Month: March 2019

Making Up For Lost Time

by andrewcurnow1971, posted in Work, Writing

Never mind the hour last night, I’ve lost a whole day.

Not in a “we’ve all had weekends like that, fnar fnar” sort of way. My ‘lost day’ refers to the fact that I worked on Friday. I admit that’s not tremendously dramatic in itself, other than I normally work a four day week, Monday to Thursday. Even then I’m secretly pining for the brief heady period in 2017 when I was only doing a three day week. (My bank manager is understandably less nostalgic about it.)

This week, however, and as previously advertised, I worked Friday as well – and unexpectedly it’s thrown me off kilter for the entire weekend. ‘Entire weekend’ in this instance is only two days, of course, and it really does feel so much shorter than usual. (As well it might, having been reduced by a whole third.) Just as you start to get into the swing of it, it’s over. Compare and contrast that with my normal routine, where there’s a whole day of prologue before Saturday even arrives.

It’s not much, I suppose, in the scheme of things; and the feeling of a curtailed weekend has probably been accentuated by having time taken up yesterday afternoon in cutting the grass for the first time this year (a chore I hate). And of course there’s the mysterious hour lost overnight. Put all these things together, and this weekend really has had a sense of being more ‘edited highlights’ than ‘full-length feature’.

As a rule, I manage to get in a bit of writing every morning of the weekend, sometimes in the evening as well, and although it only ever comes after a ridiculous amount of evasion (laundry, walking the dogs, idly gazing out of the window, that sort of thing) I do usually end up getting something done.

Somehow, without that initial kick-start of Friday to get things underway, this unusual two-day weekend has not made any headway in that regard – although after an unusually enthusiastic rush of it last weekend I must confess I’d run up against a wall anyway.  I’ve not exactly run out of plot but I have reached a point where I don’t quite know how to bridge the gap between big chunk of plot A and big chunk of plot B. So as it happens a weekend off probably won’t do it any harm.

And I realise that not having Friday to get things going sounds like a really lame excuse, because arguably as regards time it isn’t how much you have, it’s what you do with it that counts. (That sounds vaguely familiar…) Nevertheless there’s just a tiny warning light there, or at least a timely reminder, that for almost twenty-five years, when I did work a five-day week, I hardly did any writing at all.

As John Rowles opined on yesterday’s Pick of the Pops (1968, to save you Wikipediaing it) “If I only had time.” Or, if you prefer, as Sylvester McCoy said of the punishing BBC schedule in the documentary about the making of Silver Nemesis (1988, to ditto) “we didn’t want more money, we wanted more time.”

Next week, as far as I know, it’s back to normal, back to the four day week and the three day weekend. It’s swings and roundabouts of course (as my bank manager would point out). Yes, there’s more weekend (and less stress) with my job now; but there’s also less work and hence less income.

I still wouldn’t want to turn the clock back though.

Should I Stay Or Should I Go?

by andrewcurnow1971, posted in Little Bit Of Politics, Moaning, Money

I usually leave politics to my brother.

I don’t really follow it, and don’t properly understand it, and on the rare occasions when I risk popping my head over the parapet for (as Ben Elton used to say) a little bit of politics, I always expect to be told to pipe down in an old-fashioned, unacceptably-sexist ‘don’t worry your pretty little head about it’ sort of a way.

Nevertheless, and I suspect I may not be the only one who feels like this, it’s becoming really rather difficult to ignore this whole Brexit malarkey. Like an itch, or an irritating spot, or that slowly spreading rash that deep down you know you really ought to go and see the doctor about, it’s increasingly impossible to overlook it.

Before 2016, back in those innocent, pre-referendum days, I’m not convinced that the overwhelming majority of people were really that bothered one way or the other. It’s only the irritation (or slowly spreading rash) of some idiot holding a referendum which forced us all into forming an opinion.

But now we’ve been and gone and had the vote, and unfortunately it’s impossible to put the oak tree back inside the acorn and just go back to how things were. The Remainers won’t be satisfied if we Leave, the Leavers won’t be happy if we Remain and all in all, it seems increasingly likely that there won’t be any winners in this – because the really stupid thing isn’t the determination to honour the result of the referendum, it’s to have had the dratted referendum in the first place.

Bus or no Bus, I’d like to suggest that there’ll be no money to be had from Brexit. Being out of the EU will give us about 9 billion extra to play with each year, but although that’s not the sort of amount I would sniff at if I found it down the back of the settee, in the scheme of things it still only represents around 1.2% of annual government spending. I think it’ll be akin to somebody who gives up smoking. Without that expense, in theory, they’re going to be hundreds of pounds better off per year… but they never see it, not as a lump sum, it’s just a little bit spent on something here, a little bit extra spent on something there.

Maybe I’m just apathetic (quite possibly) or uninformed (equally likely) or just plain stupid (almost certainly) but I’m honestly not worrying about Brexit. If we actually end up with a ‘No Deal’ I expect business interests will still ensure a continuation/resumption of supplies (by which I mean, simply put, that companies in Europe will still want to make money, and so will companies in the UK). If we do manage to get some kind of a deal through, well fine – but that’s just an agreement for things to remain broadly the same before we then begin the actual, proper trade negotiations. And those will be years in the making, not months.

But whatever happens with Mrs May and her Deal/No Deal scenario, we certainly won’t find ourselves basking in the sunny uplands of a post-Brexit UK, enjoying a new golden age of happiness, wealth and prosperity for all. Nor will we see mile-long queues for bread outside Sainsburys, and horrible tales of people forced to eat their pets.

Because the truth is, surely, that most of the things that really anger or depress or shame or outrage us about modern life, such as an underfunded NHS, poor education standards, insufficient police resources, university fees, an overly-complex and woefully-inadequate benefits system, MPs expenses, banker bonuses, rising council tax bills… All of these are of our own doing, they’re homegrown problems, and nothing to do with Europe.

In short, then, my gloomy prediction is that, once we’re finished with the initial cheering & celebrating / wailing & gnashing of teeth (delete as applicable) we’ll find that, actually, not much has changed, and that the whole thing has been the most enormous waste of time.

A monstrous, overblown, hugely-expensive, cripplingly-divisive, publicly-humiliating waste of time. But a waste of time nonetheless.

Goodbye, Doc-tor!

by andrewcurnow1971, posted in Doctor Who, Moaning, Money, TV

The news this week has been dominated by the frustrations of Brexit, by the sense of a governing body which has no idea or ability or appetite for the job it’s been at for over two years, and by the very real possibility that whatever happens, our faith in our democracy is already fundamentally damaged for years to come.

The event that has actually irritated me the most this past week, however, has been my decision to cancel the pre-order of the Season 18 Blu-Ray boxset, mere days before it would have shipped.

Of course it doesn’t matter. Not really. Being forty-seven and throwing my toys out of the pram over a polished-up re-release of some forty-year-old TV show I’ve already seen multiple times before… well, it’s the height of absurdity isn’t it. Yes, it would look fantastic sitting on the shelf next to season 19, and yes, rather than writing this I could right now be watching the Marshmen emerging from the swamp “in a manner that the Creature from the Black Lagoon himself would have envied” – but the reality is that you can’t feed dogs on Warriors Gate, and that the ideal situation for watching The Leisure Hive is not at an empty breakfast table with your stomach rumbling. 

I knew it was coming, if I’m honest. From the day I pre-ordered it back in December, I had a sneaking suspicion that when it came to it, when the time actually came around, I’d not be able to afford it. It’s last year’s season 12 all over again frankly, and although the cold cruel months of January and February have been warmed by thoughts of melancholy 1980s Tom Baker to come I felt certain the story of season 18 would probably end badly.

And so it has (and I don’t mean in the sense that he falls from a radio telescope to his death on the floor of TC3 (sorry, spoilers)). February’s minimal number of days made for a reduced March pay packet; and more to the point, on the other side of the balance sheet are the Council Tax arrears, and the IOUs, and (whisper it quietly) those pesky loan repayments. Not to mention all the regular delights such as rent, petrol, water rates and electric, plus, hopefully, a bite to eat. With all those reckless extravagances to waste my money on, it was pretty much a foregone conclusion that there would never be £39.99 of what I believe JN-T used to call knicker elastic money, for me to indulge myself.

But… It would have been nice to be able to follow the advice of Mr Baker’s immediate predecessor, to ‘take the money at the end of the week and buy myself something nice’ and the fact that I can’t brings me dangerously back to the old ‘what is the bloody point?’ question. There never seems to be enough time or money or energy to do anything other than pay bills, clean up, work and sleep, and it doesn’t help that Twitter will be full of posts on the subject for the next week. Confirmations of despatch followed by photos of the received package, all gorgeous and shiny and new, and then awe-struck updates as buyers revel in its sheer glorious loveliness, and regale us all with how wonderful season 18 is.

Which, of course, it is. It would be wrong of me to overlook that simply because I’ve got some high-level grumbling to get through; and I hope I’m not going to be one of those awful people who puts a downer on other people’s enjoyment. Besides, once the debate moves away from how gloriously sharp the upscaled picture quality is, and how insightful the new extras are, and how magnificent the package design is… When finally everybody has got that out of their system, and the discussion turns to the actual stories themselves, then I’ll be able to join in with my own, albeit straight from DVD, opinions.

And… well, that’s pretty much all I have to say about that. No witty last quip, no neat little summing up. It’s just the end, and the moment hasn’t been prepared for.

Yours Sincerely, Confused of Devon

by andrewcurnow1971, posted in Confused, Gender

The story that has caused the most debate, and prompted the most questions, in our lunchtime chats at work this week has undoubtedly been the transgender man in America who has given birth.

Our initial surprise was mainly around the mechanics of it; or rather the discovery that having transitioned, the guy in question was (still) able to ovulate and conceive. Given that the object of the exercise was to become male, that doesn’t sound like it’s been entirely successful.

To be honest, the whole issue of identity confuses me and it sometimes feels, with stories such as this, that it is continually getting more and more complicated. I can grasp the concept of feeling like you are, as they used to say, a man stuck inside a woman’s body (or vice versa) but still, it’s an extraordinary degree of certainty to have, and that continues to amaze me. I don’t off the top of my head recall ever being that certain about anything – there have been so many occasions when even the things I thought I knew turned out to be incorrect that, frankly, I feel I’m only ever a heartbeat away from a QI-style ‘WRONG’ klaxon going off behind me. Maybe with identity it’s so innate, such a fundamental assurance, that it’s impossible to understand unless you’ve experienced it?

But sexual preference is where things seem to get ‘and more’ complicated. If, for example, I was born male but felt that I was (a) a woman trapped inside a man’s body; and (b) was attracted to women; and was (c) therefore a lesbian in need of a sex change operation – how would I know that, actually, I wasn’t simply (a) a man; and (b) was attracted to women; and (c) therefore heterosexual. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m sure there IS an answer – but it’s all a bit of a minefield because unfortunately we have (in a well-intentioned but short-sighted way) ended up in a place where nobody dares ask the question for fear of causing offence.

Going back to the transgender man who got pregnant though… Presumably that person prior to transition (pronouns are so difficult nowadays aren’t they – could I have said ‘she’ there, or would that be wrong?) presumably they felt certain that they ought to have been born a man. They’ve gone through what I have to assume is a painful and exhausting process, physically and mentally. And after all that, he hasn’t actually achieved what he set out to do, has he?

To be ‘a man’ may mean many, many things but it certainly doesn’t mean being able to get pregnant. And I can’t help but wonder… If he ‘enjoyed’ being pregnant so much and responded so positively to the whole experience… If he’s not actually ready to give that up, is he in fact also (or still) wanting to be a woman?

I guess only he can know that, and really it’s nobody else’s business. But there is a wider question, given that this can happen. Namely, is the next step for people to actively request it? There’s a big difference, an important difference, between a transitioned male who still retains the female organs to (from the news story) accidentally fall pregnant – and somebody wanting to transition into a male but also requesting that they retain the ability to become pregnant. That’s wanting to have your cake and eat it, plain and simple – or, less flippantly, it undermines the fundamental driving force that the person in question feels they should have been born a man rather than a woman.

These are big issues, baffling and confusing ones. They shouldn’t be scary, and they certainly shouldn’t be any reason for violence or abuse or prejudice or stigma. We have the ‘technology’ to make these changes now, to do something about what a century ago could only ever remain a feeling or an urge or a longing; but we don’t yet seem to have the language to go with our capabilities. Nor does it feel like we have the most important thing: the sense, and the freedom, to talk about it.

John, Paul, George & Donald

by andrewcurnow1971, posted in 1980s, Little Bit Of Politics, The Beatles, Trump

God knows I don’t want to stick up for Trump.

BUT.

In one area of ‘policy’ at least I must, reluctantly, admit that, in principle anyway, he may well be more right than wrong: that is to say, I would far rather our world leaders were on speaking terms than not. Even in spite of this week’s lack of progress, to have Trump and Kim Jong-Un sitting down together and agreeing, even if in the most vague and general terms, on anything – well, it’s infinitely preferable to the exchange of petulant insults and escalating tensions which formerly characterised their ‘relationship’.

A shakily half-remembered history lesson tells me that, in an earlier time, the Cuban Missile Crisis was ultimately defused at a personal level, by the ‘reaching out’ of Kruschev to Kennedy. Proving perhaps that, as Kennedy put it the following year, “we all cherish our children’s futures.”

Two decades later and Sting was singing, with apparently less certainty than JFK, “I hope the Russians love their children too.” I don’t really recall losing much sleep to the supposedly ubiquitous threat of mutually assured nuclear destruction in the mid-1980s, although it cropped up at school quite a lot. In an era of Greenham Common, and when the USSR was a largely-unknown quantity represented in the news by little more than images of a collection of stern old men on the balcony of the Kremlin overlooking zealously-militaristic parades; back then there were certainly (at the risk of painting with the broad brush of stereotype) a fair number of “leftie liberals” amongst our teaching staff, all corduroy jackets and homespun, tie-dyed clothing, adorned with CND badges and the cannabis symbol.

Despite the apparent strides towards liberty and equality since then, I’m not sure that today’s teachers have quite the same ‘freedom of expression’. Those mid-80s were a time before the wall came down, yes; but it was also a time before the National Curriculum, and OFSTED, and in fact even before Section 28 – and so it’s entirely possible that there was an ‘underground’ sort of freedom enjoyed by the teaching staff of the day whether they were siding with the Greenham Common women, showing us graphic videos on the horrors of seal-hunting, or even on one occasion putting a Biblical spin on the Chernobyl disaster. (Chernobyl being the Ukrainian word for ‘wormwood’, fact fans.)

Maybe it was inevitable that teachers who had been students during the 50s and 60s should have a preoccupation with the nuclear bogeyman, even more than those of us who were pupils in the 70s and 80s. And of course it wasn’t just a political slant. I can see now, looking back, that other passions and interests carried over: as a school choir we learnt a number of ‘sixties pop smashers’ which were selected possibly for their musical qualities but more likely because, frankly, the music teachers liked them.

There’s no other explanation for why I know all the lyrics to ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’ by The Beatles; and also to their rarely-heard-nowadays, bilingual ditty ‘Michelle’. (The opening line goes “Michelle, Ma Belle” from which you may deduce that the song contains many mots qui go very well ensemble).

Going back, though, to God knowing I don’t want to stick up for Trump; and clearly there’s a man who’d actually like to go back to a time before the wall came down, if his efforts to get a wall put up are anything to go by. Nevertheless, at least as a general rule, I still think, in principle, he is right to be talking to (rather than tweeting at) Kim Jong-Un.

It’s a shame this week didn’t bring any formal agreement, although it’s noticeable that neither party has exactly stomped back home bitching about the other side, adamant they’re done talking. Quite the opposite in fact, and bizarre as it may seem both leaders seem keen to meet again.

Maybe all they need is love.