Here is the View from the Hill for Saturday 18th July.
An historic day, Tiger Woods fails to make the cut at The Open but Walter Cronkite dies. Guess which one gets the coverage?
There is a trend towards the homily and the sermon developing in these blog entries, perhaps I should apply to the priesthood!
In setting your self the challenge of writing every day, you do have to find some focus and as my little blogging friend Whisby Bentley noted in his blog the other day, you should write about thing you know.
Over 30 years ago, when I started my working life, it was doing a job that put me face to face with people, people in stressed states – some in need of support, some in need of imprisonment. In my private life I have been drawn to causes where I was supporting people in need, counselling, listening and the like.
In later life, a change of career still finds me dealing with people during very emotionally charged times and I do enjoy this work. I seem to have the skills that enable me to connect with people. (Except family members of course!)
So, could this be why my writing is coloured with the need to search one’s inner being? Perhaps I am trying to cut to what I see as being important in life. Now I don’t suppose I am always right, (just most of the time), but yesterday I received a note via electronic mail. It basically said “who are you to shovel this kind of shit, who do you think your audience is?” My reply was, “well I didn’t think my audience was wankers, hey but I found one anyway!”
You see, I am a people person, people respond to the warmth of my sincerity and my humanity.
Going back to the point though, if Mr Bentley is correct and we find ourselves drawn to writing about the things we are confident of, then my writing will always be about people and memories and emotion and a sense of trying to make sense of things that are sometimes beyond sense. That’s where humour, sarcasm and wit come in!
Oh yes, I can be sarcastic – but as my correspondent also noted, “there’s nothing clever in showing off”. Perhaps not my new found enemy, but there is something clever in knowing enough Latin to say “Flocci non faccio - Futue te ipsum!”*
Have a nice day.
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Saturday, 18 July 2009
Friday, 17 July 2009
The View from the Hill for Friday 17th July.
It is really dark and miserable today, the weather is depressing and it seems an apposite time to be writing about my view on the recent assisted suicide of Sir Edward Downes and his wife Joan at the Dignitas clinic in Switzerland.
This devoted couples decision to end their lives has once again ignited the debate about euthanasia and although their reasons for ending their lives were possibly very personal ones, this is an opportunity for the cowardly British government to grasp this nettle once and for all.
I always feel the shadow of the church throws itself across this debate and makes it impossible to have a reasonable discussion, but surely in a modern world human beings should be allowed the choice of how life ends, having some dignity in that choice and then not having to worry that their loved ones will be prosecuted for helping them make that decision.
I don't believe in god so why should my life choices be ruled by people who do?
Having a moral stance is not important, having a free choice as an individual is.
I don't want to die, I know that I will die in the future, but if faced with the same set of choices as Sir Edward Downes, I might, repeat might, make the same choice, but if I couldn't afford the trip to Switzerland, what do I do?
I think the British Government need to develop some backbone, stand up to the religious and the moral crusaders and once and for all give people the right to die with dignity. Surely it is not beyond them to develop a clear code of conduct for a British Dignitas clinic.It seems to work in Switzerland so what are we scared of?
It is really dark and miserable today, the weather is depressing and it seems an apposite time to be writing about my view on the recent assisted suicide of Sir Edward Downes and his wife Joan at the Dignitas clinic in Switzerland.
This devoted couples decision to end their lives has once again ignited the debate about euthanasia and although their reasons for ending their lives were possibly very personal ones, this is an opportunity for the cowardly British government to grasp this nettle once and for all.
I always feel the shadow of the church throws itself across this debate and makes it impossible to have a reasonable discussion, but surely in a modern world human beings should be allowed the choice of how life ends, having some dignity in that choice and then not having to worry that their loved ones will be prosecuted for helping them make that decision.
I don't believe in god so why should my life choices be ruled by people who do?
Having a moral stance is not important, having a free choice as an individual is.
I don't want to die, I know that I will die in the future, but if faced with the same set of choices as Sir Edward Downes, I might, repeat might, make the same choice, but if I couldn't afford the trip to Switzerland, what do I do?
I think the British Government need to develop some backbone, stand up to the religious and the moral crusaders and once and for all give people the right to die with dignity. Surely it is not beyond them to develop a clear code of conduct for a British Dignitas clinic.It seems to work in Switzerland so what are we scared of?
Thursday, 16 July 2009
The View from the Hill on Thursday 16th July
I promised another view on food, a rear view if you like, recalling food memories from my past.
School dinners have been in the news again, the uptake has taken a downturn!
I loved my school dinners… The village school provided free meals, it was a Church school and to be honest there were not that many children, there were only two boys my age, one being me and the other being Clifford who suffered from what we would now call narcolepsy, but we just called him lazy back then. The trouble with poor Clifford was though, if you woke him with a start, he crapped himself. If he wasn’t asleep he was being taken away to be changed. I think he’s an MP now.
Anyway, we got free school meals, only two courses, but substantial. A plate of meat and vegetables smothered in gravy, and then pudding and custard. And of course you all know what sort of puddings you got in those days, spotted dick, jam roly poly, treacle sponge, chocolate sponge with pink custard, and not forgetting the best of all, rice pudding, semolina, tapioca, and a jug of Rosehip syrup with shortbread biscuits, just in case we were falling behind on the fattening regime, a huge bowl of rice pudding, rosehip syrup and a shortbread biscuit.
As with meals at home we all cleaned our plates, not because of the starving this time, but because the headmaster had employed two dinner ladies who knew all of the mothers and reported back if you wasted food or generally let the side down.
Mrs Bay and Mrs Hyde – and how very appropriate those names were! Mrs Bay could often be heard doing just that, especially during a full moon. And Mrs Hyde had a split personality like her Robert Louis Stevenson created namesake.
They seemed kind enough but it was amazing how nothing in that school ever stayed a secret. In the days before CCTV, the children of my village were victims of the surveillance society.
The two ladies lived together; in that day and age they were called spinsters now they would be called lesbians.
I didn’t have to worry about being reported on, I was boringly good and ate my lunch, (other people’s too given half a chance) and anyway, the ladies would be too busy to notice what I was doing, I had a plan to snaffle extra biscuits and it was so easy.
Clifford…what have you done!
Wednesday, 15 July 2009
The View from the Hill for Wednesday 15th July
This entry was prompted by Whisby and his puppy.
The madness of how we deal with madness makes me mad! That’s a quote from a gentleman who worked as a Mental Health Commissioner for many years. He realised that our methods of dealing with mental health had swung from the Victorian to forward thinking but actually there wasn’t much thinking involved.
Those of us who have had our own battles with mental health issues will be only too aware of the hit and miss approach there can be with treatment but at least we don’t lock up the vaguely bewildered or the unwanted child who might be different anymore. In fact we seem to let many deranged people wander the streets stabbing innocent people in the back.
As kids we were quite used to mental instability, not only did we live in a village where the gene pool had slightly stagnated, but my mum had a part time job as a nurse in a mental hospital. She used to bring them home for tea occasionally. Most of the poor souls were no madder than me, just put out of sight. I got a part time job there myself actually, during the summer, helping in the occupational therapy shed, they made wicker trays and bent wire into building ties, except for Kenny, he used to sit in the corner and chop kindling. Never spoke, just looked at you, with his chopper in his hand, you never turned your back on Kenny.
There was a lad called Teddy in our village, he was a strange chap, the whole family was strange, his brother was what they used to call touched. I don’t think people are touched anymore, (well I’m certainly not) anyway he used to chase things, anything, the bus or passing cars, dogs, and in the summer, he chased swallows. It was a beautiful sight, Teddy in full flight down the main road in pursuit of swallows.
His brother once tried to hang himself from the bridge over the river, well I say river, a stream really, anyway he got a length of rope and he tied one end to the bridge and the other around his neck and he jumped. The rope was too long and he crash landed into four feet of muddy water and broke both his ankles.
He did get a short trip inside the asylum, but let me get back to my original point, we don’t seem to know how to deal with mental illness, we don’t lock it away, we don’t treat it very well, and we just ignore it really.
Perhaps we should have another go, a rethink, and come up with something better, suggestions on a postcard please to Andy Burnham, Secretary of State for Health
(You know the pretty one with the eyelashes…looks like the love child of Elizabeth Taylor and a giraffe).
This entry was prompted by Whisby and his puppy.
The madness of how we deal with madness makes me mad! That’s a quote from a gentleman who worked as a Mental Health Commissioner for many years. He realised that our methods of dealing with mental health had swung from the Victorian to forward thinking but actually there wasn’t much thinking involved.
Those of us who have had our own battles with mental health issues will be only too aware of the hit and miss approach there can be with treatment but at least we don’t lock up the vaguely bewildered or the unwanted child who might be different anymore. In fact we seem to let many deranged people wander the streets stabbing innocent people in the back.
As kids we were quite used to mental instability, not only did we live in a village where the gene pool had slightly stagnated, but my mum had a part time job as a nurse in a mental hospital. She used to bring them home for tea occasionally. Most of the poor souls were no madder than me, just put out of sight. I got a part time job there myself actually, during the summer, helping in the occupational therapy shed, they made wicker trays and bent wire into building ties, except for Kenny, he used to sit in the corner and chop kindling. Never spoke, just looked at you, with his chopper in his hand, you never turned your back on Kenny.
There was a lad called Teddy in our village, he was a strange chap, the whole family was strange, his brother was what they used to call touched. I don’t think people are touched anymore, (well I’m certainly not) anyway he used to chase things, anything, the bus or passing cars, dogs, and in the summer, he chased swallows. It was a beautiful sight, Teddy in full flight down the main road in pursuit of swallows.
His brother once tried to hang himself from the bridge over the river, well I say river, a stream really, anyway he got a length of rope and he tied one end to the bridge and the other around his neck and he jumped. The rope was too long and he crash landed into four feet of muddy water and broke both his ankles.
He did get a short trip inside the asylum, but let me get back to my original point, we don’t seem to know how to deal with mental illness, we don’t lock it away, we don’t treat it very well, and we just ignore it really.
Perhaps we should have another go, a rethink, and come up with something better, suggestions on a postcard please to Andy Burnham, Secretary of State for Health
(You know the pretty one with the eyelashes…looks like the love child of Elizabeth Taylor and a giraffe).
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
The View from the Hill on Tuesday 14th July
It’s very difficult in the present news cycle to avoid the coverage of what’s happening in Afghanistan. The death of our young men at the hands of the Taliban is being used as a political tool by all sides of the debate. And before I go further with this entry I have to state for the record I was against going to war in Iraq and I do not believe we can win any sort of victory in Afghanistan BUT I am a strong supporter of our armed forces. They are out there doing a job that I wouldn’t want to do and to think about how they face life and death each day is very humbling. Having dealt with the families of service personnel who were killed and injured, this is not a matter for levity.
There should be great shame felt by our government for not equipping the front line troops properly, there should be shame felt for not sending enough men to do the job, and there should be great shame felt by the political masters who score points off each other by seeing who can be more sincere when a death is reported. We don’t want any more deaths because contrary to what Gordon Brown would have us believe, these deaths ARE in vain. What did each death achieve for this country? What did each death of a young man or woman do to increase your safety? What are they fighting for? What is the end game - we cannot win. You cannot defeat an idea; you cannot eradicate the religious fervour that drives the insurgents. If we want to save ourselves from the possibility of attacks, perhaps we should stop attacking them? But perhaps an eye for an eye is all we know?
This battle will lead to more deaths on both sides of the conflict, and more entrenched views on both sides of the conflicts because if we are right they must be wrong! The Islamaphobic press, the Christian moral majority, all complicit in a mind set that dooms our young men to fight in that inhospitable place for ever and ever (no Amen).
I don’t have an answer, I feel as powerless as many out there, but I do recognise the sheer arrogance and folly of thinking we can actually win in Afghanistan. The only way to win, to obtain a lasting peace… is to kill everyone else.
It’s very difficult in the present news cycle to avoid the coverage of what’s happening in Afghanistan. The death of our young men at the hands of the Taliban is being used as a political tool by all sides of the debate. And before I go further with this entry I have to state for the record I was against going to war in Iraq and I do not believe we can win any sort of victory in Afghanistan BUT I am a strong supporter of our armed forces. They are out there doing a job that I wouldn’t want to do and to think about how they face life and death each day is very humbling. Having dealt with the families of service personnel who were killed and injured, this is not a matter for levity.
There should be great shame felt by our government for not equipping the front line troops properly, there should be shame felt for not sending enough men to do the job, and there should be great shame felt by the political masters who score points off each other by seeing who can be more sincere when a death is reported. We don’t want any more deaths because contrary to what Gordon Brown would have us believe, these deaths ARE in vain. What did each death achieve for this country? What did each death of a young man or woman do to increase your safety? What are they fighting for? What is the end game - we cannot win. You cannot defeat an idea; you cannot eradicate the religious fervour that drives the insurgents. If we want to save ourselves from the possibility of attacks, perhaps we should stop attacking them? But perhaps an eye for an eye is all we know?
This battle will lead to more deaths on both sides of the conflict, and more entrenched views on both sides of the conflicts because if we are right they must be wrong! The Islamaphobic press, the Christian moral majority, all complicit in a mind set that dooms our young men to fight in that inhospitable place for ever and ever (no Amen).
I don’t have an answer, I feel as powerless as many out there, but I do recognise the sheer arrogance and folly of thinking we can actually win in Afghanistan. The only way to win, to obtain a lasting peace… is to kill everyone else.
Monday, 13 July 2009
The View from the Hill on Monday 13th July
We went out for a family meal yesterday, to celebrate our Silver Wedding and it got me thinking about meals from the past and eating in general.
When I was a little boy (yes, I was once little) as a family we always sat down and ate meals together, and all meals were three courses, Yorkshire pudding, meat and veg, pudding, - you always had Yorkshire pudding first, to fill you up because there was never much meat, then you got your meat with three veg and lots of potatoes, then a stodgy pudding and custard.
And bread and butter, with every meal, bread and butter, even tinned pears and Ideal milk would be served with a side plate on which would be two slices of Hovis smothered in butter. Consequently I have always loved bread and butter, as far as I can tell there is nothing that does not fit in a sandwich, fish fingers, pork pie, lasagne, anything.
Of course, the big meals were really meant for the men who were working hard on the land, and they would burn the calories off easily, but for a little boy who wasn’t really into manual labour, perhaps smaller portions were called for. Of course as kids we did get more exercise than many kids these days, we never wanted to be in, it was punishment to be kept in, and we wanted to be out playing in the fresh air, cutting a stick from an elder tree and playing pirates. I’m starting off on a tangent but we had lots of childhood adventures, we found a dead tramp, we saw a USAF Starlifter crash, we did all sorts of things we shouldn’t have and very few we should, but we were kids and we loved our life, it was so simple, as long as we followed the rules about eating. And we always had to clean our plates, no waste was allowed, and it was always the same thing, come on eat up there are starving children in Africa, and this was before Bob Geldof!
That’s what we told over and over again, eat up there are starving children in Africa, so I cleared my plate and got fatter and the kids in Africa kept starving as far as I know. Not that I needed any prompting really, I loved my food and still do, especially steak. I got chased by a cow when I was younger and it took years to get over that, I took my revenge by eating as many of the buggers as I could.
Being reflective makes me hungry, and I think I might tell you about more food memories later in the week, but for now, off to work.
We went out for a family meal yesterday, to celebrate our Silver Wedding and it got me thinking about meals from the past and eating in general.
When I was a little boy (yes, I was once little) as a family we always sat down and ate meals together, and all meals were three courses, Yorkshire pudding, meat and veg, pudding, - you always had Yorkshire pudding first, to fill you up because there was never much meat, then you got your meat with three veg and lots of potatoes, then a stodgy pudding and custard.
And bread and butter, with every meal, bread and butter, even tinned pears and Ideal milk would be served with a side plate on which would be two slices of Hovis smothered in butter. Consequently I have always loved bread and butter, as far as I can tell there is nothing that does not fit in a sandwich, fish fingers, pork pie, lasagne, anything.
Of course, the big meals were really meant for the men who were working hard on the land, and they would burn the calories off easily, but for a little boy who wasn’t really into manual labour, perhaps smaller portions were called for. Of course as kids we did get more exercise than many kids these days, we never wanted to be in, it was punishment to be kept in, and we wanted to be out playing in the fresh air, cutting a stick from an elder tree and playing pirates. I’m starting off on a tangent but we had lots of childhood adventures, we found a dead tramp, we saw a USAF Starlifter crash, we did all sorts of things we shouldn’t have and very few we should, but we were kids and we loved our life, it was so simple, as long as we followed the rules about eating. And we always had to clean our plates, no waste was allowed, and it was always the same thing, come on eat up there are starving children in Africa, and this was before Bob Geldof!
That’s what we told over and over again, eat up there are starving children in Africa, so I cleared my plate and got fatter and the kids in Africa kept starving as far as I know. Not that I needed any prompting really, I loved my food and still do, especially steak. I got chased by a cow when I was younger and it took years to get over that, I took my revenge by eating as many of the buggers as I could.
Being reflective makes me hungry, and I think I might tell you about more food memories later in the week, but for now, off to work.
Sunday, 12 July 2009
I don’t do fate. I do chance and perhaps at a push I do luck, if luck is things you don’t expect (good or bad)…but it all comes back to chance. It is by chance we are born, and where we are born is by chance.
Relatively well off in the UK or starving in Africa? Born to parents who care…chance. Live near a good school…chance. Find teachers who motivate…chance. Meet the girl or boy of your dreams…chance. I take it by now you get the picture and don’t need me to point out the thousands of events we all take for granted and forget were down to mere chance, things we couldn’t control.
So, why even worry about it? I don’t know… I just thought about the chances that had come my way in the last six months and asked myself had I taken advantage of them, because this is the key (yes I know Whisby, here comes Guru Drew again).
The choices we make following the chances we get are the key to happiness and we should take the time to examine our choices because I’m with Socrates; the unexamined life is not worth living. I don’t want this blog to turn into a self help manual, but I have been in a philosophical mood of late. I think dealing with the death of young people does that and a certain young chap refuses to budge from my memory. He had a spanking attitude to life even though he knew that life was ending. He knew the value of making good choices when you found yourself at the shitty end of chance. His choices were brave and they were selfless and I know we can’t all be heroes, (sorry David Bowie but we can’t) but we can make our best efforts to make the best choices we can.
Over the course of my adult life I have known some really good people who suddenly found themselves up against it, and they all seemed to find real dignity and they all made good choices and I think that makes me lucky, lucky to have known them and shared time with them…but there again, that we met was through chance and that we stayed friends was through choice.
Socrates, you’re a bastard.
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