigeon carcasses 4 foot high. Besides I don't have a air gun. No wonder the cat just lazes about doing nothing, because if he catches one there's always another 49 sitting in the wings, looking down at him, taunting poor Tigger and most likely having a shite from the roof. Any cat would have a nervous break down at the prospect, too much prey and not enough lives.

Feck what am I going to do? Mr Travolta Pigeon has a harem, he's happy, life is wonderful when your looking down from a great hight waking up unsuspecting humans. Especially when each night you can have another different Ms Pigeon to tuck up in bed. Feck I'm now desperate for ideas. Anyone!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Roof Pidgeon Carpenters

This morning I woke up early, for two reasons. Firstly because I'm in a waking up early frame of mind, and have been in it for the last week, and secondly I had no choice. Pigeons in the roof and possibly an assortment of other birds were having their usual morning Disco. I'm sure the pigeon dance king aka John (Red Beak, head hopping) Travolta Pidgeon was putting on yet another display of his foot work. No doubt trying to pull in the birds so he could get a leg over. But I'd wish he'd go and do his goose stepping in someone elses roof.

The roof and the birds has been a problem vexing me for a number of years. My first method of solution is just to ignore it. Like I suppose all men. We're of the breed, if something needs to be done ignore it first because it might go away. Particularly because sorting out the roof means buying a new ladder, at some expense and then even worse having to go up the thing. Alternatively I could get a man in go up there and sort them out, but you just never know if the person you get in will actually do the job. If I do it myself I then got a set of ladders and it probably hasn't cost me a great deal more than it would do to hire the man.

I've spoken to the cat. Who nowadays resembles more of a teddy bear than a cat and he's got cataracts. I said to him to try a bit of pigeon, and it's about time he earned his weight. I'm sure Tigger didn't take in a word, probably through indifference, ignorance of the human language and his greater interest in cat biscuits. Which may be just a small bit more than my sudden binge last night of chocolate digestives. I think I downed 8 or 9 of them with a cuppa tea. But still the question of the birds remains.

So if there happens to be one person with an idea which might help and is reading this probably ignored BLOG, drop a comment and I'll read it later.

Another Year

Another year looms close to me. Another year when a day comes and I get a little older. Unfortunately, I and Sparkling Eyes wont be able to see each other. Not of my doing. This of course made me pretty sad, mad and obdurate. Sparkling Eyes retorted equally mad, possibly sad, and just as obdurate. So I'll celebrate without the one person I love more than any other in my life.

OK what will I do? Take in a movie alone, watch a play alone, eat a Chinese meal alone, feck look at the bottom of a pint glass think where I'd rather be and then order another.

Cat sitting comes to an end

Yesterday the Talkatives returned and I finished cat sitting. They looked tired and refreshed. I asked Little Angel if she could speak any Spanish and she said "adios" quite appropriate in the circumstances. I was happy when I saw them. For some reason I felt emotional. It has been some years since they had a holiday and it was just wonderful to see them all. They needed it and enjoyed it thoroughly.

As I had spent quite a lot of time doing the garden, it was also good to see dog, cats and Talkatives outside enjoying their own garden. Little Angel shot her dog with a water pistol and found it highly amusing.

I took Long Haired boy back with me, and it was obvious his demeanour had become less happy. It was with my own sadness I saw Silly Sophia's front room and wept inside for the lives of her children. For the poverty she allowed herself to dwell in, and for the poverty of her children's lives. Being poor doesn't mean you have to be without self dignity and composure, without happiness or self value. I really do cry inside.

On a much lighter front I was told of Rock Chick getting herself drunk, spending most of a day with a hangover and head in a bucket. Sparkling Eyes telling me she'd taken photo's and how Rock Chick just wasn't cut out for being one of the boozing types. I asked for a picture, but of course was not going to get one and was subsequently threatened with ex communication if I'd asked again.

This morning I go back to the Fish Factory with indifference I wonder whether that's good bad or just of no consequence. Thank heavens for Sparkling Eyes, i thought of her as I hugged myself to sleep.

Big Brother, it's a popularity contest

Last night I saw the final instalment of Big Brother 8, I think. The winner was the one who got the most votes, Brian. He was Black, exceedingly camp to the point I thought he was gay-but he wasn't and possessed an I.Q. similar to a close friend of Forrest Gump or indeed Forrest Gump. When he was asked what he'd do with the prize money Brian said he'd give it to his mum because he just didn't have an idea. She'd look after it. At times Brian was at times paranoid. But he is a nice bloke. I'm sure he got the gay vote, and because he possessed quite a large willy he probably got the vote from a lot of girls. Or other people who like men with big willies. Oddly in the compiled clips of Brian's best bits there were a number of scenes where he was running about naked. As a contest goes this is a popularity contest. I'd never want someone like Brian to do anything other than being a nice guy, but if he flew a jet and I was a passenger, I'd take up religion pretty quickly.

It is sad British society votes it's most favourite personality as someone who has no inclination of who Shakespeare was, what he did or what he means. In reality the voters are teenyboppers. Their role models are from a TV show with people who have no talent in the world, but can sit, eat, talk a lot of dribble and show the complete depth, breadth and odour of ignorance. They are immature and the contestants show varying degrees of similar immaturity. The stench of this ignorance is rife it seeps through the pores of anyone who has the unfortunate misshappence of catching an episode.

From first hand knowledge, it can be addictive. I have sat and been enthralled by it. Watched episode after episode, and then been disappointed at myself having participated. That I'd allowed myself to be drawn into the world of vacuous personalities with barely double digit I.Q.s. People who had one purpose in this stage of their life. To be rich, to be famous and to have done nothing for it. Not worked, not shown genius and barely showing enough talent to wash a dish. It's sad. Very sad. But we all grow up, eventually.

"...to thine own self be true..." It's from Hamlet, I like the Mel Gibson version.

I'm off to get an audition to BB9, I wonder if this banana costume will do the trick, I'll just sing 10 green bottles and juggle 2 lemons as well. I'm sure it will work. Damnn am I talented.