The Gold Coffin Syndrome

An old friend of mine died a few days ago on stage, albeit packing up after the gig, aged only 60 and, as these things do, it got me thinking. He wasn’t a smoker nor much of a drinker and had led a relatively healthy life. It’s assumed it was a heart attack. 

None of us ever know when our last moment will be.

Years ago I had an abstention phase which I was snapped out of by another friend (still breathing) who asked ‘what are you saving yourself for?’.

And how true is that?  What are we all saving ourselves for?

We are living, if the constant bombardment of news is to be believed, in the ripples of Armageddon. James Lovelock tells us that it’s too late to do anything about the environment. The governments tell us that it’s not quite too late as long as we are willing to cut our lifestyles to that akin to a chicken rustler in Bolivia. We are told that oil has peaked and it’s all downhill from here on in. 

However it will indeed be the end of the world, for all of us, on the day we die. 

This is inevitable and we will live, if we are very, very lucky, somewhere towards 90 and that’s it, 90 years. How many of those years see us healthy is a lottery but 70 seems about the limit for the fortunate ones yet we still partake in what I call the Gold Coffin Syndrome, spending our young lives preparing to pass exams so as to get a ‘good’ job to be sure to be able to get a house and a car and a this and a that and then we keel over but if we’ve saved well we can be sure of a very special casket - and the point of that is what exactly?  (The Egyptians did similar with pointy Pyramids.) 

A ‘good’ job in today’s society is one that pays very well and in the vast majority of cases means putting in 40 plus hours a week so we may have two or three weeks off a year rather than a job that pays what you need to live - that’s a ‘good’ job.

Now I am certainly not suggesting we all go out and drop an E at the weekend (mind you, that’s apparently far safer than riding a horse or driving a car) or that we hit the bottle but I am suggesting that we are all insane. 

We ignore living now at the expense of living one day which of course never arrives, and that, is just plain silly.

It’s our own faults for desiring the latest this and that but in truth at the end of the day it doesn’t really matter whether we do or whether we don’t, not really.

We have a very limited time here on Earth.

Some may choose, in their short time to see as much of the planet as they can, others to smell flowers and roll in grass (unless a hay fever sufferer) or to hug trees, snowboard, bungee jump or just to sit still.

Like being ‘enlightened,' (we already are but we’re too busy thinking we’re not), we are already dead but keep constantly busy until it’s too late to live.

We know the old saying to live each day as if it’s your last but I prefer the one where you’re dead and you’re given the choice to go back for one day and one day only and what would you do with that day?

I'd be surprised if many chose to spend it at work.

Lovelock says there are 5 billion too many of us anyway and they are likely to go this century so mortgages are pointless!

Heaven and Hell

I, like everybody else, have absolutely no idea what happens, if anything at all, after you die.

However if I want to make it to my heaven, which I fully expect is a sunny, 20 degrees C. Hawaiian type landscape with a very light wisp of a breeze and bereft of all insects, then I need to be and do good because the alternative, I discovered at the weekend, could be an eternity at Trago Mills.

After only 20 minutes of being there I’d started to question whether the kids had dropped acid into my orange juice that morning as I was seemingly having a glimpse into some alternative universe or to some after death state showing me the very worst that could possibly happen to me if I’m naughty and this personal perception of hell on Earth was all the result of bad planning.

The Peach family had booked three nights in a log cabin, well actually a wooden chalet if I was being a pedant, which was in a lovely, hidden forest with 45 other cabins ten miles from Looe in Cornwall. 

The cabin had a mezzanine balcony, constant very hot water, two power showers and an outdoor hot tub which sat on our very own private verandah amongst the Autumnal trees. (Think hippy commune that’s got its act together.) 

There are a few of these sites popping up nationwide all run by the Forestry Commission under the name, ‘Forest Holidays’.

I couldn’t fault it as a break even in the incessant rain that we endured, in fact it was made all the more cosy by it. There was zero phone reception and no wi-fi or internet connection of any kind. That in itself was priceless.

It was travelling there, having just crossed the Tamar Bridge into the land of the black and white flag, that we questioned whether the place would have any towels supplied. A phone calI confirmed it didn’t and we hadn’t brought any so we pondered to where we could get towels at short notice and then suddenly like cruel, divine intervention out jumped a road sign with the words ‘Trago Mills 8 miles’. I can’t recall if this vision was accompanied by a crooked finger from the sky spouting flashes of lightning, but it should have been.

Fifteen minutes later and in monsoon rain we arrived at what looked like a child’s life size castle built, I imagined, by bored and not very arty children. 

The first thing we discovered was that parking spaces not needing a bus journey to the main entrance were in short supply and once we’d disembarked and grumbled and struggled into our sow-esters we noticed that the main entrance, or indeed any entrance, was something of a secret so we followed the general direction of moving people which appeared to be straight from a Lowry painting. Either that or they were very recently deceased sinners.

Occasionally I looked up from under my hood to see if hope had shown its face and I was eventually met by two very well worn old women both smoking heavily under a roofed gateway which was the beginning of a bridge over an angry black stream to the main doors. 

My first thought was that these ladies had suffered quite terrible paper rounds when younger. My mind was jolted by the memory of Philip Pullman’s description of hell in The Amber Spyglass and the realisation that these women were Harpies. It certainly didn’t help mental matters when they said in unison, ‘this way my dearie.'

It was the singularity of ‘dearie’ that bothered me as I was with three other members of the Peach family. I felt my mouth agape and my eyes widen to startle mode as I obediently and magnetically trudged across the bridge.

I’d already decided to quickly find where towel sales might be and to skedattle just as fast. (Just for reference the word ‘quickly’ does not actually exist at Trago Mills, along with ‘polite,' ‘warm’ and ‘fun.') I approached the first person who looked miserable enough to work there and asked where may I find towels please. His enthusiasm for un-helpfulness was intoxicating and it turned out that we were approximately as far away from towels that we could possibly be and on the wrong floor.

 If you’ve never stumbled upon Trago Mills (though I detected that some people deliberately seek it out - thrill seekers I’d call them) then it can only be described as a collection of departments-kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, music, bookshops, in fact everything on Earth in one structure that obviously once wanted to be an Ikea type place but gave up with a shrug as soon as it opened to the public.

Having found and chosen the towels, (and it surprised me how even I agonised over the choice of colours and much to the chagrin of our teenager who muttered something ineligible and wandered off, disappearing and without turning his mobile phone on,) we just had to pay and be on our jolly way. 

After fifteen minutes of sauntering with gay abandon, I gave in and asked somebody shaping a noose as to where the tills might be. His reply was simply, ‘you can pay anywhere, there are 52 tills in Trago Mills’, to which I breathed in and asked if he could point me towards just one. I then spent 10 minutes each at four different sets of checkouts.

These checkouts have obviously been designed to completely squeeze out the last ounce of civility from the paying public. They were arranged in such a way to cause maximum conflict with no opportunity to queue in a polite British way but only to encourage a Spanish style free for all. 

I asked a wearied, leaning older woman beside me if she also thought that this was total insanity. She resignedly nodded agreement the way somebody who shops there regularly would. 

It was somewhat of a triumph when I was allowed to pay and I asked the cashier if they issue certificates with each purchase. Once paid and having spied an exit I headed off towel laden. 

The exits have security guards in place to catch, what anywhere else would be called shoplifters, but here it’s more to take unpaid goods off those who have lost the will to live. I caught his eye and said telepathically, ‘I dare you, I double dare you to stop me.' 

It worked and I was off over the bridge without a backward glance hoping that the rest of the Peaches were in tow.

I was more than disturbed to pass the two old women, still smoking, who flared me a look and gave me a farewell, you’ll be back, graveyard smile.

The Glastonbury Oracle

I picked up the free copy of the Glastonbury Oracle yesterday and was reminded of how I live in a parallel universe. 
The Oracle is essentially an alternative what’s on, what’s to do guide to the town and its environs.

Over the years I have become familiar with practices such as yoga which I have done for over a decade now. I have been asked on more than one occasion and often by big men in lumberjack type shirts and muddy cowboy boots worn over their trousers, why I do yoga as I apparently didn’t seem gay to them until that moment of yogic admission. It’s at this point that one’s answer could matter for one’s future ten minutes so I always give my standard answer that with the world as it is, I want to be so bendy, that come the day I will be able to actually bend over far enough to kiss my arse goodbye. I’ve partaken in having an Indian Head Massage by a Buddhist French born lady called Nadia bought as a birthday present (and highly recommended) and I once had a past life regression to discover that I was a cobbler in the eighteenth century with five kids, and not, King Arthur.

 But I’ve never been sure what Reiki healing really is or even the more common Shiatsu massage, which in my early days in town I truly thought was some form of canine interference. And here’s the point, there should be a workshop or talk in Glastonbury for the uninitiated, which is evidently most visitors, to what all these things are and what they claim to do. This would be an invaluable talk that could be held twice a week and could run for longer than The Mousetrap as unique visitors to Avalon are growing exponentially. But who alive could accurately explain all these therapies on offer?

Browsing through the November edition of the Oracle I have counted, just for you and at my own cost I might add, over 50 different therapies or treatments available which, to name only a few, include ‘Tibetan Pulsing’, ‘Hawaiian Lomi Lomi Massage, ‘Lemurain Attunements’, ‘Ho’oponopono for Business’ (as opposed to pleasure) and ‘Matrix Re-imprinting’ with the sub line, ‘Rewrite your Past, Transform your Future’ and I am curious at this one because I would fully expect to be sat with a man called Morpheus selling me the idea of a red pill. 

There are ‘one on ones’ such as ‘Starseed Origins’ and ‘Akashic Doctor’ of which both have my mind in a double entendre. There is something called Furnequip which I suspect and hope is a venture at selling recycled wardrobes and second hand sofas but the jury is out on ‘Man with Van.'

The Oracle is, if nothing else, intriguing. There really is such a smorgasboard of delights that one need never be ill again and could turn out very well healed indeed. 

Yet there is so much more, I can if the inclination takes me, speak to angels (apparently whilst still alive), clear my aura, walk the path, create a child within, have my colon do unpleasant things, journey to the stars, hold hands with Morgan le Fey, have hot stones (big pebbles) laid upon my person and when after a hard day of being discomboozled I can retire to my bed at a multitude of establishments, be it the Divine Light Centre, the Holy Harmony Sanctuary, Shambhala, Earthlight or one of the few Ashrams. 

Blackpool, Glastonbury is not and it’s all the better for it in my opinion. 

I have to sign off now as I have a session looming with Nigel, my home visiting Aboriginal Didgeridoo therapist.

For more info for what floats your boat, please go here.

Teenage Daydream

I have recently made a conscious decision to love my teenager. I love him anyway but I mean to love his teenagerness. My daughter Regina, left home three years ago and she did have her moments in her teenage years but I simply don’t remember it being quite as traumatic (to the rest of us) as the transmogrification of little Reg to bigger Reg.
As he races to being 16 I know that it’s only a matter of time before his fleeting appearances are just memories and for that reason I intend to stay in the moment and love it, all of it, and without reaching for the Valium. These fleeting appearances are now down to a ten-second jaunt through the lounge on his way to the fridge before embarking on the ten-seconds return journey to his bedroom loaded with so much food that I suspect he has smuggled in three friends or is feeding a character from Whistle Down the Wind.
Occasionally after opening cupboards and wondering if we’ve been burgled by some phantom crockery thief I dare to venture into his domain with the mission aim to retrieve plates which I encounter having various hues of mould growing upon along with glasses and cups all containing an inch of radioactive purple liquid happily undisturbed and trying to evolve with haste so as to crawl up the sides.
However on the plus side I do now know every note of each Pendulum track, albeit subconsciously as their beats seem to be a permanent soundtrack in our humble abode.


Lately he seems to have discovered clumsiness like never before and has an uncanny knack of filling a pint glass with squash of a colour I can’t find in the spectrum and then suddenly, as if it’s on purpose, knocking the glass over, but never on a spare piece of accessible floor but instead under the sofa, under the washing machine, over the TV remote and on top of the bolier. On a recent spillage incident he made his way to grab some kitchen roll only to flick his hand to meet with the cordless phone for it to respond with a double summersault and a perfect rip entry into the cat’s very recently filled water bowl. The phone has since been ringing itself and leaving messages.


This morning he surpassed himself whilst rummaging in the fridge managing quite deftly to usurp a full carton of double cream which then did this manic thing of trying to smother each and every vegetable in the bottom tray before heading for the door that once opened, hours later by me, took flight and headed for cover under the fridge and round the back of the fixed kitchen units standing helplessly nearby.
I was truly befuddled how 10 litres of stodgy lazy cream can fit into a half litre carton and suddenly transform, once toppled, to a most athletic dairy product.
Of course, he didn’t do it and I actually believe he believes that.


I’ve got to take him driving soon so please pray for me.

Weather Warning !

I tend to tune into BBC News 24 to catch the weather report before bed just to see how wrong they can really be.
Often of late my loitering slumber is pushed aside by a WEATHER WARNING! Immediately alert, my mind quickly scans what it might be this time, a tsunami up the River Thames perhaps or tornadoes about to devastate the West Midlands (more than it is already) or a hurricane readying itself to hit our west country shores allowing the spectacle of dudes of low intelligence surfing past Glastonbury Tor. Could it be freak snow blizzards from Svalbard or even a hail storm of such ferocity that the hailstones are the size of a cricket ball. No.


It seems that we may be about to get a bit of rain and it may be heavy and prolonged in Scotland.
That's what Scotland does, encourages heavy rain so why warn us with such an exclamation mark in a red triangle?
I guess the Scots must appreciate this as they may decide to fore go the tartan skirt, the iychy knee length woollen socks and the hairy crotch handbag in favor of underpants and trousers, if, they are duly warned, and the Welsh may bring their sheep in and with just cause.
We are having weather warnings now if it's to be just more than a bit breezy or if we, heaven forbid, have a hot day in July.
Last winter, weather warnings became live breaking and on-going news stories as Britain was inundated with nearly half an inch of snow.
I would like to see a No Weather Warning. 'Tomorrow there will be no weather, that's no wind, no sun, no rain so please only make essential journeys'. But what is an essential journey? Do people still go out on windy and wet days with gay abandon just for the hell of it?

The only weather warning I want before I climb my stairs is one saying, 'we strongly advise that people sleep in their attics tonight next to or preferably in an inflatable dinghy'.

Micheal Fish has an awful lot to answer for.

Copenhagen 2009

Today, only 36% think that Climate Change is due to human activity - well at least 36% of Americans - which if we're totally honest is not a good representation.
Only 1 in 500 Americans knew the name of the British PM when it was Blair and only 1 in 10,000 could put their finger on a map and be within 5000 miles when they were asked where Iraq was after US troops had been there for four years. If it wasn't for the Internet, they may not realise that there are still places on Earth without Taco Bell's and they voted for Bush, not once but twice.
This belief trend however may not be a good thing. The Copenhagen summit is only weeks away and, here come a few 'ifs', if we are responsible as most (97%) of climatologists say, that's 'real' climatologists mind and if we don't come to some major agreement to cut emissions at that summit then we may be in trouble, huge trouble and mostly because of Thermal Inertia. Thermal inertia is not just your average, warm American but the process where, for instance, the pollution we spewed out in the 70's and 80's is only affecting us now via the warming of the oceans, so therefore we will experience the pollution from the 90's boom and the rise of Chindia somewhere between 2020 and 2050. So if it is us and if we do nothing then we really are living in the age of stupid.

But as more and more people refuse to accept blame and therefore to take responsibility they turn to the theories, not provens, of it all being natural cycles of Earth or Sun or both and these views, as we know, are taking serious hold and that is great if it turns out to be just those causes. The problem is that we won't know if it is actually natural cycles for another 10 years and by then if it isn't we are truly shafted as a human race, particularly if this thinking scuppered any deal at Copenhagen, so what we are all essentially about to do is gamble our very existence on the red or the black.

Aliens don't do Ironing

According to some Tibetan Buddhists the date of 21st December 2012 is the day that the Aliens arrive en masse and save us from our plight whisking us off to some heavenly world.

The Lama’s seems to have missed the obvious.
If there are other Extra Terrestrial forms of life and if they have the technological expertise and indeed the inclination to get here then surely they wouldn’t jeopardize their mission by landing without first observing the inhabitants and their habits.
Assuming that's the case then they’re not coming anytime soon.
Only mental Aliens would ever dream of setting foot on this place after watching us for a while.
I could cite our warring nature and our ridiculous beliefs as enough reason for them to avoid Earth like the plague but I think that would be missing the glaringly obvious reasons that we can be sure will continue to keep them away.

It may not surprise some of you that one of these, and the first of a few I intend to address, is the pastime called Ironing - as in flattening clothes. If they are indeed watching, what they are seeing are millions of people regularly and deliberately picking up an iron and creasing their clothes to a particular and a socially acceptable regimen.
I have friends that even iron their towels, socks and more frighteningly their under garments and these are friends that because of their social life and prudery would only ever have their underwear exposed on a washing line or if they were involved in a horrible accident which rendered them unconscious and then their smalls would only be visible to the attending paramedics. I'm not privy to the discussions of ambulance staff under pressue but I can't imagine them staring at a stripped and injured body and commenting at the nice folds (or lack of) in somebody's underpants or knickers.

We need a cultural revolution and allow creases to become trendy and then we would all, well the ironers amongst us at least, have four hours of extra life per week. This equates of course to 208 hours per year or nearly 9 days. Imagine what you could do with those extra nine ironing free days?.

The Chinese have been doing this for over a thousand years and somewhere along the line it eventually caught on in a big way here in Blighty unlike Communism, chopsticks, rickshaws and canine consumption.

Now the whole pastime of ironing has gone one insane step further in the form of hair straighteners which, for the uninitiated people living in rural farmsteads without electricity, are technically hand held scissor irons that you mangle your hair through.
I am reliably informed that in Ladies’ toilets of some clubs and pubs in Bristol, they are attached to walls and for a £1 a go you can top up your cloned Stepford look if you happen to have inadvertently moved your head a tad since you left the house.

What next? Gents’ toilets with nostril hair trimmers for the over 40’s?